He was just sitting with my live long haired tabby cat (Trouble, since deceased in 2008) on my desk. She just left his side for a view from the window as the sun sets. He still waits for me to acknowledge him for all (or at least some) to hear (or read) after 38 years. He sees me going to the computer as I cast a glance to him. "Finally" I imagine he says to me, "I receive my due." Indeed, my little Steiff tiger.
Well, I THINK he's a Steiff. No matter, you are a Steiff to me and today, at least, I will not take you for granted.
It was the Concourse Plaza Hotel in the Bronx, New York, April 1962 that he was bestowed upon me. My parents gave me a once in a life time birthday party with all 30 of my grade school classmates from the Academy of Mt. St. Ursula. I remember the happy screeching of the girls (it was all girls at the Mt.), the pounding of the room's piano (which caused it to be turned to face the wall) and only two gifts of the many. One was a popular board hockey game, with proportionate puck, and short sticks--the goals made by successfully ringing a large bell at either end. It was worn out within a year with all the slapping on and off the wood. The other was the tiger.
He was one of a chosen few stuffed creatures to reside in my bed, along with Thumbelina, "Mrs. Chang", an angora cat toy, and later, "Ilya" (named for one of the Men from UNCLE, I am dating myself eh?), the leather dachshund. The fact I never actually named him does not in this case demonstrate that I did not love him. In a true revisionist's style I tell you that he was simply too special to name.
I discovered that his green eyes glowed in the dark after being subjected to the light bulb. His short "fur", coarse to the touch, never seemed to wear. He seemed, more than the others, truly alive. He was the mysterious, potentially ferocious (but never to me) protector of this only child. I would cup my hands over his eyes in the night and we would stare at one another in mutual friendship. I hugged him to me and breathed deep in relief for the safety he meant to me.
He managed to survive all my childhood toys. He even managed to cross the country with me, forgotten in a box, when I came to California in the 1980s. Sometimes he escaped to a shelf and I'd notice him, dirty and dusty from the years. Perhaps I should finally throw him out? But I couldn't. One look at that face and the crooked sewn mouth. Then one day I wanted to do more for him. I took a chance and put him in my washing machine.
All these years and he could be destroyed in moments by my act of nostalgic kindness. I heard the thumping, the click of the glass eyes. I should have taken them out, too late now! Oh, no, I remembered one was always loose. It would be lost and I would have a one eyed putative Steiff Tiger.
End of the cycle. He lives! he is pristine and he is whole as on the day he became my childhood companion.
Of course, IF he is a Steriff, then he lacks something, a designating button in his ear. Proof of his heritage. He is without papers.
I have looked at photographs of collectible Steiff tigers and he looks like he might be part of the family, but I couldn't swear to it (he does).
But I don't have him because he might be a collectible. He was a gift. He is a connection to a time past and a me that no longer exists, a pre-pubescent child with sandy brown hair, a little shy and a bit afraid of everything. It's nice to know that he who would be a Steiff Tiger is here with me still.
You know what? His eyes still glow.
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