Fluffy innards litter the room. When I call his name, Stitch looks up guiltily, a slimy length of white intestine hanging from his upper lip. Hot on the scent of the plastic noisemaker, his glance is brief. He gives his massive head a shake in a futile effort to dislodge the bowel and dives back into the body cavity.
Zina proudly offered Stitch the gift of a stuffed red and black lady bug a few mornings ago. He ardently pulled it from her grasp and after a few perfunctory squeaks, had it decapitated before she finished ascending the stairs. The plastic squeaker was out, chomped and discarded within a minute and the gutting commenced.
The good thing about this dog is that he doesn't lose affection for his dead and dismembered babies. The skinny, wizened bodies are carefully collected and brought to his bed after playing. Often, while I sit reading, he comes to me with an ear or a midsection in his capacious droopy lips, dropping the saturated souvenir on my lap.
His given name is Stitch, but we call him many things; Not So Smart being a common moniker. But given the scope of his life expectations, he's a pretty savvy dude.
All of the dog toys in the house become part of his personal inventory, which he knows like the back of his paw. The Other Canines look confusedly at the heap of bones and carcasses on his bed. If I give them one, he waits patiently until I turn my attention elsewhere and stealthily lifts it from their grasp.
Yep, he's dumb like a fox.
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