As a 6 year old, I would often as my dad "Daddy, do you think God would let me take him to heaven with me?" My dad would simply answer, "I don't know. You should ask him yourself." That would mean, that 90% of my night time prayer would go to asking over and over again for my beanie dog (the other 10% was asking for more cartoons during the week).
My hands would wrap around him so tightly I could feel the little beanie beans on the inside rub against each other underneath the cloth surface stitched to look like a dog.
He was the most important thing to me. Everywhere I went he was there with me. That dog has seen almost and nearly everything. He's seen me eat my first asparagus, loose my first tooth in Kinder garden, fall and scrape my knee, and was riding shotgun in my bicycle basket for my first time without my trusty training wheels.
That dog was everything to me as a little girl. A friend, a companion, a confider. Everything that is, except a toy. For me he was and still is real.
His sown ears covered his dark brown eyes. His fur would glisten in the afternoon sun as I would play outside with chalk. His white little feet were ever so small and dirty, for wherever we would go there was bound to be and amount of dirt.
Now his small white feet are no longer dirty. His fur is no longer full of glossy strands of golden brown. His fur has gradually faded away with age. His feet are white. We no longer travel the rough terrains of the neighborhood and all over the world. He is now highly perched on a shelf with pride. It is an alter on which he rightfully sits.
He was very big part of my childhood. Everything to me. A big part of me is reflected through his small eyes. Visions of the past. Of what once was and what memories were ours to keep.
I love that old sad raggedy dog. Part of me floats inside the little beans. Memories I wish to never forget. Ever.