Answering the food lady's call, Gus pranced into the living room to find her holding a surprise behind her back. He heard the squeaker before she held out a plush yellow and orange duck. He wagged his tail and perked up his ears, his eyes locked onto his new toy with the intensity of a herding dog sizing up a flock ... waiting ,,, knowing she planned to toss it his way.
"Look what I got you, Gus!" his lady said, throwing the duck high up into the air.
Gus grabbed it mid-flight. The duck squeaked with his enthusiastic chomp, and the pup paraded it around the house, proudly showing it off to the couch, the coffee table, and even the cat who gave a disinterested yawn. The toy was perfect—vibrant, and gloriously intact.
At first, Gus gently held his new friend. He often dropped it at the food lady's feet, begging for a game of fetch. Of course, she happily complied.
Gus loved his new duck. But red heelers are not known for restraint. By day two, the playful nibbles became determine chomps. During a particularly wild zoom through the house, he shook his friend like a rogue animal, and a seam gave way. A puff of white stuffing floated out. Gus's eyes widened ... a game-changer.
The room became a battlefield. He tore into the duck with surgical precision, tugging out clumps of stuffing with gleeful abandon until he found the squeaker. The shrill noise added to the chaos.
The food lady walked in to find a snowstorm of fluff scattered across the floor, Gus standing triumphantly amid the mess, and the duck's once-proud form now a limp, shredded shell. He dropped his former friend at her feet, tail wagging, as if to say, "Look! I found the squeaker!"
His food lady sighed and grabbed her camera to capture the carnage. "Gus, you're a menace," she said but her smile betrayed her words. The pup's joy was worth every shred of stuffing on the floor.
Happy National Dog Day!
