Everyone of us can recall our first best friend. And odds are for most of us, that first best friend was stuffed.
There was a time Tyler and his original Cat in the Hat (left), were inseparable. He dragged him along everywhere he went—to the dinner table, to bed, on every daytrip and outing. He played games with him and read him stories. The only time he’d agree to put him down was bath time, during which the Cat in the Hat would perch on the toilet tank and supervise.
Then one day, the Cat in the Hat disappeared. We looked everywhere for him. We searched cracks and crevices in the house we didn’t know existed. Finally, after day three of tucking Tyler into his bed with an empty spot by his side and a heart-wrenchingly sad look on his face, I ran a search on Amazon.com. Four days later, along came a skinny, straggly version of the Cat in the Hat—the Cat in the Hat’s crackhead cousin (right).
Reluctantly but full of hope, I presented him to Tyler. He stared at him for a moment, then quietly put him aside.
At first I thought I traumatized him with my poor substitute. Now his Cat in the Hat was no longer one of a kind—he was replaceable with the click of a keyboard. It was as if I’d torn the heart and soul out of his constant companion and replaced it with stuffing and felt.
Come to find out, he wasn’t traumatized one bit. Over the past week that I thought he was wallowing in Cat in the Hatless misery, he was learning to live without him. My little boy was growing up.
Before long, the original Cat in the Hat turned up. I stumbled upon him on laundry day, stuffed in the back of our kitchen towel drawer, mummified in a dozen towels. I ran so fast to return him to Tyler that I nearly tripped over my feet. I thrust it into his arms and announced, “Look who I found!”
Tyler stared at him for a moment, walked him over to Crackhead Cat in the Hat, and placed the two of them side by side by side. And without a word, he walked away. Neither Cat in the Hat has been to the dinner table, in his bed, on the toilet tank or in the minivan since.
On a happy note, the feline duo still has each other. It doesn’t seem to bother Cat in the Hat that his cousin is a crackhead. Because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.
Happy 109th, Dr. Seuss (1904-1991).