Now that we are entering the coldest months of the year here in the Southwest, reminding me of the saying, “When the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,” I’m saying a prayer of gratitude for all the animals I’ve slept with over the years.
Not the human kind—although they have their virtues, too—but the stuffed kind like my beloved kitten/panther (which is it? I prefer the panther) who sits on my pillow all day, patiently waiting for when I fall in every night.
There’s nothing like squeezing a fury animal in my arms on these old dark winter evenings.
The first animal I remember sleeping with was a grey velvet elephant, named, inevitably, Dumbo. He survived for years, his grey velvet coat growing shabby and streaked with age over time. I probably grew ashamed of our friendship by the time I was ten years old and Dumbo disappeared. My mother was good at getting rid of things when her children lost interest or seemed to—Jonathan’s train set (described in my memoir, The Blue Box) and my mare, Tosca, when I went off to college.
As an adult, I slept with human animals more often than with stuffed animals, but later I returned to the habit, thanks to a women’s group I was attending, and bought a new one. It was very small, a rabbit, I think, which seemed more feasible for a grown-up woman’s suitcase, but I soon lost it in the tangle of hotel bedsheets and lacked the courage to call and try to get it back: “My animal.” “What animal?”
Then came a sort of rag doll, but she didn’t seem as comforting as a fury animal, preferably a wild-looking one.
It’s important as this new year dawns with all its disheartening political news to remember that we deserve all the comfort we can find. Choosing a fury sleeping partner if you don’t already have one might be one of your most pleasant errands.
A kitten? A panther? Or maybe a tiger?
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