Squeak. Squeak. Squeak, squeak, squeak... Dang it, Charlie, how am I supposed to concentrate with you squeaking that stupid ball in my face? Squeak, squeak... And how many times have I told you that it's the highest form of rudeness to talk with your mouth full, or failing that, to interrupt while someone is, shall we say,  "occupado", and here you are, doing both at once? Squeak squeak, squeak squeak squeak. And just because that…

Dad here; it's been a year since Stevie's departure. I had thought of just reposting her earlier accounts, but somehow it seems to me like she deserves a better effort on my part. June 2015; Summers in Arkansas can be brutal, especially for animals unaccustomed to the oppressive heat and stupidity. I was making one of my routine passes through the area where Charlie' crate was abandoned when I first spotted Stevie, merely a flash…

Of all Disney's seven dwarves, "Bashful" is the one that Dad just doesn't "get". Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, maybe, but Bashful? Not when dad would talk to someone stump if the stump would hold still long enough. Invariably the conversation works around to me and my message, and he feels the need to be very descriptive when relating my I'mprevious condition, not necessarily for the shock factor, but more importantly, to demonstrate how far I've come.…