Doggy, my very first toy, was my subject this week.
The poor thing is 45 years old and is clearly showing his age. Most of the fur has been loved off and he has a decided list. My mother patched him up with and Ace bandage at least 30 years ago. He has a music box, but the key and spring broke off a long, long time ago. When it did work he would play "Frère Jacques" and his head would move to the music.
I dragged him to college where he sat on a window sill. During my junior semester abroad he even went to England with me. The craziest thing I did was take him to Europe during intersession.
For the most part I hadn't been to bothered by customs, except for when I went into Holland. I was randomly selected to have my luggage search and I willingly complied. I wasn't too concerned until the agent picked up Doggy and gave him a very meaningful look. With a horrified gasp I cried out "Not Doggy!" The agent saw I was emotionally distraught and put the the ragged stuffed dog back down into my luggage and waved me on. I think we realized that his hands would be full if he did anything to my toy.
Nowadays Doggy sits on my bureau, safe from customs agents and always in my heart.
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