Whenever I tried to coax Bosie into a walk around the block, he’d look at me like George Sanders in All About Eve. Many years later, when it came time to put him down, he seemed eager to get to the vet, grateful to be rid of crass Americans who couldn’t tell the difference between a Burgundy and a Côtes du Rhône. If he could have written a farewell to us, I imagine his manicured paws would have penned the same words George Sanders left before overdosing on Nembutal: Dear World. I am leaving because I am bored. I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool. Good luck.
