Long gone is his red shirt with the stitches that spelled “Pooh”.
Instead he wears a thin coat of loved off fur.
His right ear had to be thoroughly cleaned during our first, and only, deep-sea fishing trip. I was five and the seas were high. It didn’t go well for either Pooh or I.
On his left leg are the results of surgery done by my eight year old hands.
When I was 12 he went on our round-trip Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to San Francisco, California family vacation. I left him in a hotel in Jackson Hole, Wyoming and we were 40 miles down the road before his absence was discovered. My sweet parents, without complaint, turned around and drove back where we found Poor held hostage by the hotel’s maid. She was going to bring him home for her child. Dad paid her ransom to get him back.
He has gone to college, survived my kids, and now rests in my bedroom’s window seat.
We have been together since I was five months old, given to me my first Christmas, 1965. It isn’t my wish to be buried, but if I were to be, my faithful Pooh would lie beside me.
When I think of what is mine – I think of my Winnie the Pooh.
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