After all, he's done this a million times before... pick up some dropped fries, retrieve some stray fly balls, get a belly rub. Standard stuff!
Oliver tried to play it cool. He wanted to ask if her face was hurting... because... it was killing him. Still he was so unsure... what if she rejected him... would he ever love another? Finally, after eating a little grass, he summoned all of his collective mojo and approached. Like two wild dogs, answering primal calls across a remote African savanna, their eyes locked. A primordial stirring welled inside Oliver and he knew that he had at once begun and finished his life's search. "Gracie" so preciously formed on the jowls, so easily woofed... his tail wagged... he play bowed... he went in for the sniff... and...and...
Not what he had hoped for!
It's a story as old as time. You approach the plate, get ready to swing and, STRIKE OUT! It could have been beautiful. He would have given her the moon and howled at it too. Oh Gracie, why... WHY?
HEY, was that a foul ball?
Post Script; Oliver is scheduled for his "mojoectomy" later this month.