I always pooh-poohed adults who had stuffed animals, that is until I got LunaBoy. He’s my bunny. He came home with me one day from the paper store when I was buying supplies for collage. I hadn’t had a stuffy since I was about 7. This little bandit stole my heart. He’s soft. He listens. He’s funny. He cuddles. He tells the truth. And he’s learning to read. Steinbeck. Smart bunny!

I made him a tiny vest for when we go out on adventures, because otherwise he says he feels naked. He specifically asked for a turquoise leather vest, but at 3am, all I had was velvet. I made a tiny pattern and lots of tiny stitches, and off we went for a walk with the moon. It’s good not to keep the moon waiting when she calls.

Sometimes I tell my friends about LunaBoy, about how much I’ve learned and grown in my relationship with myself and others by caring for him which translates into learning to care for myself. I’m always a little shy and tentative when I first mention him, afraid someone will laugh at me, afraid I still feel shame about having LunaBoy, rather than a cat or a wolf, but my friend cleared that one up on the spot; she simply said: Well yeah, but Luna’s real. She knew!