It was Petey’s birthday Sunday, and, as is dictated by tradition, I took him to PetSmart to pick out a toy. The key to the selection process is a playoff format, in which a sweet 16 of top toys go head to head until we reach the finals.
Side note: I appreciated PetSmart’s very liberal policy of allowing dogs into the store, that is, until on our way to check out, my flip flops hit a patch of some other dog’s urine, and I tweaked my ankle just before a ballgame.
Now I don’t really have anger issues, aside from having to by law remain 30 feet away from a certain telemarketer who I visited while HE was eating HIS dinner, but I was really miffed.
You see, Petey is trained to pee and poop on command. He would never let loose in a store, and if he did, I’d have the courtesy of throwing down a paper towel or two. So other owners: literally, get your shit together.
By the way, in a sudden-death matchup, the red ball with attached handle beat out the orange rubber chicken. 
Pete took care of the handle in three seconds, but the rest of this thing kicked his butt. Happy birthday, son.
