The end of her puppyhood.

As I sit here, the dog has finally chewed one of her favorite stuffed toys into oblivion.  The squeaker that had provided her with so many hours of fun has finally come out of the toy.  She has mercilessly chewed the head off of the toy, while the squeaker made it’s screaming noises, leaving a long stuffed-dog body in it’s wake.   

When she tore off the toy’s head, the little balloon shaped squeaker fell out onto the couch.  She took a moment to stare at it, then dropped the stuffed head, instead going over to sniff the noise maker.  She nosed it forward, and waited to see if it would move.  Still watching, she circled it.  Then she gently took it in her mouth and slowly bit down.  When it squeaked, she quickly dropped it.  Then she looked at me, a look of doggy confusion on her face.  She picked it up once more, squeaking it again and again.  And then she eyed the stuffed toy’s headless body.  It was then that it dawned on her that this little piece of plastic was the source of all her endless hours of fun.  She realized that her stuffed animal was not, in fact, screaming in agony every time she bit it.  She realized that it was only this little squeaker inside the toy that made the noise.

And then she barked at me accusingly, because I was clearly at fault for trying to pass off a stuffed animal filled with fluff and a plastic noise maker as the real deal.


I may as well tell her about Santa now.  Her innocence is already gone.


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