As of yesterday, I am one year old. My people keep saying “Well, he’s not a puppy anymore.” As if a date on the calendar is going to make me suddenly stop being me. I mean, I know Roxy is all calm and grown up, but that’s her. I really don’t anticipate giving up any of my wonderful puppy qualities anytime soon.
Just last week, I arranged for one of the boys to get an unexpected new pair of sneakers. All I had to do was chew off the heel of one of his shoes and voila! My mom delivered a new pair right to his school, just moments before his cross country meet. (You’re welcome, by the way.)
And I can’t imagine not jumping up on my people’s beds and licking them every morning, or not wagging my entire body when my people walk in the door, or jumping into the car anytime anyone wants to leave, or climbing on the counter to get some snacks. Those things all make me who I am, so why would I want to become all grown-up like Roxy?
But here’s the thing: I thought I was a leader when it came to Eating Interesting Things. I’ve polished off a pound of raw hamburger, a batch of chocolate cookie dough, stinky cheese, the newspaper, filet mignon, a jalapeno popper and countless slices of bacon.
Pretty good, right? Yet I’ve got nothing on this dog I heard about the other day. It seems there’s this Springer Spaniel from Massachusetts who has eaten lawn fertilizer, an entire bag of Halloween candy, and a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses. Made of glass.
This amazing dog, named Tahoe, is seven years old. I’m just one. So clearly, I’ve got a lot of living to do. And none of it’s going to get done with me acting like an adult.
If my mom is looking for a title to her next book, I think I’ve got it: “Stuey, the Forever Puppy.”