My kids
torment love, love, love our dog. They love to pet him and give him treats and stroke his fur, and bring him pillows and blankets to lay on -- you get the picture. I would say that they love to play with him but the truth of the matter is he’s old; “playfulness” is an adjective that no longer describes him. “Tired” is perhaps more correct, and definitely “resigned” to his life with these kids wallering all over him. The only time he shows any great enthusiasm is when he’s outside and wants back in, and he lets us know by barking. Repeatedly. Without stopping. At the back door, no matter the time of day or night, until someone -- anyone -- lets him in the house. He might be deaf, and arthritic, but he’s got the bark of a younger, much more
annoying virile dog.
This morning Kendrie came running in to me and yelled excitedly, “Mom! Mom! I told Lager to lay down ---- and
HE DID!” like it was the greatest circus trick ever. Like he was some sort of genius pet, and it was a feat as heroic as a St. Bernard finding a lost skier and bringing them hot chocolate from a thermos around his neck. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that at fifteen years old, lying down is probably the only position he can comfortably hold for more than five minutes.
Speaking of old, tired pets ----------- one goldfish down. Er, belly up. You know what I mean.
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