Well, there’s a point in every dog owner’s life where the inevitable happens. Your buddy, compadre, fearless and ever-loyal companion cashes in the big check, and goes on up to the stinky junkyard in the sky. For our clumsy-yet-ever-compassionate leader of men and eater of steak, that day is today.
Loyal readers, I ask tonight that you pour a glug in the mud for Cheeba. She lived a maniacal live filled with fence-jumping and more ball fetching than any dog I’ve ever met. In fact, it seemed at many times through out my knowing her that Big J had two dogs in one with Cheeba. One being the actual dog, and the other being the disgusting, smelly tennis ball that she relentlessly presented at your feet. I mean, were it possible to throw that ball one million times, Cheeba would ask, with her big robotic smile that spanned literally ear to ear, for one million more. And with that smile, you could get the sense that she was also saying “Please.”
So it is a sad day, indeed DC minions. Share in this sorrow with Jonny, Angela, and little Sophers by tipping back extra hard on that bottle tonight. I’m talking touch the bottom to the ceiling, you pussies. And if you have a dog of your own, for Cheeba’s enjoyment, throw that ball a million times tonight.