The carnage is appalling. Entrails scattered all over the living room. Severed foot here. Detached eyeball there. Lifeless body shredded. Nearby, a heavily chewed squeaker mechanism.
Yet another victim of my 3-year-old greyhound BB, the serial toy killer.
My wife has been a co-conspirator in these crimes. Or least an enabler as the supplier of cute but easily ripped squeaker toys for doggy enjoyment. The latest victim, a stuffed squirrel, had a hole in it within minutes of introduction. By the next day, it looked like road kill in the snow under a Greyhound bus.
I’ve lost count of the desqueaked and shredded bodies I’ve disposed of. Squirrels, cats, possums, monkeys, snakes, sheep. We make Sid from Toy Story look like a choir boy. I’m reminded of the last scene in Toy Story, when Woody gets the Christmas Day report from Sarge in the flower pot: “It’s a puppy!” Previously thought the puppy merely represented another possible alienation of affection. I now realize the potential killer seen in Woody’s eyes.
Chatterbox, our 10-year-old greyhound, occasionally amuses herself with stuffed toys, too, but age has taught her that the squeaky things can’t run and are no real threat. She simply grows bored once the carcass is desqueaked and 
prefers chasing the live animals that venture into our yard. Trouble is, word’s out in the critter block watch network to steer clear of our backyard where the assassins roam. The dogs can go from zero to full speed in three strides, and they can get anywhere in the yard within four seconds. Squirrels once delighted in instigating a chase before leaping to apparent safety atop the fence while scurrying to freedom. That lasted until one of them was ripped from the top of the fence and chewed from the middle like a hairy sausage link.
I have two sacks of desqueaked dog toys in various states of mutilation from BB and previous serial toy killers that we’ve fed. The plan is to one day launder and repair them with new squeakers sewn inside, but the Frankenstein procedure has yet to happen. Rather, we continue to play Nero, offering up fresh innocents and enjoying the spectacle like mob Romans.
BB is currently working on a canvas-skin frog. Haven’t heard a squeak out of it for more than an hour. Must be nap time. Or send in the litter bearers!
Ransom Man 
This is why I have cats. They just pierce your skin with their claws and bite your toes at night.
Used to have a cat that, as far as killing stuff, made my dogs look like boy scouts. Every bird bath and feeder on the block was a smorgosbord.
First lesson I learned with my Greyhound adoptee many years ago. Remove from leash if you are going to “trot” in sandals.
We invented face skiing
I don’t even try to run or trot while hooked up to my greys.
“…chewed from the middle like a hairy sausage link.” Wonderful imagery.
My dog killed the squeaker in a bunny skin in less than three minutes. 🙂
Not all greyhounds are necessarily prey-oriented. But I believe they all love to chase.