Though it has become an oft-told tale—usually relayed by cruel stepmothers trying to impart life-lessons to their very chubby children—the week I had my now-legendary stroke, my dog of so many years, Hoogie Fowler, shuffled off his fur-covered mortal coil as well, leaving behind a bloated corpse that was soon soaked with my very hemorrhagic tears.
And even though I miss that dog almost every day of my remaining life, as I get older, the memories of him are slowly fading away, I fear. Anybody got a copy of “The Rainbow Bridge” handy?