Chester

When I was six, I received a stuffed dog as a gift from the pastor of my childhood church. I gave him the pastor's name: Chester. He became my constant companion. Chester took bike rides, spent the night at Grandma's, and went to school.

He also attended church. One summer Sunday evening, Chester and I were playing in the parking lot after the service, and I was tossing him up into the air and counting how many flips he could do. Sometimes I missed him as he tumbled back down, and he would land on the pavement instead of in my arms. I would giggle, pick him up, and throw him into the air again.

That night at bedtime, I snuggled him up under my chin, looked down, and wailed. Chester had lost an eye! My mom attempted to calm my hysterics, reasoning that it must have fallen out in the parking lot and promising we would drive to the church in the morning to search for it.

When we arrived the next day, the parking lot was busy with machinery tearing out the existing pavement and pouring down new, working right in the spot where we had played the night before. Chester's eye could never be found. Later there were offers to repair him, but I refused them. I loved him just as he was.

Chester continued to join me at summer camp, attend birthday parties, and travel on family vacations. Our relationship changed as I grew older, but even after I stopped taking him along on outings, he still cuddled me each night while I slept.

Over the years, I have shed the majority of my childhood belongings, but I will never part with my dear Chester. He is almost twenty-five years old now, ancient in dog years. He has a hole in his right ear and scratches on his nose. His fur has lost its fluff. Most of his stuffing is squished, making him skin-thin in some spots and lumpy in others. 

I still love him just as he is, and he still winks at me.