Our tiny black dog is a squeaky toy addict. Not just any squeaky toy, however; only the ancient, frayed, smelly one will do. It's almost as big as he is. He wants to play tug-o-war, chase it, and squeak it constantly. He could be a poster child for the weight-loss properties of exercise; he never holds still long enough to let a calorie stick to him!
He is genuinely distressed when he can't find Squeaky. That tragedy befell us tonight. He looked upstairs, downstairs, and in the basement. He looked at us beseechingly, unable to rest without his beloved Squeaky. He was pitiful.
We sighed. We got up from the couch. We looked. We gave up.
Just when I thought we would have a sleepless night with a worried little dog making Squeaky reconnaissance forays during the night, I noticed a suspicious lump in the dog bed. I pulled up the blanket and found Squeaky, folded and smashed like an old Kleenex. Little black dog dashed over and grabbed it, dancing in ecstasy. If he could talk, he would have been saying, "There you are! Where have you been? So glad to see you!" We resumed our nightly routine of throw and fetch, squeak-squeak-squeak, throw, fetch...
It's hard to follow dramatic storylines on TV over the constant squeaking. A more disciplined dog owner might have let Squeaky stay lost for a while. Fortunately for one little black dog, I am not only undisciplined, I am also a real sucker for big, begging dog eyes. (Oh shut up, Cesar the Dog Whisperer!)