What does it take to create a legacy? For artists, it’s a masterpiece. for leaders, it’s a movement. For most, it’s the love and memories they leave with their family. It is a concept we typically reserve for humanity’s grandest achievements. It is not, as a rule, something bestowed upon a fourteen-year-old Italian greyhound. And yet, this week, as the sad news of her passing emerged, it has become clear that a small dog named Frisbee has left behind a comedic legacy as strange, hilarious, and enduring as any in recent memory. This is the story of how a pet became a legend, thanks to the love of her owner, the mock-fury of his best friend, and a final, perfect twist of fate.

The news broke on Tuesday when late-night host Seth Meyers shared a touching tribute to his family’s beloved dog. It was a post steeped in the quiet dignity of real loss, a farewell to a companion of 14 years. “RIP to Frisbee,” Meyers wrote, sharing pictures of a life filled with quiet moments and silly costumes. For the Meyers family, this was the end of an era. But for the public, it was the final chapter in a story they had been following for more than a decade: the epic feud between Frisbee Meyers and actor Andy Samberg.

This was no ordinary rivalry. It was a masterpiece of long-form comedic storytelling, with Meyers as the affable narrator and Samberg as the committed, cartoonish villain. For years, on talk shows and in interviews, Samberg never missed a chance to profess his deep, unwavering disdain for Frisbee. It was a bit so consistent and so hilariously intense that it took on a life of its own. He famously took to scratching Frisbee’s face out of the Meyers family Christmas cards before sending them back, a gesture of such absurd villainy that it solidified his role as her arch-nemesis.

Every great story needs more than just a hero and a villain; it needs an audience to bear witness. The feud’s transformation from an inside joke to a public saga was powered by its fans. Viewers compiled Samberg’s anti-Frisbee rants into YouTube clips, dissected his motives on social media, and eagerly awaited each new installment. They were not passive consumers; they were active participants who understood the joke and amplified it, turning a private bit into a piece of public lore. The story belonged to everyone.

Meyers, a master storyteller, understood this dynamic perfectly. He would periodically offer updates, feeding the narrative and giving Samberg new material. Just last month, the feud reached a new height when Meyers and Amy Poehler conspired to prank Samberg by telling him Frisbee had died. His response was a perfect encapsulation of his character: “Don’t even play, ‘cause I’ll be so happy.” He then launched into a tirade, calling the dog a “rat carcass” with the conviction of a true believer. It was a hilarious, career-defining performance as Frisbee’s greatest foe.

Then, life wrote a better ending than any comedy writer could have conceived. This week, when Frisbee actually passed away, the news carried the weight of both real grief and narrative finality. But the universe had one last punchline to deliver. Frisbee died on Tuesday, August 19th—Andy Samberg’s 47th birthday.

The coincidence was breathtakingly perfect. It was a third-act twist that elevated the entire saga from a running gag to something that felt like destiny. The joke had become so powerful that reality itself seemed to bend to its comedic will. This single detail re-contextualized everything. Samberg hadn’t just been joking about a dog; he had been a character in a cosmic comedy, and the protagonist had just delivered her exit line with impeccable timing.

The public’s reaction was immediate and unanimous. The narrative flipped in an instant. The story was no longer about Samberg hating Frisbee, but about Frisbee getting the ultimate, eternal last laugh. The condolences to Meyers were intertwined with gleeful messages to Samberg, proclaiming that his nemesis would now be free to haunt him for eternity. “May her memory be a blessing… And may it haunt Andy Samberg all the days of his life,” one fan commented, perfectly summarizing the new consensus. The feud wasn’t over; it had merely ascended to a new, supernatural plane.

This is how a legacy is built in the 21st century. It requires a compelling story, consistent characters, and an engaged audience ready to carry the narrative forward. Seth Meyers lovingly built his dog into a public character. Andy Samberg played his part as her comedic foil with genius-level commitment. And the audience took that story and made it a legend. Frisbee’s legacy is a testament to a beautiful friendship, the bizarre nature of modern fame, and the enduring power of a really, really good joke. She was more than a pet; she was a silent partner in one of the best comedic bits of her time, a star who never had to say a word to win the hearts of thousands and, in the end, to definitively win her feud.