Growing up in Wantagh, New York (on the south shore of Long Island), my high school was directly facing the Bide-a-Wee animal clinic and pet cemetery, where Checkers was laid to rest. Fresh flowers were put on his grave weekly -- and may still be, if Trickard left instructions in his will.
Poor Checkers weathered the wrath of inebriated, anti-Establishment types like myself who'd employ his headstone and its floral arrangement as a makeshift urinal late, late on weekend nights after we'd *par-tay* in the adjoining woods.
But that was over thirty years ago, the statute of limitations clearing such misdemeanors and randy indiscretions.
A stuffed lion? You're joking, right? That looks like a poodle that's in the process of barking, and foreshortening is making it look big. Unless you believe that each of Nixon's shoes is actually twice the size of his head.
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Growing up in Wantagh, New York (on the south shore of Long Island), my high school was directly facing the Bide-a-Wee animal clinic and pet cemetery, where Checkers was laid to rest. Fresh flowers were put on his grave weekly -- and may still be, if Trickard left instructions in his will.
Poor Checkers weathered the wrath of inebriated, anti-Establishment types like myself who'd employ his headstone and its floral arrangement as a makeshift urinal late, late on weekend nights after we'd *par-tay* in the adjoining woods.
But that was over thirty years ago, the statute of limitations clearing such misdemeanors and randy indiscretions.
Would've been best to pass the whuskey thru one's kidneys on his owner's last resting place.
A stuffed lion? You're joking, right? That looks like a poodle that's in the process of barking, and foreshortening is making it look big. Unless you believe that each of Nixon's shoes is actually twice the size of his head.
Piss on Nixon all you like, but Checkers was a beauty.
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