The loss of a pet carves a unique and quiet space of grief in a home. It’s in the silence where a jingle of a collar used to be, the empty spot on the rug, the leftover treats in the pantry. It is a deeply personal sorrow, universal in its ache. For public figures, this private pain is often shared with a wider audience, bringing waves of comfort and sympathy. But when Seth Meyers, host of Late Night, announced the passing of his 14-year-old Italian greyhound, Frisbee, the public reaction was a complex and beautiful tapestry of sorrow, laughter, and cosmic irony, thanks to a decade-old joke with his best friend, Andy Samberg.

In a heartfelt Instagram post, Meyers painted a portrait of a life well-lived. “RIP to Frisbee,” he wrote, calling her the family’s “OG IG” (original Italian greyhound). “She was at her best curled in your lap and patient when we dressed her up like a pilgrim. Thanks for 14 amazing years, girl.” For Meyers, his wife Alexi, and their three children, Frisbee was more than a dog; she was a constant, a furry thread woven through the most formative years of their family’s life. She was the quiet witness to a rising career, a growing marriage, and the arrival of babies who became toddlers who learned to gently pull her ears. Her passing was the closing of a significant chapter.

Ordinarily, the story would prompt a gentle outpouring of condolences before fading from the news cycle. But Frisbee’s life was inextricably linked to one of modern comedy’s most beloved and bizarre running gags: Andy Samberg’s theatrical, unwavering hatred for her. This was not a secret animosity but a public spectacle, a long-form performance piece that played out for years across talk show couches and podcast airwaves. Samberg, the goofy and lovable star of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, adopted the persona of a cartoon villain whose sole nemesis was this tiny, unassuming dog.

This “feud” was a masterwork of comedic commitment. Samberg’s dedication was legendary. As Meyers recounted, Samberg would receive the Meyers family Christmas card each year, methodically scratch out Frisbee’s face like a disgruntled historical revisionist, and mail it back. It was an act of hilarious pettiness that spoke volumes about the depth of their friendship. Only a true friend could engage in such a committed campaign of mock-disdain without anyone ever questioning the love beneath it. When asked about Frisbee, Samberg’s comments were always comically harsh. “That dog sucks, dude,” he once declared on a podcast, adding for good measure that she was like a “rat carcass.”

It was a joke that invited the audience to participate. They were in on it, understanding that the more Samberg protested, the funnier the dynamic became. His performance was that of a classic comedic heel, a villain you can’t help but root for because their evil is so transparently absurd. And Meyers played his part as the long-suffering straight man to perfection, defending his dog’s honor while also reveling in his friend’s ridiculousness.

The narrative took its most dramatic turn just last month when Meyers and Amy Poehler attempted to prank Samberg on a podcast by telling him Frisbee had died. His immediate, unscripted response was a comedic goldmine. “Don’t even play, ‘cause I’ll be so happy,” he deadpanned, proving his character’s resolve was absolute. It was the feud’s comedic climax, a moment that would soon be imbued with a poignant and unforeseen irony.

When Meyers announced Frisbee’s actual death, the context of that prank, and all the jokes that came before it, shifted. Suddenly, the decade of roasting felt like a strange and beautiful eulogy. But the story had one final, unbelievable twist to deliver. As the news spread, fans and followers quickly noticed a detail of cosmic significance: Frisbee had passed away on August 19th, Andy Samberg’s 47th birthday.

Fate, it seemed, had written the ultimate punchline. The universe had not only been listening to their joke but had decided to provide the perfect ending. The irony was so thick, so perfect, that it transformed the entire narrative. The story was no longer just about a man losing his dog; it was about a dog getting the last, definitive laugh on her long-time rival.

The public response was immediate and joyous. The tone of the conversation shifted from sympathy for Meyers to playful trolling of Samberg. The comments sections were flooded with variations on a single, beautiful theme: Frisbee’s memory will live on by haunting Andy Samberg for the rest of his days. “May it haunt Andy Samberg all the days of his life,” one fan wrote, capturing the collective sentiment. This wasn’t mean-spirited; it was a communal continuation of the joke, a way for everyone to pay their respects in the language that Meyers and Samberg had created. It was a memorial service in the form of a roast.

What this story reveals is the profound way humor helps us navigate grief. In the face of a loss that leaves us speechless, a shared joke can become a lifeline. For Meyers, the public’s humorous response, focused on his best friend, may have provided a strange and welcome buffer, a way to process his sadness while being surrounded by laughter. For the public, it was a way to express sympathy that felt more authentic and personal than a simple “I’m sorry for your loss.” By leaning into the joke, they were honoring Frisbee’s unique place in pop culture. They were celebrating her memory by ensuring the bit would never truly die. This is how we mourn in the digital age: with tears, with memories, and sometimes, with a perfectly timed punchline.