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by Brent Kellogg
August 7, 2009

Okay, where's the grieving? Didn't man just lose his best friend? Wasn't there a bond between Victor Newman and his dog - not Ashley, not Nikki, nor all the other bitches he's gone through - Zapato? If you'd just found your dog dead, wouldn't you have broken down in tears? Doesn't matter if you might be a man, men cry too. They feel the emptiness that being without a canine companion instill, rips the heart out, splits the body in half and leaves many writhing in pain.

But not in Genoa City where following Zapato's death it was just another day. Another slightly confused older white male stepping out from behind the massive, getting it all wrong nearly all the time, curtain to let the world know he is deeply concerned about his old, still living, cow-eyed dog of a woman considering her - loss track of how many there have been - impending marriage to a clueless private investigator who has trouble distinguishing between his penis and a woodpecker.

It was nice to see that one dog, Humpfree, is still alive and was licking the fresh out of the God Have Mercy Medical Center face of Lily Winters Ashby, her cancer a mere inconvenience and anything a diseased patient might want being showered on her. There was the well-stocked refrigerator with all her favorite foods which she will swill down like a pig because in this city cancer patients eat like dope smokers with the munchies.

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