Every Friday evening, without fail, the ritual began. The scent of fresh pizza would drift through the neighborhood, mingling with the cool night air. It wasn’t just any dinner—it was Chooch’s night. The moment the pizza box hit the table, Chooch’s ears would perk up, his tail wagging in anticipation. He knew the first crust was always his.
Chooch wasn’t just a dog; he was family, a companion who turned ordinary moments into treasured memories. The way he’d sit patiently by the door, watching every move with those soulful eyes, made it impossible not to share. One small piece of crust from each slice—that was the rule. And somehow, he always knew exactly how many were left.
Years passed, but the tradition never faded. Every Friday, the laughter, the conversations, and the soft crunch of crust in Chooch’s happy jaws became part of the week’s heartbeat. It was more than a snack; it was a connection, a moment of pure love shared between human and dog.
Now, the porch feels quieter. The spot by the glass door, where Chooch used to wait for the first whiff of pizza, is empty. The sun still sets in that same golden light, but there’s a piece missing—a presence that once made the house feel full. Tonight, the pizza box still sits on the table, and the first crust is gently placed on a small plate, untouched. It’s not for eating anymore—it’s for remembering.
Friends and family who knew Chooch still join in the tradition. Some bring stories, others bring photos, and everyone brings love. That little gesture—saving the first crust—has become a symbol. It says Chooch was here, he mattered, and his joy is worth celebrating forever.
Though his paws no longer pad across the kitchen floor, his spirit is in every laugh, every shared slice, every sunset-lit Friday evening. The tradition will live forever, because love like that doesn’t fade. It lingers, warm and comforting, like the smell of fresh pizza in the air.
Here’s to you, Chooch. The first crust will always be yours. ❤️🍕
