And The Rest Of This Post Is All Gravy...

Mr Dearest Smokey,

I don't get the opportunity to willfully undermine many aspects of my relationship with Melanie, so I found myself quite excited today when your feeble four paws stumbled up to her dinner plate and tried snagging some Chicken Saagwala off her plate.

"Smokey, no!  You don't get a free pass just because you're old!" 

What'd you say, my sweet lover?  No free passes?  Well, I got about two dozen of these bad boys wasting away in the dampness of my basement, all of them righteously earned from my dancing queen days. You best believe one of them is gonna be applied tonight, particularly in a form of relationship treachery so dishonorable that Dear Abby herself would take up arms.

 

Now, Hark!  Melanie, is that your cell phone buzzing in our bedroom?  Odds are it's me accidentally butt-dialing you from under the table.  Why don't you race upstairs and see who it is.  I need to feed our mutt the only thing in this world he truly deserves: your dinner. 

Just One Favor, Por Favor

My Dearest Smokey,

When you die, could you please come back and haunt me in the form of a giant, mediating retriever?

 

Thanks, buddy.  I'll owe you big time!

Off to the Races

My Dearest Smokey,

I'm sorry.  This has been a long time in the lurch.  Death nears.

I know you don't understand what awaits you...but rest assured, I do.  The ultimate causality of our existence is our inevitable march towards that singular moment when we cease to exist; and when your moment comes, I'm saddened to say it's gonna be cold, unforgiving, and infinitely finite in its end result.  There won't be any doggy Heaven; nor a doggy Hell.  You're going to just cease to exist.  All that deft animal instinct you currently see diminishing before your eyes?   One day it will just...extinguish.  All that will be left will be the nothingness - and don't get me wrong, that notion sounds like at least something, but that's only because I'm a sub-par writer who doesn't have the grammatical means to adequately describe the concept of a never ending void.  Trust me, it's going to totally suck.

That's a bad beat, my little buddy.  This type of fate shouldn't even exist, let alone consume your sense of living.   It's not fair and you don't deserve it at all.

My beloved one, best case scenario is you've got six months left; worst case you're gone by Wednesday.  Either way, I vow these two things to you:

1. I'm going to get incredibly loaded on a regular basis and spend some of my evenings updating this blog with a succession of wild and crazed emotions, all directly attached to my not-so-subtly anthropomorphized, first-world problem: YOU.
2. You're going to burn out in fucking style, just the way you'd want it.

Tonight, I leave the cabinet door wide open.  The garbage can, it overflows.  Can you smell it, pal?  I just sprinkled a couple teaspoons of two-day old Tilapia juices all around its edges, mainly because I love the living shit out of you.  

Have yourself a ball, playa.  You deserve it.