I was sobbing — my face pressed so deeply into the quilted bedspread that I could feel its thread leaving impressions on my soaked cheeks — because I’d almost given away a tiny stuffed Dalmatian dog. The day had started so well, too….

I think I was five years old at the time. In just a few short days, Bryn from school would be having a birthday party, and I’d been invited! She had a typical kindergarten-fondness for dogs and cats, so I was figuring that a stuffed animal might be a suitable gift. It was a weekend morning of unusual lethargy, and my mom and I found ourselves together on the floor of my room, leaning against the side of the bed and watching the shadows of the tea maple outside the window ricochet wildly between the corners of the house. Even in the mesmerizing beauty and wonder of this show, my mind drifted to the numerous wasps, hornets, and unidentifiable flying insects those bouncing shadows could hide right outside my room. Gesturing to an overflowing basket of accumulated stuffed animals, my dear “stuffies,” my mom broke my fear-tinged fascination.

“So, Bryn’s birthday party is next week, and I was thinking that if there’s a cat or a dog in here in good condition that you don’t mind giving away, we could gift it to her! That way, we won’t need to make an extra trip downtown to the toy store. Besides, regifting is a great way to reuse resources and help our environment!”

Instantly, an unruly crowd of thoughts flooded my mind, analyzing her request. Was this but a thinly veiled attempt to chip away at the mild clutter accumulated in my closet? Or would it truly be easier to find a suitable gift for Bryn right under our noses, while demonstrating support for nature, rather than in a muddle of overpriced toys with the additional payment of time we didn’t have? Despite my rapidly shifting deliberations, I convinced myself that my face remained enthusiastically unaffected. I trusted my mom, and I often shared with her the emotions and tidbits that regaled the highs and lows of my tender kindergarten life, but I was uncertain of how to handle my concerns about this unusual matter. I was worried about looking and feeling unintelligent if I didn’t respond in a sufficiently mature manner — or about challenging her suggestion if I turned out to be wrong.

So, I defaulted to a complacent nod, my face assuming an expression of slightly surprised acceptance. I rose from the bedside and padded across the familiar comfort of my carpet, graying from its original rose tone. Wariness and worry and excitement at the newness of the challenge before me coursed through my body as though overactive children had been set free into the labyrinth of my system.

“Ok, well, have at it, and see what you come up with!”

My mom also had hauled herself off the floor and now stood facing me from the doorway. She may have intuited a bit of my unease and thus felt inclined to offer a final word of advice.

“You know, I don’t think this is a decision that will really affect the big picture, so I don’t think you need to take too too long on this, okay, sweetie?”

She smiled at what must have been a heart-tugger of an image — her young daughter nestled among her beloved stuffies.

“Okay, mommy,” I responded, settling onto my knees so that I could more fully examine the affectionate pile of furry tails and inquisitive eyes.

I was beginning to feel that this actually would prove to be quite the enjoyable challenge of organization! I was holding my world of stuffies in my two small hands, and I was prepared to do right by the assortment of sweet faces gazing trustingly upward and select a lovable and unsullied dog or cat for Bryn. With this thought parading victoriously through my mind, I took the plunge into the conglomerate of beloved confidantes and proceeded to earnestly analyze and categorize the dogs, cats, birds, bears, and even the odd dinosaur. (No way I’d ever part with Bronty the Brontosaurus.) I knew that I could come to this supremely weighty decision only after serious deliberation.

Eventually, my search was put to an end by my mom’s inquisitive reappearance at my door. My final selection was a stuffed Dalmatian the height of a small book and firm to the touch. His eager tongue was perpetually skewed, hanging out of his open mouth, with a collar bearing the name Lucky stretched proudly across his neck. I wasn’t feeling a current noteworthy affinity for this particular specimen, and his spotted white and black fur remained pristine, which made him the perfect candidate.

But — I couldn’t help but wonder — had I taken too much time to reach this decision? Had I been overly indecisive and selfish throughout this entire process? Should it have been easier for me to part with just one of my many stuffed animals, when I knew that so many kids were so much less fortunate? Did I or did I not pass muster as an environmentally friendly regifter? And, perhaps most importantly of all, was Lucky the right choice to give away? Or would I begin to miss him as soon as he disappeared beneath the gift wrap?

I revealed my choice to my mom with apprehension, holding my breath for her approval. This external affirmation, I subconsciously realized, had the power to quell the psychological stress of parting with those puppy dog eyes.

But any expectation of desired relief was crushed when the first words that exited her lips were, “Aww, Lucky? Are you sure? I think we’ve had that one for a while.”

Which, in hindsight, was quite a reasonable reaction. I mean, were I in her position, I sure wouldn’t want to be held responsible in a couple of weeks when my daughter suddenly decided that she wanted back the little friend who had been by her side through all the turmoil of a young life.

But her queries mirrored precisely the doubts that circled my mind. Her simple response had shattered any hope for validation of my decision. Throughout this whole debacle, my emotional empathy had been stretching continuously thinner, like Silly Putty being strained to its limits, as I evaluated my precious stuffed animals by both my love for them and their objective value. And now, with this final hint of doubt, my stretched-thin heart began to crack. So, of course, I became defensive.

My retort probably fell along the lines of “I— well, you said a dog or a cat, and you said it had to be in good condition, so there weren’t even that many that I could choose from!”

“Oh, I get it, sweetie,” my mom acknowledged. “It’s just that I wanted to make sure that you wouldn’t regret….”

Her voice faded to the background as I felt the tears of defeat push up into my eyes. How could I even have, for a single moment, considered giving away Lucky — out of all of the available choices, Lucky, with his endearing floppy ears and lopsided affectionate grin. And to Bryn, of all people, who — come to think of it — wasn’t even really my friend.

So I banished my mother from the room, executed a rare door slam, and flung myself face-down onto my vibrant bedspread, which mocked my misery with its cheery flowers and hearts. Luminous rays of sunlight radiated through the window, illuminating my tears as they soaked down to the mattress. Inconsolable, I wished fiercely to become one with the soft bed that I hugged beneath me, achieving invisibility.

The little stuffed Dalmatian still sat obediently on the carpeted floor below my limply hanging legs, his wide glassy brown eyes taking in the scene. Perhaps Lucky was relieved to know that he would remain in his comfortably familiar stuffie cohort — or disappointed not to be heading out on a new adventure — or just confused and concerned by the dramatics of his little girl.…

* * *

The next day, my mom and I were out for our weekly grocery shopping. Tucked in a corner near the flowers, she noticed a marvelously timed display of affable, fluffy stuffed dogs. Relieved (but mostly sheepish), I sidled over to the arrangement and wordlessly signified a particularly jaunty pink and gray dog that lounged on the very top shelf. And it was this new furry friend that was discovered by Bryn in its (environmentally-healthy, reusable) gift bag the next week at her party. Meanwhile, back at my home, Lucky found himself in a new place of honor, peeking out from the very edge of my stuffed animal basket, together with all of his friends. It appeared as though my well-meaning aim to simultaneously lower resource consumption and support my family’s efforts toward efficiency was just going to have to wait until the gaze of an adoring puppy no longer tethered itself to my conflicted heart.