It's a faux fur throw. It's not a stuffed animal, although your relentless attacking it suggests maybe it looks a little more faux than fur. Perhaps you're pointing out its lameness. No matter. Quit biting, pulling, and warring with it.
I am not dumb. When you walk up to me and then to the cupboard and look longingly at That Place Where Treats Are Kept, I am onto you, little man. I know what you want. I am just not getting it for you.
When we say "no" and you sulk off and walk around the ottoman and then sort of pop back into view, you have not hit the "reset" button. The "no" is still a "no."
And while we are at it, "No" will always be the answer to your favorite question which I can surmise from your body language is, "Can I get up there and eat that dinner with you?" No.
Also a "no" is following me into the bathroom. Why? Why do you do this? You're like Ceiling Cat except you're a dog and short. So you're not really like Ceiling Cat except you insist on following me everywhere and staring at me. Either way, it's creepy.
When you are sitting on the couch and smell something rank and then look up at us as though we are cruelly torturing your olfactory system, you need to know this: that fart was YOU, little man. YOU. Quit acting shocked.
You are allowed to bark at dogs on TV. You can even bark at TV cats, birds, lemurs ad Rachel Ray. You cannot, however, bark at TV cars, TV credit card commercials, TV burritos or TV Ryan Seacrests. Focus your rage, kiddo.
And lastly, considering that you shed enough fur to knit an extra large poncho every month, you are not allowed to "fight" the vacuum when I do the good work of cleaning up after you. And if you are going to attack it, try attacking from the side, or from behind. Because right now, you attack it head on, and I know for a fact it can see you coming.