The Death of Dragon

All of my hopes from Tuesday were for naught. Dragon lasted a grand total of two days. Who knows how long he could have lived, had his life not been cut short? Let me back up.

Friday is garbage pick-up day in our neighborhood. That means Thursday night is garbage night. Dad goes nuts on garbage nights. He has a compulsive need to throw out every shred of garbage in the house. To the point where if you are eating dinner off a paper plate, or are eating a granola bar, or are finishing a crossword, he will stand there and loom over you until you finish "making garbage" so he can collect it. He's been known to eat entire bakery cakes on garbage nights just so he can throw away the plastic containers they come in. Believe me when I say Dad takes garbage collection to a whole new level.

(Side note: Dad is 58 today! Happy birthday Dad, even though you don't read this blog, and thank goodness you don't, because you still think Sam stays in the kitchen instead of chilling with me in my room.)

Now, I have class on Thursday nights, and I don't get home until 9:30pm or so. (And yes, Dad will stand over me while I eat my take-out dinner on Thursday nights so he can throw away the bag.) This means I'm not home to rescue the non-trash items from Dad's overly-ambitious collection. A couple weeks back I actually left a note on the fabric I was using to make Sam's coats that said NOT TRASH out of fear he'd throw the whole pile away. Now I see I should have done the same for Dragon.

Dad threw Dragon away on Thursday night. Dragon was by no means trashable yet. He still had fifteen good squeakers (Sam had only eaten one so far) and his head was still mostly intact. But to Dad poor Dragon was trash, and without me to save him, Dragon was thrown out. A moment of silence, please.

I discovered Dragon was missing on Friday. By then the trash had been picked up and it was too late to save him. I called Dad immediately and told him he owed Sam a new toy, and fast. Dad agreed without admitting he was wrong to throw away Dragon. "It was trash," he insisted. I told him about the fifteen good squeakers left. "That's why it was trash," he said.

So, then! I've uncovered a plot. Dad doesn't approve of the sort of toys I get Sam, you see. He thinks Sam should have only "tough" toys that are suitable for tug-o-war. I think Sam should have those toys, but he should have a soft one, too. And I think Sam should pick out his toy so he's guaranteed to actually play with it. (I can't tell you how many times we brought home toys for our old Lab, Thor, and he'd be completely uninterested.)

My theory is that Dad threw away Dragon so he could replace him with toys that met with his approval. A coup of the worst kind. He waits until I'm away at class, then throws out my selections so he can replace them with his own candidates. I smell conspiracy!

Anyway, I went with Dad and Sam Saturday to get a replacement toy. Dad wasn't too interested in what Sam wanted to choose, and instead picked out a Tuffy brand toy that looked good for tug-o-war. There were also an alligator, a shark, and a pig by the same brand, and I wanted Sam to choose among them. I laid out the toys side by side (except the alligator; no dog of mine's gonna chew on a Gator) and let Sam choose. He appeared to like the pig--even so far as to rip its price tag off--but Dad vetoed Sam's decision. "You can't play tug-o-war with a pig," he said. "We're getting the yellow one."

So Sam came home with a yellow wrench-looking toy instead of the pig. He seems to like it all right; he's begun ripping the edges off, at least.

Sam's new toy, Wrench

The fun thing about the Wrench (which is its name, now) is that you can slip Sam's paws through the holes like handcuffs, and watch as he hobbles around trying to chew it off. And no, it isn't cruel, he's not hurting. His tail's wagging the whole time. And he manages to free himself in less than thirty seconds, usually.

Sam in "handcuffs"

Dad also got Sam a plastic beer bottle squeaky toy, which was on clearance and which he thought Sam would like based on Sam's obsession with recycled bottles. I'll admit, it was funny seeing Sam running around with a beer bottle in his mouth. But the beer toy lasted under five minutes before Sam transformed it from a plastic drink to a plastic weapon.

Doggy beer toy


Slow down there, Sam. You're underage.


Barfight!

It didn't come as a surprise (to me at least; Dad was a bit put out) that he ripped apart the plastic so quickly. After all, I've watched him systematically pulverize a pair of sandals. (Remember those pool shoes from earlier? Sam has completely disintegrated them by now. There is literally nothing left of them.) But at least Wrench seems to be living up to its Tuffy brand name; Sam hasn't managed to breach it yet. So, at the risking of jinxing Wrench, too, here's hoping it'll last longer than Dragon did.