Chinese Tug Torture

You will never believe me when I tell you this, mes chers, but my mother has devised a method of torture especially for me!  I heard her talking to some friends at CCSC about a "drive toy"--what it is and how to make one.  And what is it, pray tell?  A toy so awesome and so magnificent that it renders a dog powerless to the all-consuming obsession to get said toy and TUUUGGG, willingly performing whatever parlor tricks requested and ignoring all other delights just for the chance to have that toy in one's jaws.  I scoffed at the idea at first, considering myself too clever and liberal in my toy choices to become enamored with one above all...until IT arrived.  IT is covered in rabbit fur.  IT has green bungee handles.  IT has four squeakers.  IT is the perfect size and shape to nestle against my pearly white teeth in that game above all games, Tug.  And IT lives in a drawer in the kitchen that my clumsy paws cannot pry or wedge open, for IT, apparently, belongs only to my mother.
I first noticed her acting strangely on Sunday, when we arrived home from the Burlington shows.  She kept flitting about, opening a previously unused drawer in our kitchen and snickering gleefully to herself for a few moments before closing the drawer again.  I, sweet and interested pup that I am, padded over to investigate.  Within a foot or two, my nose quivered, picking up a familiar smell.  Rabbit.  I leaned closer and a brown and green flash tore from the drawer and rocketed skywards, its handles spinning like propellers.  I gazed upon perfection for the briefest of instants, mes chers, and then nirvana was cruelly snatched from my sight--by my own mother.  Mom cavorted about the house, hugging and swinging IT just out of my reach and singing silly songs in a voice reserved once for my pointy ears alone.  Flabbergasted, I simply stared for longer than I will admit, overwhelmed by the desire to get IT.  My feeble attempts to snatch IT from her were easily thwarted and so I was forced to try another tack.  I grabbed my relatively new stuffed football toy and ran around in circles, trying vainly to catch her eye and offer to trade.  She ignored me, all her attention and care lavished on that furry usurper.  Bristling, I decided to take things to the next level.  I began to dance and cavort, flipping the football and squeaking it to show her that I was capable of my own one-dog party.  But Mom was having her own party.  I raced to find another, better toy...and another and another.  Nothing worked!  And then IT was gone, whisked back into the drawer.  And Mom walked away like nothing had happened.  I sat in the kitchen amidst a pile of second-rate toys for several minutes, stunned.  What had just happened?  How could I get IT?
And then she had the nerve to perform the whole crazy ritual not once more, but twice!  This time I became physical, bouncing and pouncing as I tried to steal IT from her.  Not a chance.  "Not for a week!" she grinned, tapping me playfully on the nose as she slid IT back into the drawer...
Mes amis, I may not survive the week.  This might be my last post, for I do not know how I shall carry on under the unbearable weight of anticipation!  I see IT in my dreams, I catch the musky scent of IT when I pass by.  My happiness--my very life, mes chers--hinges on getting IT.  I have no dignity left.  Name the trick and I shall perform the action.  But I simply must have IT.