A Fond Farewell

My dear readers. It is with a heavy heart that I write this, but, alas, this could be my final post. I've been assassinated by a dog.

The guilty party.

Given my socioeconomic status, as well as my financial status, you may think I'm being melodramatic. However, keeping my celebrity status (as the creator of Fuzzy, Black Dogs, of course) in mind, I don't think so.

Regardless, as of this moment, I estimate that I have one hour and 20 minutes left to live. My teenager estimated two hours since the incident occurred.

Here's the incident in a nutshell. I was joking with my son and playing with Bob. I pretended I was going to lick Bob (pretend being the operative word here! Yuck!). Bob saw his opportunity and went for the kill and licked me. Two things touched that should never, ever come into contact with one another!

My son, who witnessed this transgression, did some quick math. He estimated I had approximately two hours to live. That was 11:45am, Eastern Standard Time.

Considering that Bob has eaten, literally, remote controls, oranges, canine excrement, trash, leashes, branches, bugs, lettuce, eggshells, dirty socks and other items unknown, my son and I are certain I'm a goner.

We spent a good 60 seconds pondering our mortality and fates. Then my son put a hand on my shoulder.

"You've been a great dad," he said, "but I've got things to do. So long, pop."

And off he went.

I should go now. I'm waiting for phone calls from J-Lo, Kimmy K. and Madonna, among others. They're sure to call to grieve with me.