Larry might have been twelve years old and blind but that motherfucker could eviscerate a squeaky toy in minutes. He had two methods. The first was to find a seam and pull relentlessly at the threads until it gave. The other was to pick a place on the toy and just chew and chew and chew and chew until he broke through. Both required single-minded purpose and to watch him go about his squeaker-related business was both joyful and a little terrifying.
Why did I keep buying him squeaker toys when all he did was destroy them? Meh, I was dog-sitting him for a week, they were often on sale at the Rite Aid, and I think they made him happy.
All it took was a squeak or two and his head would fly up, fine little nose in the air, ears swiveling, at red alert. Because of the blind, I would bring the squeaker to him but as soon as he ran into it with his head, there would be nothing on the agenda but unrelenting devastation, Larry definitely the type of small, old, blind, dog who would rain hellfire until the end of days or at least until the squeaker was located and destroyed.
Who knows what secrets lurk in the hearts of our canine companions? Larry, so gentle and sweet and so happy to while away hours in my lap or pressed against my side. Larry, so old and blind and often falling off steps and sidewalks, turned, on a dime, into a ruthless machine, dismantling his foe with clear-eyed (sorry) precision. His little jaws were probably aching, his old man teeth not as sharp and sure as they’d once been, but Larry knew no rest, no quarter, nothing but the raw, primal, driving need to get to that squeaker. What did you think, Larry, during those moments of wanton destruction? Were you happy? Was it work? Is squeaker-killing somewhere in between?
Larry died last night, so I guess his days of squeakering are over, at least down here. He died quickly, no lingering or wasting away for that little guy. One day he was doing his losing his mind over the prospect of Another! Bowl! Of! Dog! Food! and the next one, today, he’s just not here anymore. He was a good little dog, though, and I was just one of many people who loved him. I’m glad for the time I had with him and for the presents he gave me, not just of his lumpy old blind possum-looking self and certainly not for the endless foot-licking, but mainly for the reminder than the years may be short but the days can be long and giving an old guy a squeaky toy is one way to get a few more minutes of life out of them.
Why did I keep buying him squeaker toys when all he did was destroy them? Meh, I was dog-sitting him for a week, they were often on sale at the Rite Aid, and I think they made him happy.
All it took was a squeak or two and his head would fly up, fine little nose in the air, ears swiveling, at red alert. Because of the blind, I would bring the squeaker to him but as soon as he ran into it with his head, there would be nothing on the agenda but unrelenting devastation, Larry definitely the type of small, old, blind, dog who would rain hellfire until the end of days or at least until the squeaker was located and destroyed.
Who knows what secrets lurk in the hearts of our canine companions? Larry, so gentle and sweet and so happy to while away hours in my lap or pressed against my side. Larry, so old and blind and often falling off steps and sidewalks, turned, on a dime, into a ruthless machine, dismantling his foe with clear-eyed (sorry) precision. His little jaws were probably aching, his old man teeth not as sharp and sure as they’d once been, but Larry knew no rest, no quarter, nothing but the raw, primal, driving need to get to that squeaker. What did you think, Larry, during those moments of wanton destruction? Were you happy? Was it work? Is squeaker-killing somewhere in between?
Once successful, he would retire to the couch or to his pillow, leaving me with the flaccid, saliva-drenched husk of the thing—thanks! I’d pick it up gingerly and drop it in the trash and then it’d be like it never was. Larry would be stretched out on his side, a warm, furry, foot-long hot dog I could swoop down on and pepper with kisses, nuzzling the faint scent of corn chips out from behind his ears. I could catch him up and cradle him like a baby and his little front paws would dangle as I tickled them, him sweetly trusting, surrendered in my arms.
If there’s a dog heaven, Lar, I am sure there are plenty of squeakers up there. RIP, little buddy.
His lumpy ol'blind possum-looking self.
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