Dear Squish,
You know, the singing dog routine rather loses its cute value when I've had to delete a quarter of my playlist because of your excessive musical reactivity. No Ramones, no Nick Lowe, no Led Zep, lose anything with saxophones or a "woo-woo" chorus, lose all my Big Finish Seventh Doctor audio dramas (fortunately it's only the Sylvester McCoy version of the Who theme that sets him off). Also, Spike has picked up the habit and now sometimes starts howling even before Squish notices one of his tunes is playing. It's actually impossible to remove everything that makes him howl, because every week he latches onto one or two new sounds, often things he's been hearing for years without so much as a squeak.
You missed your vocation, my Squishhead. You should have been a hearing dog for the deaf; you would have shone at that, and a deaf person would have been immune to your special powers of sonic annoyance, your earbleeding whine, glass-shattering sudden yaps and that very special sound you make when you see a fox - I've never actually heard a pig being skinned alive, you understand, but thanks to Squish I don't need to try too hard to imagine what it must sound like.
You annoy the crap out of me, you little spotted groove machine. I love you.
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