Gaylord the Basset Hound

     The Christmas I was two years old, my godmother gave me a large toy basset hound. Someone in my family named him Gaylord. Though, alas, no photographs exist of Gaylord in his youth, I can tell you he was large—almost as large as I must have been at that time—floppy, and soft as a pillow. His coloring wasn't at all basset-like, as his fur was of a pink plush velour and his underside was yellow; but the big, sad, black and white felt eyes, the ultra-long face, the ears that fell almost to the black pompom nose, and the short, stocky legs beneath the long body, all were unmistakable basset traits.

     I had a number of toys throughout my childhood, nothing like the hordes today's children all seem to have, but a good number. Why a child cleaves to one particular toy more than the others is a question for psychologists; all I know is that Gaylord always took the place of honor above all my other toys when I assembled them beside me at bedtime and he was my constant companion during the day, indoors and out. I must have handled him a bit roughly, as is a child's wont, or else he was on the fragile side, because poor Gaylord suffered many a wound in those early years, mostly in his seams. My middle sister was surgeon, I was nurse, and we would "operate" on his wounds in all seriousness and with the utmost precision. That my sister's stitches have held to this day is testament to her skills as a surgeon/seamstress.

     Yes, I said "to this day"—because, believe it or not, Gaylord is still with us and dwelling on the top shelf of my closet. His velour fur, once shining pink, is now a non-descript shade of taupe, and gaping bald patches predominate his hide. His black and white felt eyes have crackled and chipped and I can no longer remember what were their former shape. His pompom nose is hanging by a few threads and his red felt mouth, which must have smiled in his youth, is reduced to a pathetic chapped pout.

     When I was living in Houston I asked my mother to ship him to me. And when I entered the monastery, I shipped him to another of my sisters (not his surgeon) for safekeeping. She told me she cried when she opened the box and saw his forlorn face.

     Today, Gaylord lies on his side in well-deserved peace, with all my journals and a few beloved relics of my girlhood. I think it's only fitting.