There's an exact moment when the house gets too quiet. It's not when the door closes — I handle that fine, I even wag my tail goodbye without too much drama. It's a while after, once I've sniffed every corner, drunk water without being thirsty just to do something, and I realize all that factory-installed energy has nowhere to go.
Before my new playmate arrived, that moment always ended the same way: one less cushion, a shoe with less sole than it started the day with, or the edge of a rug that suddenly seemed like the most interesting thing in the world. It wasn't malice. It was just that my body demanded I do something, and whatever I found first paid the price.
The doorbell rang one Thursday, two sharp knocks. Mike, with a box under his arm and the usual treats hidden in his pocket. He chatted with my human for a bit, I got my ration of behind-the-ear scratches, and he left. When we opened the box, inside was a little green tower with a strange slot. I didn't understand what it was for until we turned it on.
I didn't understand a thing the first time. My human sat next to me, pressed something with her hand, and a ball shot out of the slot. I looked at her more than at the ball, not quite sure what I was supposed to do with all that information. I went to get it because it was rolling, not because I understood the game, and when I came back with it in my mouth, I had no idea where to give it back.
It took us three whole afternoons. The first, I limited myself to sniffing the little tower and eyeing it like something I could bite but would rather not risk. The second, I understood the ball came out through the bottom slot, but had no idea what to do with it afterward — I'd drop it at my feet, proudly, and wait for something to happen, which of course it didn't. The third afternoon, my human carefully lifted my front paws and rested them on the edge of the tower, guiding my snout to the opening at the top — the reload one, not the bottom one the ball shoots out of. I dropped the ball in there without much faith, almost just to try. Three seconds later it shot out again from below, like the machine was returning the favor. That's when it clicked for me too: this wasn't just an object that launched balls. It was a playmate with its own rules, and now I knew how to play with it.
Linda joined in too, in her own way. She doesn't chase the ball like I do — she takes care of picking it up and returning it to the machine with an elegance that's completely beyond me, delighted with what she calls her 'receptionist job.' Me, lying next to her catching my breath, I have no complaints about the division of labor.
Now, when my humans leave, I don't count the minutes staring at the door anymore. I have something to do: chase balls on my own, as many as it takes, until I run out of the urge to run. The house stays quiet for a while, but it's no longer a silence that weighs on me, or one that costs anyone a cushion.
If your dog also gets bored in a way that ends up costing the house a cushion, we have the FetchMatic at the store — the playmate that never gets tired.
— Max 🐾