We're not posh, I swear to Snoopy.

Snoopy was posh. I swear to him. It wasn't a debatable poshness, although it's becoming less so, like indie music festivals and classic Adidas, nor a cultural appropriation to invade our bars like Converse and beards. No. Snoopy, Woodstock, and poor Charlie Brown , who only had a polo shirt in his closet, were posh, period.

In the deep '80s, we went one summer to visit my uncles, the ones who drove, to their usual vacation spot: Marbella , of course. My mother, perhaps to integrate us, spent the entire trip pouring beach beer butts on my hair to keep it blonde (she failed) and bought me a blue sweatshirt with Snoopy on some letters that confirmed the initial thesis: Puerto Banús. I loved it because, I'm not going to lie, blue has always looked great on me, and I also adored those comics. As soon as I returned to my neighborhood, Moratalaz , and took it to school one day, I realized my mistake. The reception wasn't warm. In those days when class consciousness was still something more than a nostalgic memory, Snoopy was banned outside the M-30. I put the sweatshirt away and never saw it again.

Now Snoopy is back, and I celebrate because he was always the opposite of what we were sold on. A dog who dreamed of being a writer, an aviator, or a hockey player to escape his boring life as a pet. Around him, a pack of losers who wouldn't give up, friends who wouldn't betray each other... or maybe they did, but they always forgave each other. Dirty with dust, looking for their place on a threadbare blanket, with insecurities and a constant life anxiety that he hasn't felt a single time in his life.

Every night, in my sickly scroll through Instagram to gossip about things I don't care about about people I don't care about, I see ads for different clothing brands—I'd say all of them—selling me Snoopy clothes, and the damn dog couldn't be more photogenic, that's the truth. On TV, you have to be careful if you want to dress up as a magician (jacket and T-shirt), because there's a chance another forty-something commentator, trying to look young, will have Snoopy lying in the red booth while you show him off on a bike with Woodstock, and it'll look a little weird. After school, we parents look like children with all those cartoons.

I'm not complaining; I love being able to finally freely show off one of my favorite characters, and my closet is starting to feel like a dog kennel. As I write, the intercom rings to deliver the Switch 2 on launch day, and I'm too lazy to walk down the hall. I push aside some Samba cards I left lying around. When I return with the box, I look out the window and see my current neighborhood...

Damn, Snoopy is still posh.