Posts Tagged ‘tennis balls’



January 27th, 2020 Posted 9:39 am


By Request (More)


August 13th, 2019 Posted 7:56 am

We slowed down, slowed down kind of slowly, like Bernie wasn’t sure about slowing down. But then he pulled over and parked by the backstop. He reached under his seat, felt around, and pulled out a tennis ball. Not just any tennis ball, of course, but one of mine. All the tennis balls found in the Porsche, or at our place on Mesquite Road, inside or out, including all the other houses in all directions, are mine. As well as all other tennis balls I see first, plus ones I see second and possibly even later. In short, tennis balls are mine. But I’m always happy to share. Or at least I’ll do it. Especially if a treat is involved. Maybe only if a treat’s involved. And not for long. Got to be true to yourself – you hear that all the time.

(from Heart of Barkness, the new Chet and Bernie novel.)


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Posted in Chet The Dog



June 4th, 2011 Posted 8:32 am

“Anyone out there care about tennis, do you think?” says Admin.

I sure do, if we’re talking tennis balls. Plus I even took a lesson once, sort of. Isn’t that in Thereby Hangs A Tail?

“Because,” Admin goes on, “we’re in a golden era of men’s tennis, with three amazing players at the top. Yesterday’s French Open semifinal between Federer and Djokovic was a classic, and tomorrow’s Nadal-Federer final should be great. It’s at nine AM. Don’t miss it.”

“But aren’t you playing doubles in that heart-fund charity tournament at nine tomorrow?” says Spence.


“So you yourself will be missing this thing you said not to miss.”

“Your point?”

“Got a strong partner?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Uh-oh. They’re not getting along.

Welcome Yo Yo.


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Posted in Chet The Dog

Mary Carillo


February 9th, 2011 Posted 8:45 am

“This is good news,” Bernie says. “Mary Carillo’s co-hosting the Westminster Dog Show next week. She just happens to be my favorite tennis commentator.”

I open my eyes. What’s this? Tennis? Several balls are within easy reach, the nearest under the couch. I dig it out, drop it at Bernie’s feet. He doesn’t seem to notice. I pick it up, drop it at his feet again. No reaction. I try again, this time dropping it on his foot.

“Chet? Want to play fetch? Is that it?”

Huh? I thought he did. But no matter. The next moment we’re playing indoor fetch, a fun game that never got played during the Leda days. Crash, bang, zoom. What a life!


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