Here’s how it works around here.
First, the dogs get squeaky toys in their stockings for Christmas. Lots of them.
Then they run around like the 7-pound badasses they are, biting the toys repeatedly because — unbeknownst to those of us with normal hearing — squeaky noises to dogs are apparently like Dylan on a rainy day to us.
When you have a 17-second attention span — the over/under here is about 12, depending on the activity — this endeavor gets pretty boring and pretty fast.
So they then channel their inner Shanti toward systematically removing the squeaker from the toy. They chew, dig, and stab at it like a hungover surgeon unclogging the artery of an elderly Medicaid patient.
Of course, they are scolded and scorned repeatedly for this activity. They are even
chased under couches or beds, where they usually escape to continue their work.
Honestly, we could use a dog whisperer. Named Clarice.
When all else fails — and it does — you find yourself walking into your office on a Wednesday morning and finding Santa’s heart and guts strewn about the floor.
The little psychopaths don’t even bother to cover their tracks.