There is a certain blanket that I tried to declutter many, many times.
I called it my Bambi Blanket.
I loved that blanket. It was always fluffy and cool and was the best for creating a warm cocoon on winter nights as a child. I didn’t take it to college, but it somehow ended up in my own home soon after I had children. I envisioned it as a perfect picnic blanket for outings at the park.
But then . . . the very first time I used it for a picnic, I spread it out on what turned out to be the stickeriest piece of grass ever known to man.
At the time, we lived in westish Texas. (Westish means west, but not crazy-far-west.)
In westish Texas, it gets hot. Feels-like-an-oven hot. Three-digit-temps that don’t include any zeroes.
And in the hottest, fry-an-egg-or-your-feet-on-the-sidewalk part of the summer, horrid weeds pop up. At the top of them are stickers. Not fuzzy ones that attach to your socks and get on your nerves, but thorny ones that sneak inside and make you think you’ve stepped on a nail and jump around the room screaming.
I . . . hated . . . those . . . stickers.
Even just a teeny, almost-invisible thorn from one could send you howling in pain.
And that’s what happened to the Bambi Blanket. Stickers galore, lots of broken-off thorns, and honestly, it was unusable. I tried a few times, but even years later those thorns are still evil.
So I had attempted, many times, to talk myself into letting that blanket go. It was unusable.
But oh, the childhood memories. They just wouldn’t let me stick it in the trash. (Donating would be cruel to the poor, unsuspecting mama in the thrift store.)
But on Sunday, I got rid of it.
Friday night, our dog came inside and didn’t run immediately to the kitchen like she always does. Instead, she looked around and found her favorite, most comfortable spot and curled up there.
Something was wrong.
The next day, we watched her and worried. She was getting more and more lethargic. Since she had always been an unbelievably healthy dog, we have no real experience with vets and wondered what you even do when a dog is sick on the weekend. We had decided to ask our friend at church, a vet, for advice if she wasn’t acting better on Sunday morning.
Instead, we had to ask her what to do when your dog dies.
Sunday morning, Hubby found her.
Our friend was so kind, explained the options, and offered to meet us at her clinic. She said to wrap Boots up in a blanket.
I knew the perfect blanket to use.
The blanket in this picture isn’t actually the Bambi Blanket. (And that is the one spot in our entire 1/2 acre yard that didn’t have stickers.)
But lest you think it was bad to use a sticker-ey blanket, let me assure you it was fitting.
Boots loved stickers. Really. We thought it was crazy too.
But she was one tough puppy. We brought her home to that sticker-ey yard when she was 7 weeks old.
She loved to eat them. She would pull them out of her paws with her teeth and gobble them down. She would even go looking for them, pulling stickers out of our shoestrings and eating those too.
So yes. I was finally willing to let that painful blanket go. It went to good use.