I’ve been reminiscing about my furry little angel. I’m not sure if it’s because we’re headed to French Mommy’s this weekend and I’ve been thinking about how small he was the first time we brought him (and how many times we had to stop on the way to clean up puppy vomit), or maybe it’s because I haven’t come home to find any evidence of puppy rage for awhile (chewed appliances, shoes, table legs, etc…). But either way, my little guy is all grown up, and since I’m feeling a tad nostalgic, let’s take a peek into the not so distant puppy past originally posted 28 April 2010
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First there was the original Baby. A wee white bear that came home with Fifty on his first day in Le Petit Village. A little present to make him feel comfortable and loved.
After about a month, Baby was looking pretty nasty (as you would if you spent a month coated in puppy saliva) and I threw him in the washing machine. From then on, Baby got weekly washings. He would be dried on top of the radiator with Fifty anxiously waiting. After he was dry, Fifty would walk over and I’d put Baby back in his mouth and he’d curl up on the floor.
It didn’t take too many washes for the squeaky noise inside Baby to disappear. There was a whistling wheeze for a bit, and then nothing.
Sometime around January, I noticed that Baby had been gnawed on quite a bit. Every week when I retrieved Baby from Fifty’s little house (Chez Fifty as we like to call it) he looked worse. Clearly Baby was no longer for cuddles. Fifty was slowing torturing Baby to death by chewing.
Eventually I made the shocking discovery; Baby was as headless as Anne Boleyn (I’ve been watching reruns of The Tudors lately). There was only one thing to do, lay Baby to rest in the trash can. It was a sad day. And I scolded Fifty and told him that he shouldn’t torture and kill his friends.
{An innocent Fifty and Baby in happier times}
Next was ‘the toy’. A braided circle of thick rope. It held up pretty well transitioning from a circle to a half circle with long bits of rope hanging from it. Fifty would put it in his mouth and whip it around. You didn’t want to get struck in the leg while that thing was being whipped about. If it had little metal balls on the end it would have been perfect for a flailing (not that I’ve ever flailed, but I saw that albino do it in The Da Vinci Code).
Eventually the flailing toy went the way of Baby…
{Fifty. Caught Red Pawed
Flailing toy carcass and it’s killer}
Because I’m a softy and Fifty was sans Baby and toy, it was time for something new. Last weekend, The Husband and I struggled in the dog toy section of the pet store. There was a cuddly looking cow that I wanted and a long eared doggy that The Husband liked. I didn’t want The Husband whining on a Saturday so we came home with the doggy.
It wasn’t too bad. Not the original Baby by any means but it looked sturdy enough and made two different squeaking noises; a high pitched one when his head was squeezed and a low pitched one when you squeezed his little doggy butt.
Less than a day after having him, I found these, on the floor…
{Exhibit A. Doggy Eyeballs}
In case you are unfamiliar with the anatomy of a stuffed doggy, these are eyeballs. Clearly, Fifty’s insatiable appetite for torture had returned. But this time, the torturer would become the torturee…
Monday morning, The Husband returned with Fifty from their morning walk.
“Does he look ok to you?” he asked (The Husband was asking, not Fifty).
“A little tired, but I’m sure he’s ok.”
He was ok until the noises came. Fifty was making cat hair ball noises. (Cat hair ball noises sound bad enough from a cat. Can you imagine them from a 50lb puppy? Gross) And then…
(feeling squeamish… now is the time to look away)
(feeling squeamish… now is the time to look away)
{Exhibit B. Regurgitated Doggy Innards}
It was the size of a fist but I wasn’t sure what it was. Until I found doggy. Doggy too had met his demise…
{Exhibit C. Tortured, Eyeless, Disemboweled Doggy}
Doggy had been disemboweled and Fifty had coughed up the evidence. He was pretty sick for the rest of the day. I’d love to say he’s learned his lesson, but you can’t teach a Psycho Killer new tricks.
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It's Me, Sara Louise 
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