Sometimes I really go against my best interests. Today was one of those days. I bought another one if these infernal things:It's a plushie hedgehog from Petsmart. It squeaks and grunts when squeezed--noises that just drive me to drink, especially when I hear them non-stop for days.
So why did I buy one, you ask? Because this guy loves them more than breathing. Just look at his face when he saw me holding it. This was, of course, taken just a second before he leaped up and grabbed it. He knew that it was his, just like the previous two hedgehogs that he loved and played with and slept with and carried around constantly, tossing them and squeezing them until finally the squeakers broke, and then loving them all the more in their silence until finally they just fell apart. Happiness, for Lagniappe, is measured in hedgehogs. And he's now a happy, happy dog.
So now I have to endure the squeaking and the grunting, as well as having this toy trust into my lap--or my face--every time I lay on the couch. You see, this toy was meant to fly, at least in Lagniappe's mind, so it's constantly forced upon me or anyone else who might possibly throw it for him, allowing him to chase it, catch it, squeak it, and bring it back to be thrown again...and again...and again...and again.
Of course, as you can tell by his pose here, if he doesn't hand it to you to throw, you're not allowed to touch it. It is his, after all. One of the few things that he can actually claim ownership and control over. And he guards it zealously.
But this display of K9 mania aside, he's my buddy. And if all it takes is this hedgehog to make him happy and content, then the least I can do is shell out seven bucks or so every few months to buy him one.