I don’t know where the toy came from.
It just… appeared one morning.
A red rubber pig, squished flat on the living room rug, with eyes that looked both confused and slightly evil. I picked it up and squeezed it.
SQUEEEEEE!
Within 0.2 seconds, my dog Bailey was in the room, eyes wide, ears perked, tail high.
And from that moment on, the pig became hers.
She had toys before, of course. Plush ducks, rope bones, even a squeaky donut that survived two birthdays.
But this pig?
This pig was different.
She carried it everywhere. Into the yard. Into her crate. Into the bathroom while I brushed my teeth.
She’d gently place it beside her food bowl at dinner — a kind of offering, as if sharing her kibble might earn her squeak toy some divine favor.
It became part of our lives.
We gave it a name: Mr. Oink.
We gave it a voice. (Bailey did not approve of my impression.)
And, of course, after about six weeks of joy… Mr. Oink gave out his last squeak.
She pressed it. Nothing.
Pressed it again. Still nothing.
She looked at me with eyes that could have written a country song.
That night, I ordered a 3-pack of extra-durable squeaky toys. They arrived two days later, tucked neatly into a box that Bailey somehow recognized as important.
I pulled one out — a blue elephant this time — and gave it a test squeeze.
SQUEEE!
Bailey’s tail wagged like a flag in a thunderstorm.
It wasn’t Mr. Oink. But it was close.
Close enough to bring back the bounce in her step.
Dogs don’t ask for much.
Just a warm place to nap, someone to follow, and a toy that squeaks back when they squeeze it — something that says, “I hear you,” even if it’s just in rubbery tones.
And that’s more than enough.