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When I wake up in her small, chubby arms it's an early September morning. Outside it's cold and rainy, but here in bed with her, everything is warm and safe. I wish that we could stay here forever. To me it doesn't matter how much she drools on my polyester ears, or how she makes me dirty when she drags me on the pavement on our walks – not even how she chews on me or makes me tear and pieces of my stuffing falls out. None of that matters, because I’m hers.

Her mommy comes in, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her voice is gentle, she whispers that it’s time to wake up. My girl simply groans in reply half asleep. I lay in the bed with my other friends whilst she changes clothes, it's the only time of the day that she willingly lets me go. 

The morning is noisy and fast, with voices calling from every room and the smell of cinnamon and porridge drifting through the air. I get set down on tables, chairs, anywhere that’s handy, but she always comes back for me. She always does. 

At last, we tumble into the car together. She hugs me tight in the backseat, spreading my soft insides unevenly, and laughs in that special lovely way when the bumps in the road makes her stomach jump. When we arrive, she presses me against the ice-cold window while she waves frantically with her free hand at the friends waiting outside. Her joy fills me up until I feel like I could burst at the seams. If the day begins this happy, I just know it will be perfect. Her dad lifts us out of the car, and before I know it she’s racing toward her friends, dragging me along, my ears flapping like little flags in the wind. Her dad catches up and kneels down, kissing her forehead and they’re saying their goodbyes before she pulls me inside. The day moves in quick flashes, the way it always does. I watch crayons scatter across the table while she colors with her friends, and I feel the soft rhythm of her breath when she hugs me close during story time. Sometimes I’m tucked under her arm, sometimes forgotten for a moment on the floor, but she always comes back for me, scooping me up as though I’m the most important thing in the whole world. And to her, I think I am.

As the day ends, coats and backpacks vanish one by one. She knows that her daddy will be here soon, so she clutches me tighter, humming a little tune while we wait near the door. But suddenly another pair of hands yanks me away from her. Someone is laughing as I’m pulled away. For a moment I’m tossed between hands, pulled, marked, and shaken. I don’t understand why – don’t they know I already belong to her? I can hear her voice breaking as she shouts “Give it back!”. Her cheeks are red and wet and her fists small but fierce as she tries to grab me. But then, at last, I’m back where I’m meant to be: against her chest, her tears soaking into my ripped and stained fur. She rocks me back and forth as if I’m the one who needs comforting, whispering through hiccups and sobs that she’s sorry, that she’ll never let anyone take me again. Her dad rushes in with a worried look from hearing her scream. He scoops her into his arms, sighing with relief when he knows she’s safe. My head is pressed between their chests, muffling the words he trades with the teacher. All I can hear is her heart still racing – but slowly, slowly, it begins to calm. I barely notice the aching pain in my body, I can only think about her heartbreaking scream. I wish that I could speak, I wish that I could tell her that I’m okay. I wish that I could tell her how much I love her. 

Soon, Daddy takes her hand and we walk together out to the car. She holds me like she´s afraid someone is going to take me away again. I don’t know if I have a heart, but something inside me feels heavy and warm at the same time. Heavy because she is so sad. Warm because I know how lucky I am to be this loved.

Back in the car, she rests her cheek against my head. The hum of the engine and the soft patter of rain on the windows make her eyelids droop. I can feel her drifting toward sleep, her little breaths slow and even. For a moment, everything feels safe again.

Then suddenly it doesn’t.