The comic strip "Calvin and Hobbes" was, and continues to be, like the best gifts, unexpected and undeserved. It touches all the bases, from highbrow, considerably exclusive wit, to pricelessly rendered slapstick, to flat-out potty humor, to laugh-out-loud (loud!) knockout punchlines, and then every now and then for good measure it would either make you cry or question your very existence.
It's impossible not to adore Calvin, a true testament to Watterson's characterization skills when you consider that the kid is essentially a composite of nearly all of humankind's least attractive traits. One suspects that he's probably going to have a hard time in high school. Cannily lending the voice of relative sanity to a talking tiger, Watterson has created the ultimate cool older brother in Hobbes, skeptical but fascinated, indulgent but wary, amused but easily fed-up, and above all, always baiting, baiting, baiting. Nothing delights Hobbes like getting Calvin all riled up over something stupid, and no one is more easily riled than Calvin. These are brothers.
Fans of the series tend to hold dear one plotline in particular, wherein Calvin stumbles upon an ailing baby raccoon, and enlists his long-suffering mother in helping him nurse it back to health. With the funny pages historically providing a reliably benign atmosphere for ones Sunday donut and coffee, it's always affecting when strips tackle heavy material, no matter how ham-fisted the approach. Watterson, no surprise, handles it with aplomb, and one of my favorite moments from this series is a rare Calvinless strip, which finds the mother sharing a quiet moment alone with Hobbes, amused to be genuinely confiding in what is ostensibly a stuffed toy. The parents alone could have sustained an excellent comic, with the father's always hilarious methods of education-through-outright-lying providing some of the highlights of the strip.
The culmination of the raccoon story is unforgettably cathartic. The baby raccoon has, unavoidably and without much fanfare, died. Calvin is devastated, and his equally distraught mother comforts him as best she can. Given some time to reflect, Calvin accepts the animal's death with a few quiet comments. Then, in my favorite panel in the history of comics, the two are hugging. "But don't you go anywhere" says Calvin, and Hobbes' response of "Don't worry" is a rare and beautiful funnypaper acknowledgement of love and need. It's enough to make anyone forget years of Beetle Baileys and Cathys and Marmadukes, all of whom might catch you off guard with a begrudging chuckle every now and then, but few would champion them as art, and I can't think of anyone familiar with "Calvin and Hobbes" that wouldn't heartily proclaim these flawless cartoons to be twice as enjoyable as any old painting or sculpture. Timeless and wonderful and absolutely a classic.