THE MOOSE THAT CAPTURED MY HEART

By Prithi Srinivasan

About twelve years ago, in the winter of 2008, my mother went to Canada. Almost as soon as she left, she returned bearing a gift: a small moose wearing a red shirt. Moosie and I were inseparable for the next eight years. I brought him on every family vacation, clutching the small creature fiercely as I passed through security checkpoints and hotel rooms. Whenever anyone asked about him, I would proudly answer that he was from Toronto. I would explain that the maple leaf on his chest was the Canadian flag because “lots of mooses live in Canada.” And he would look up at me, his eyes shining with adoration, as I clutched his soft paw between my hands. That little moose has been through everything with me. Twelve years and four house moves later, I always find him by my side, a friendly moose in a changing world.

Moose were something of a fixation of mine as a child. I immersed myself in books such as Looking for a Moose by Phyllis Root. It described the exhilarating tale of five young children who embark on a quest to finally see a moose. When I was given the coffee-brown stuffed animal, I was proud and gleeful. I, like the curious children of Root’s imagination, had finally seen a “long-leggy, dinner-diving, branchy-antler, bulgy-nose moose.” In fact, I was in possession of such a beast! Maybe his legs weren’t very long, and he had yet to display his aquatic talents, but he was mine, and that was enough. Looking into his warm brown eyes, I knew I had found a lifelong friend: someone who would never leave my side. I wouldn’t dare leave him unattended unless I knew he would be safe.

Now a veteran of his kind, Moosie has evolved from a picture of vigor and spirit to that of age and fatigue. His brilliant crystalline eyes are now dull and scratched with age. The fleece antlers, once smooth and soft, are pilled and rough from hundreds of perilous tumbles through the belly of the dryer. Moosie’s deep brown fur hangs limply from his sagging limbs, shedding itself in pea-sized clumps. Worn and weary, the moose reminisces on his youthful days, dreaming of thick fur and shining eyes.

No doubt he remembers the beginning, sitting wearily in a crowded Canadian gift shop among hundreds, even thousands of moose that all looked the same. It was among these unvarying herds that my mother found him, a peculiar little moose I would soon call my own. He was sitting alone, several inches away from his compatriots. No one wanted him. His nose was too big, his eyes were too shiny. But when I held him for the first time, I knew. He was perfect. As I look at him now, I see the moose he was twelve years ago. His deep red fleece pullover against the cocoa fur evokes memories of fall, of us sitting at the kitchen counter, drinking warm tea. His shirt and snout are still lightly splattered with “winter spice blend,” the scent of cinnamon and clove lingering in his fur. His eyes glimmer with the excitement of his youth.

I can almost hear his booming laughter, remarkably loud for such a soft-spoken moose. Seeing this youthful moose before me, I want to go back. I want to return to our meaningless mumblings about the weather and our snide insults directed at the other stuffed animals. But I am not the same person I was twelve years ago. I must content myself with having Moosie here, with being able to look at him.

I look and I look and I long for the past. I can almost pretend we are back at the kitchen counter with scalding mugs of bitter tea. But, eventually, the illusion has to fade. And with the illusion, Moosie’s youth melts away day by day, never to return.