You can’t just pick any squeaky toy. There is a high level of quality control that’s required – every pet parent knows that. It has to have the appropriate pressure-to-squeak ratio. (It must squeak, loudly, with just the slightest bite.) If it’s a plastic toy, it has to be the right kind of plastic. (Hard plastic will get chewed to shreds much faster than soft.) It has to be the right pitch of squeak. (The more shrill and loud, the better.) The only way to properly execute your duties as a squeaky toy specialist is to try them out, all of them, until you find the best. It is an essential part of the job.
As I have described before, in many ways, Murdock was an old man from the moment he arrived in my life. He put himself to bed every night, climbing the stairs to my bedroom alone, to make sure he got the best spot. His walks had to be on schedule; his bowls had to be arranged correctly; and he would decide what trick he would do, based on the caliber of treat I offered. His personality was certainly not what I had in mind when I signed up for a Labrador – but he was perfectly unique.
All of his grumpiness went out the window when I came home with a carefully curated new squeaky toy. I bought them all from the grocery store. The selection was limited, so most were just different colors of the same toys. He didn’t care. If he stuck his head in a bag (as he always did) and spotted a toy (as he always did), he jumped, and ran around, and whined until I gave it to him. Then he would prance around the yard with it, squeaking away, only to end the parade with a big roll on his prize. I think that was his final test of my skills – everyone knows the roll is how you get the very best squeaks. The whole party lasted maybe 10 minutes, and then he was off to resume his patrol or nap. But those 10 minutes were worth my work – as the pile of squeaky toys in my yard attested.
My trips to the grocery store can be difficult now because of the memories it holds. For the last year Murdock was here, it was one of the only places I went, choosing to eliminate anything non-essential from my life to spend that time with him. It is where I bought prepper-level amounts of hot dogs and sardines and cheese, as they were the only means to get him to take his medications. It is where I made sure to stock up on ice cream for our Saturday night dates. And, it’s where I tested squeaky toys.
Sometimes I am across the wide expanse of the aisles, and above the piped-in music and bustle of shoppers, I hear the shrill, loud sound of the perfect squeak. It brings tears to my eyes, but it also makes me smile. I miss that job. With his bright-eyed jumping and prancing and rolling, my boy gave me the ultimate seal of approval, and some of my favorite memories. Maybe that squeak that carries through the store is Murdock’s way to remind me.
