Chewing and running. How heartless these puppies are.

I think we may have a serial killer on our hands –the crime scene of Mr. B’s demise is almost identical to that of one Mr. Squeakyboot, who is survived by Ball, Squeakyball, Jingleball, Poofball and That Thing.

You’d better take pictures [and post ‘em] of those threatened critters, in case of a sudden unlikely demise.

Hope the squeaker passes safely. So to speak.

There are 936 catnip mice greeting Mr. Baseball on the rainbow bridge. Nope, make that 937… And counting….

I hope Mr. Rasta-Monkey is in custody! The bastard!

My Bassett girl puppy who is about 4 months older than Fenway, and growing to about the same size multitasks with several similar toys and loves the squeaky ones carrying them around with her head held high and running into your leg with them to make sure you know she’s squeaking, and you don’t forget it. Her older friend who is five practices variations and permutations of his best “whatever” face as he endures this.

Things like this are why we stopped buying dog toys at the pet store and started buying them at the dollar store. We can get a whole mess of rope toys, frisbeesflying discs, and assorted other toys, some of which manage to withstand an hour or two of play at the dog park (tug-of-war being particularly brutal). Then, Angus gets the occasional “real” plush toy. Which dies a quick and gruesome death.

Has anyone seen either Mr. or Mrs. Met?

Seriously …

Turns to cue the band and chorus as the solemn procession begins in honor of Mr. Baseball, the heavy timpani marking time while the basso voces intone in somber voice …

Take me out to the ballgame,
take me out to the crowd
buy me some peanuts and squeaky toys,
I don’t care if they’re all for the boys

’cause it’s chew, chew, chew for the home team,
If they destroy we’ve no care
For it’s one, two, three plushy toys
To be shredded without a care

Play Ball!

Stop! Mr. Baseball isn’t dead.

When Cody, the new wolfhound, did that to Steve’s (the older wolfhound) beloved stuffed toy Hobbes, we just took the remainder of the stuffing out and let Steve have it back “empty”. Hobbes continued to be dragged around and slept with for many years. And it’s really easy to put them through the laundry when the stuffing’s all gone.

That was many, many years ago, but everyone remembers how much Steve loved Hobbes, even after the toy became hopelessly disabled.

There’s something about those squeakies that drives dogs to extract them. I envision the thoughts immediately afterwards as “CRAP! That’s IT? That’s ALL?”, whereupon the task them becomes strewing the stuffing material around as much of the room as possible.

I’ve experienced similar carnage. For some odd reason, my golden retriever has a thing for plastic cheeseburgers (and peanut butter pops, but that’s another story). Anyways, as soon as he gets a new cheeseburger, he works, with a surgeon’s precision, to remove that the squeaker. Everytime. Why? Dunno, but it obviously bothers him.

The squeaker is the precious. A toy with a squeaker is to the dog what a locked door is to the cat.

Consider yourself lucky. The other day I came home to a wad of stuffing and no discernible thing that it came from. And for the life of me I cannot figure out which of the 7-month-old (dog)’s or 4-year-old (human)’s things it might once have been.

Ooh noooo! Poor Mr. Baseball! If it’s any consolation. a similar gutting took place here; my youngest cat, Moxie, loved his Octopussy to death — or at least, flatness. (Said octopus consists of a stuffing-filled puff of yellow-dyed bunny fur, from which dangle eight hot pink velveteen legs. Just try to find another one online, I dare ya.) When he was about 8 months old, Moxie rescued Octopussy toy-basket oblivion, using it — and the old over-the-shoulder-toss technique — to demonstrate his hunting prowess. Then he’d run from room to room with it in his mouth, going “Waa waa? Waa waah?” I’ve always been impressed by how well he enunciates with his mouth full. It’s lost its stuffing, and half of its fur, and yet Octopussy endures.

By the way, I have it on good authority Mister Met is passed out in somebody’s living room.

Yup — Mr. Met is wasted:

Here’s the link that didn’t make it into the post (at least, I hope it turns up here…)

http://jschumacher.typepad.com…..s_tan.html

If the Boyz love Mr. Baseball enough that it’s worth the trouble of reviving him, you can buy extra squeakers from the online vet supply companies for about a buck apiece. I know an Afghan Hound whose only interest in plush toys is about the disembowelling, so his person keeps a supply of extra squeakers on hand to sew back into the same toy. Of course if Fenway actually *swallowed* the squeaker, you may not want him to have any further opportunities to enrich your veterinary surgeon’s kids’ college fund!

Sophronia: Be sure to check the underside & back of the sofa, the chairs, and the four-year-old’s mattress for holes. My youngest brothers had almost entirely un-stuffed the mattress on their first big-boy bed before we figured out where the mystery wadding was coming from…

Another quote from Mr. Baseball:

“You guys…you lollygag the ball around the infield. You lollygag your way down to first. You lollygag in and out of the dugout. You know what that makes you? Larry? Lollygaggers! That’s right! Lollygaggers.”

I wonder…. do you think this quote would motivate Jonah Goldberg?

Don’t believe me?

Here.

Do not mourn excessively for Mr. Baseball. There’s no crying in baseball.

When I think of the number of times I’ve sat down of an evening with a lap full of doggiebestfriends to mend…. Baby Bear! Ur all darning any more! And don’t get me started on the number of squeaky transplants I’ve performed over the years….

Why are all of your dogs’ toys “Mr. (Something or other)”? More proof that liberals are sexist, I say!

We’ve got literally hundreds of dollars worth of dog toys. We try to keep them in Jake’s toy box upstairs and in the the one in the den downstairs. But an hour after picking them all up and putting them back in their boxes they’re all over the place. The funny thing is that of all the toys the one he likes best is the empty 16oz. Perrier bottle. Go figure!

Goodbye Mr. Baseball you will missed terribly. And that is so one of my favorite movies… good choice dad…

Gosh. After grappling $389 worth of groceries into Casa Biscuitbarrel, I realized what a long, strange trip it’s been. My sons no longer chew up toys–I’m not bragging, just saying’–and the only damage teeth do at our house are to groceries, dental bills, and our new orthodontist. My sons’ “toys” are tiny, expensive, and tend to go through the Maytag in the pockets of their jeans.

May the memory of Mr. Baseball endure as a blessing, and a giggle.