Bobby always had dogs, Otis most famously. He was good with dogs except for that one Schnauzer named Tippy. Garcia stopped by one afternoon to borrow a cup of guitar strings and walked in on Bobby licking the peanut butter off of Tippy’s red rubber thing. “No, Bobby! That’s wrong! And incorrect. What you’re doing is both wrong and incorrect. Stop it,” Garcia said as he pulled Bobby and Tippy apart. Tippy had to go live on a farm because it was just better that way. Cleaner, y’know?
Phil might strike one as a cat guy, but one would be wrong. It’s unbelievable how wrong one would be. Like one was trying to be wrong or some smartass shit like that. You smart now, one? Fuck you, one. How about that? Fuck you and your deal, one: I’m walking the fuck out here.
Billy had a helper monkey, Li’l Billy, whom he used as he used everything else: as a weapon. Li’l Billy was, for his mercifully short life, just jacked full of everything that Norm’l Billy was taking and then some, as everyone else also thought it hilarious to watch the monkey blow rails. (Which, now that’s it’s out there, does sound awesome.) But tiny monkeys can’t handle drummer-for-the-Dead-sized quantities of pharmaceuticals because: A, they’re tiny; and B, they’re monkeys. It ended neither well, nor with dignity: though he would forever claim it was an obvious misunderstanding, Billy knew what he was doing when he tried to flush Li’l Billy down the toilet.
Mickey bred and rode horses because he didn’t want people to know he was Jewish.