We have a purple blanket at our house. I’m not really sure when we got it, or how. All I do know is, it’s been with us for a long while.

There were the years when our large tabby cat, Indiana, would drag it around — his teeth clenching down on it, his legs straddling it, his hips pumping on it. I can’t tell you how many late nights I’d peek into my sons’ room only to find Indy doing his thing to our purple blanket.

I’d ease the door shut, make a note to come back.

Indy has passed, but our purple blanket is still subjected to extreme treatment. With our two sons around, it has been dragged over hardwood floors, stretched over chairs, used for tug-of-war contests, and twisted into knots in our Golden Retriever’s indoor pillow, collecting fur balls, wet kid food and various sticky items along the way. Our purple blanket is marked by rips, stains, fabric balls and Retriever hair, even after we pull it from the washer.

This past summer, our 4-year-old, Dylan, took to stuffing the blanket into his underpants and then parading through the house — stomping past us with his giant load, pumping his fists, mocking an earnest expression, failing to suppress a sly grin. We’d give him a time-out and hide the blanket. But eventually, Dylan would find our blanket and do it all over again.

Now, who’d like to come over and cozy up in our purple blanket?