What greater pleasure is there in life beyond retrieving a tennis ball? Friends, I will confess that when engaged in said activity, yours truly is sometimes even too distracted to consume noms. Yes, that's how good it is.
However, our good buddy, Bolo, sent a parcel to our estate which contained an object known as a Frisbee. Momma assured me that this, too, was a retrieving toy and my labraheart would fill with joy chasing it about the yard.
I was skeptical.
While I did gamely scamper after momma's sorry excuses for Frisbee tosses, any hope of fun was quickly set aside once the fun police a.k.a. jaws on doom clamped on to the blue disk.
As you can see, just a brief journey into that bottomless maw caused irrevocable structural integrity breaches.
While a bit sorry that I did not have more time to perfect my Frisbee skills, I was not entirely disappointed when momma asked me if I would prefer to break out the tennis balls.
I was quick to secure one for my own enjoyment before the Relentlessly Slow of Thought was able to react to the fact that the joyful golden orbs had, once again, made an appearance.
Not one for hackneyed phrases of questionable origin, I felt compelled to shout out "let the good times roll!" Such is the thrill of tennis ball that it renders one virtually incapable of proper speech.
I played until I could play no more.
But have no doubt. A short sun bake will leave me ready to go again.
While I rest, you can watch an exciting movie of my close encounter of the Frisbee kind here or below.
P.S. Being a rugged, athletic, all weather kind of chap, I enjoy snow, sleet, rain, as well as sunshine. But since many of my readers pine for the white stuff, I give you this photo of our last remaining snowbank.