Last night, Sadie was behaving powerfully strangely. Lissa and I were reading in bed, and Sadie was moping around the bedroom, looking at us, sniffing at things, sometimes just standing there sadly, as if she was trying to tell us something.

When I opened this morning’s paper, I understood. Hunter S. Thompson and Sandra Dee had died. It’s like Sadie is some sort of pop culture doggie savant, like she knew.