Cleaning out the attic the other night, I found

my eldest son’s old toy box,

in which reside, in retirement,

all the stuffed friends of his youth,

all the confidantes with button eyes

and stitched-on smiles,

who were the best listeners,

who never argued or judged.

Except, of course, for Kitty and Doggy Dawson.

He couldn’t have been more than three,

when their influence was felt on the family.

They were unassuming little pets,

two handfuls of white plush sewn together

by my mother, in one of her crafting phases.

They stared blindly at you, but

their complacency was deceptive.

For once, when his mother was trying

to enforce the bedtime rule, he said,

“Kitty and Doggy Dawson say I can stay up.”

My wife, taken aback

by this usurping of authority, said,

“Well, Kitty and Doggy Dawson are only stuffed animals.”

And my son retorted,

“Yes, but they are older than you.”

Stripped of authority by these two virtual pets,

my wife blurted something about their impermanent status,

and he still went off to bed.

This was the beginning of a battle of wills,

but one that turned to good ends. 

He’s twenty-seven now,

a fine and centered young man,

with a will to succeed.

And when I found these two old friends

the other night and reunited them, he said,

“Oh, I knew exactly where they were.”

05/27/2004

Posted on 05/28/2004
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt