A couple of years ago, I adopted a bullmastiff puppy from a local shelter, expecting her adorable-but-exhausting boisterousness to mellow out into relative couch potato-dom once she grew up. Instead, she turned out to be a mastiff-boxer mix who has, if anything, grown more energetic and will probably always be bouncing around at warp speed, breaking my stuff with her zest for life. I take her to the baseball diamond at the local park to run off some steam. But despite this daily practice, I still hadn't turned into Josh Reddick and was regularly embarrassing myself in front of the dog, who got pretty bored fetching a ball that had flown thirty feet before sputtering into the dirt. Enter the Chuckit. She now shoots gleefully around the diamond and the outfield, jowls and spit flying everywhere, chasing this bright orange miracle until she gets so tired she refuses to bring it back. And then she goes home and she sleeps. All. Day. It's beautiful.