The first story
is about a dog, a cuddly dog, named Brandy. Brandy was not just any dog, he was
a dog with a little red dicky bow and a Santa hat. A little boy named David got
him for Christmas when he was one year, and a month, old. David loved Brandy a
lot (he was named by David’s grandmother who was partial to a brandy every now
and again and had recently lost a dog of the same name, though a completely
different breed and not a stuffed toy). David used to bring Brandy everywhere.
He hoped, that like he did, others would love the little doggie and his red
dicky bow and hat. Brandy came to bed, Brandy came for walkies, Brandy even
came to school. I’m fairly sure, though not 100% certain, that Brandy may have
even come to the bath once or twice. David loved Brandy. For Brandy, the love
of that boy has sometimes proven to be a fatal attraction.
If you saw
Brandy now you would think very little of him. He once had beautiful ‘fur’ but
now it’s all kind of flat against him. His dicky bow is long gone, and one
time, when David brought him to play school, some bully tied his Santa hat into
a knot. He may, or may not, also be missing an eye.
Despite these
facts David still loved Brandy and brought him places, long after the knot in
his hat and everything else. If anyone saw Brandy they would think him of
little value or worth, they would think him quite worthless, they would think
him quite raggéd. He might simply appear to be a filthy rag. He appears fit for
the bin only. So much so that he has, three times, been ‘liberated’ from the
bin when some parent threw him there, and also bought back from a jumble sale.
For some unknown reason, in the way that children often do, David continued to
love Brandy even in his raggéd days, just as in the days of his beauty.
You see Brandy
is not just a teddy; he is a story. His story and my story are intricately
woven, he is my oldest possession, he kept me warm at night as a child and he
is a gift from a relative who has passed on. He knows all my secrets, he wiped
up a lot of my tears, he shared in a lot of my joys and he was the catalyst
that gave birth to my imagination.
Yes I have
outgrown him, he sits, gathering dust, on a shelf in my room in Limerick (a
place I practically never ever go anymore). Yet, he is there and someday I will
take him, get that knot out of his hat, fix the rip in his back, get him a new
eye and dicky-bow and give him a good wash and pass him on to Josiah (my son,
if I ever have one and if my wife allows that name). To me he will not look
better but to others he will look shiny and new. The little spruce up he gets
will allow people to see on the outside what I know is on the inside even
despite how dusty, dirty, broken and raggéd Brandy is.
I hope that he
will then become part of my child’s story, and have worth to them and then be
passed on to their child and so on.
Brandy is not
important because of what he is, his worth does not come from himself. I have
had a number of stuffed toys in my day, especially dogs (I was so unoriginal
with names, one was blue with black paws and ears and I called him ‘Black n’
Blue’ and another was brown, I called him Brownie). Each of those other stuffed
toys cost the same, I got Brownie on the same day and Black and Blue about six
months before. However, those other dogs, who probably cost the same amount of
money and were from important people in my life, have gone the way of most
children’s toys; they are in a dump somewhere. Brandy was different. Not
because he initially had more worth, but because I invested in him. His worth
stems, not from himself, but from the value I placed on him.
Question:
Of the two
characters in the story, which, on the grand scale, are we more like? Brandy or
his owner? Why?
Then which is
God more like? Why?
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