Buttercup, the Stuffed Donkey

I don’t remember the first moment I unwrapped him, but Buttercup came into my life on Christmas morning, 1980.  I was seven years old, and I had asked Santa for a pony.  I was disappointed when my wish was not granted.  My parents told me that Santa knew that our yard was not big enough for a pony and that the neighbors would not appreciate the stench of manure.  Later in the day, after we had filled our bellies with turkey, stuffing, squash and cranberry sauce, my uncle presented me with one final gift.  It was a soft stuffed donkey with sad, droopy eyes, and a mane and tail of white yarn.  His body was soft, beige; the insides of his ears were dark brown, as were his “hooves.”  From that moment on, Buttercup became my favorite plush toy.

My parents have many pictures of me holding Buttercup.  He was my sleeping companion well into my high school years.  I talked to him, cuddled him, and braided his mane and tail on numerous occasions.  He kept me warm under the covers, and he protected me from the boogeyman.  Buttercup comforted me when I cried and forgave me when I accidentally tossed him out of bed.  His new stuffed animal smell faded quickly, and soon he smelled like my pajamas.  On occasion, Buttercup would go for a bath in the washing machine and come out of the dryer smelling fresh and clean, like Bounce fabric softener.  At one point, Buttercup’s plastic eye got dented, but I was thankful that he never lost his adorable expression.  He always looked as if he were saying, “I’m sorry.”

Much to my chagrin, Buttercup’s eyes invited unwanted attention from my father.  Dad enjoyed poking Buttercup’s eyes with his two fingers like Curly did in “The Three Stooges.”  I believed that Dad was hurting Buttercup, and I would scold him for his cruelty, but he would always laugh and reassure me that Buttercup could not feel it. Dad poked Buttercup’s eyes on a regular basis, even though he knew it bothered me.  Buttercup’s torment went on for years; only as an adult am I able to laugh.  Dad had (and still has) a warped sense of humor — one that I was too young to appreciate at the time.

When I left for college, I decided to leave Buttercup behind.  I was afraid I’d be teased by my roommates; even worse, I feared that he’d be stolen by some callous boys.  More than anything, I did not want to sully Buttercup’s innocence by exposing him to the adult world of college.  So he remained on my bed at home, waiting patiently for me to return on weekends and holidays.  Until then, his only company came when my mom popped into my room to dust the furniture.

Today, Buttercup still sits on my bed, but it is a newer bed in a different house in a different city.  His fur is not as soft, and his head flops from side to side because he’s lost some of the stuffing in his neck.  Today, I have a real animal to cuddle — my dog Daisy.  Daisy has always known that Buttercup is off-limits.  Even as a puppy, she never tried to chew him.  It was as if she knew that he was worthy of great respect.  After all, Buttercup is a symbol of my childhood innocence, of simplicity and of security.  When I look at him, I remember the little girl who wanted a horse, but got so much more out of a donkey with expressive eyes.

What was your favorite stuffed animal as a child?  And where is it now?