A fine old dog died a year ago. Her favorite toy and most revered American statesman was Squeaky President Bush's Head. I was never sure how to feel about that.

It frankly gave me the creeps sometimes - the vacant gaze, the furrowed brow forever frozen in an expression of impending awareness; the clumsy neck-massage assault on Angela Merkel. The dog's toy was creepy too.

Alfalfa was apolitical. She admired Squeaky President Bush's Head for its pluck,  its bounce, its long-term chewability, and the agreeable high-pitched squeal with which it responded to enhanced interrogation.

The Head had no issues of self-esteem. It displayed an admirable willingness to step aside and let others bask in Alfalfa's often fickle attention: Fuzzy Guy, Purple Thing, even Tennis Ball Rescued From A Pile Of Cat Poop; each one had its moment. But  only the Head could awaken in a 16-year-old spaniel, nearly blind and stiff with age, the puppyish glee that inspired outbursts of crazy dancing and doggy laughter. 

Alfalfa had a difficult final term. She grew weary of most pleasures. Deafness eventually robbed her of squeaky thrills. But Bush's Head remained at her side, a flavorful friend, stalwart and uncomplicated. 

Everything changed on 2/17.  Alfalfa hoovered up a farewell dish of scrambled eggs, then submitted to the needle with terrible grace. The house sold soon after. The new dog in my new life has claimed Fuzzy Guy as her own. Other toys have been donated or thrown away. Squeaky President Bush's Head stares up at me from its shoebox, bewildered and alone.  I want to look away, but I cannot.