Cowie Comes Home

When my daughter was two, she fell in love with a little black and white stuffed cow. They met in a Lake Arrowhead store where we’d stopped to stock up on snacks for the drive back to San Diego, our home at the time.

“Cowie! Cowie!” Phoebe cooed. “ I LOVE you Cowie!”

Figuring ten bucks was a small price to pay to avoid a meltdown and get on the road, I handed my credit card to the woman behind the counter. Still, as we drove off, I knew my fickle-hearted girl would probably tire of her new love by the time we hit Bakersfield.

Phoebe had a menagerie of neglected stuffed animals at home. She’d flirt with a new teddy bear or fuzzy purple bunny for a few hours, then banish it to her armoire. Sure, the lucky ones got the occasional booty call when she needed a snuggle partner at bedtime. Come morning, though, she always gave them the cold shoulder.

I feared Cowie was destined to a similar fate. But he - yes, Cowie was a boy - and Phoebe were inseparable.

Through Phoebe, Cowie channeled a voice that brought him to life. Think Scottish brogue meets Frito Bandito (from the politically incorrect commercials of my childhood). With his cheeky personality, shiny black button eyes and impish grin, Cowie was hard to resist.

Not just for my daughter. I was smitten, too. I got used to hearing his chuckle first thing in the morning. I’d even catch myself asking him what he wanted for breakfast.

“Me Cowie wants chocolate,” was his standard reply.

Then one day, two years after Cowie came into our lives, he vanished. He was with us during an afternoon Starbucks run, cheerily informing the barista that the milk for my latte came from his udder. But when we got home, Cowie was gone. A frantic search of Phoebe’s backpack and the car proved fruitless, as did our hasty return to Starbucks.

“Cowie’s gone!” Phoebe wailed. “Please come back to me, Cowie!”

When I told my husband that Cowie was AWOL, he said maybe it was for the best. Phoebe was almost five, after all. Maybe it was time for her to let go of Cowie.

I stared at him as if he’d suggested she chug a bottle of Drano. Phoebe needed Cowie. And never mind her - what about me? I needed Cowie. I wasn’t ready to relinquish my passport to a land where toy cows talk and little girls stay little forever.

It was close to Christmas when Cowie disappeared. One night, as I tucked Phoebe in bed, she looked up at me, her dark eyes brimming with tears.

“Mama, I don’t want anything for Christmas,” she said solemnly. “I just want Cowie to come home.”

Hours of searching the Internet for a replacement yielded hundreds of stuffed cows. But no Cowie. Finally, two days before Santa was due, I clicked on a toy website and saw a pair of familiar button eyes gazing back at me.

To explain Cowie’s pristine appearance, my husband used Photoshop to create a picture of Cowie in a snowstorm. He attached it to an e-mail from Cowie to Phoebe. Cowie wrote that he’d been on a grand adventure and got stuck in a blizzard. He missed her terribly and was coming home. First, though, he was checking into a spa to recuperate and get a makeover.

I’ve never seen my daughter’s face light up the way it did when she saw that e-mail. Except for a few days later when she found Cowie reclining on her pillow.

Cowie was just as thrilled to be reunited with Phoebe. But he never lost his itch to wander. I’ve been back to that same website three more times. Because although Phoebe’s almost eight, she’s still not quite ready to say good-bye to Cowie. And neither am I.