They call me Squeaky. Not my given name, mind you; that was 'Luxury Woodland Creature with Internal Sound Mechanism,' but 'Squeaky' stuck. I'm a squirrel, technically, though years of slobber and enthusiastic gnawing have rendered me less a noble woodland resident and more a damp, matted enigma. My life, such as it is, revolves around one singular, overwhelming force: Bartholomew, the Golden Retriever. He's a good boy, apparently. Everyone says so. I'd argue he's a furry, four-legged existential crisis, but who listens to a squeaky squirrel?
My days are a relentless cycle of being retrieved, shaken violently, dropped, retrieved again, and occasionally, forcibly introduced to various unsuspecting human ankles. My internal sound mechanism, once a crisp, defiant 'SQUEAK!', is now a tired, asthmatic wheeze, activated with the slightest pressure. It's my only voice, and it's constantly being exploited. Bartholomew loves me, they say. He 'cherishes' me. What they mean is, he views me as an extension of his own mouth, an appendage to be weaponized against boredom or, apparently, human melancholy.
Which brings me to 'the incident.' The Human Female, Bartholomew's primary feeder and ear-scratcher, was in the porcelain doom-bowl – the 'bath,' as they call it. The air was thick with steam and the cloying scent of 'lavender relaxation.' I was minding my own business, which usually means trying to dry out by the sunniest window patch, when Bartholomew nudged me. Not his usual 'PLAY NOW, SQUEAKY!' nudge, but a somber, almost reverent push. He picked me up, gently for him, and trotted towards the bathroom. My heart, if I had one, would have plummeted. I knew this move. This was 'comfort object' deployment.
He stood by the tub, a golden sentinel, and then – oh, the indignity! – he dropped me onto the bathmat, right beside the water. He whined, a low, mournful sound, then nudged me again, as if to say, 'Here, mother. Let my most prized possession soothe your troubled soul.' The Human Female cooed, 'Oh, Bartholomew, you sweet boy! Are you bringing Squeaky for comfort?' Comfort! My very fibers shrieked. I was damp, smeared with yesterday's kibble residue, and had a slight tear in my stuffing near my left ear. I am not a balm! I am not a therapist! I am a toy! A chewed-on, much-abused toy!
This isn't empathy, it's projection. Bartholomew feels *something*, and because he lacks a nuanced vocabulary beyond 'WOOF' and 'I NEED TO PEE,' he offers up his most valuable, albeit dilapidated, possession. Me. Do you know what it's like to be constantly available for emotional support? To be the repository for every wagging tail's anxiety, every lonely sigh? My squeaker is almost gone. My stuffing is migrating. I dream of a life where I am simply a squirrel. A pristine, un-squeaked, un-gnawed squirrel, perhaps sitting on a shelf, admired from afar. Is that too much to ask? A toy's got to retire sometime. I've given my all. I've been chewed, fetched, shaken, and now, apparently, offered as an emotional support animal substitute to a bathing human. I'm tired. Please, someone, just let me be. Or at least throw me in the washing machine. With fabric softener. Please.
