Cato

Back in 2001, we picked up a mangy flea-bitten heartworm-ridden chow-chow mix who was trotting down a nearby street dragging 6 feet of telephone cable behind him.  No one ever claimed him, so we kept him, successfully treated his heartworm, and called him Cato.  A year ago today we found Cato on his "Coolaroo" hammock-bed, having apparently passed away peacefully in his sleep.  He's buried in the garden next to his best friend Barry.  Got a candle burning for him now on the desk next to me.  Miss you, you big lovely dumbass...