The Saga of Moo-Moo

Another (in)famous tale from the parenting archives ... with a twist

We’ve all heard the phrase, “You’ll be able to laugh about this someday.” It’s usually paired with, “Laughing is better than crying.”

The story of Moo-Moo is one that has always made my oldest son steam, my youngest son squirm, and the rest of us shake our heads in bemusement. Not lost on me is the fact it took place during one of the toughest times in my life.

The entire family — all six of us — was flying home to Virginia from my dad’s memorial service in Texas in August 2007. The trip was special, both at the time and in retrospect, because it was the only opportunity all nine of my parents’ grandchildren have had to be together. As you might expect, it also was a mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausting experience.

At this point in our reality show, Nicholas is 14, Kate is 10, and Ben and Emma are 9. All handled themselves very well throughout the trip, so we should have expected the wheels to fall off at some point.

And they did.

Left Behind

We got off the plane at the Baltimore-Washington International Airport and, as usual, did the inventory a little too late. Nicholas realized he’d left his sketchbook on the plane and, more important/catastrophic, a small stuffed red cow he had named “Moo-Moo.”

“Moo-Moo” was one of those last throwbacks to childhood bedtime, the stuffed animal/blanket that you’re never really ready to part with despite your desire to be an adult. At this point in his hormonal teenage years, Nick couldn’t deal with the loss of his grandfather and “Moo-Moo,” too.

We went to the ticket counter and pled our case to the Southwest Airlines attendant, a very nice woman who promised to do whatever she could to help. She sent someone to look for the stuffed animal.

We waited and waited. The plane’s takeoff was delayed. Nicholas quickly sketched a “Lost” poster for “Moo-Moo.” The very nice woman patiently took the “Unchecked Article Loss Report,” the poster, and promised to let us know if the situation changed.

The Moo-Moo poster.

As we finished the paperwork and started to walk toward the van to drive home, “Moo-Moo” mysteriously “appeared.” As it turns out, Ben had picked it up and hidden it as we got off the plane. Only after the plane was stopped from taking off did the then 9-year-old realize the joke had gone horribly awry.

We slinked out of the airport, making profuse apologies to the nice (though understandably pissed) Southwest attendant and pointing visual daggers at our youngest son.

The hour-plus ride home was long, quiet, and cold despite being in the throes of the suffocating August humidity. As I navigated the van to Virginia, I had a passing thought that my father’s ghost was messing with me.

Given his sense of humor while on this planet, I wouldn’t have put it past him, but his pet trick from beyond would not occur until we were in the midst of the pandemic.

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The Story You Don’t Talk About, Until…

Moo-Moo’s fate, despite its status in family lore, rarely was mentioned again. Almost four years after the incident, in April 2011, we received a mysterious box from the airline.

The box included Nicholas’ sketchbook, the Moo-Moo “Lost” poster, the original incident report, and an unsigned letter that read:

“This book was found at BWI Airport by one of my cleaners a few years ago — I put it in a box intending to mail it to you. The address was in the article loss report but the box was inadvertently placed in our storage area. I saw the box and realized it was never mailed — sorry for the mistake. The book has tremendous sentimental value… Thanks.”

Then the P.S.: “I cannot vouch for the cow. Seems like it was never located.”

Jill and I smiled and shook our heads. We called Nicholas, by this point a high school senior. He who was glad to hear about the return of the sketchbook but still seemed to have PTSD from the airport experience.

Later, we told Ben, who was on tour with “Billy Elliot” at the time. The mere mention of Moo-Moo resulted in a shudder as he remembered the cold ride home and the withering looks from his older brother on that sad night.

“Stop! I don’t want to hear about it,” he said. “I still have dreams about that cow.”