My 12th birthday passed with little fanfare or celebration. There was talk of a trip to Dick’s, Seattle’s homegrown hamburger stand, but that’s all it was….talk. We did take a trip to my favorite stream and “the rock” in Carkeek Park, two of my favorite fetch locations, and I got a boatload of extra treats over a two-day period, including a rare opportunity to chew on a stewed oxtail bone until I gnarled it into a mere figment of its former self. Yum.
Of course, there was a price to pay for my ingestion of all those treats. On three occasions I had to poop so badly that I just let loose on a sidewalk. Even worse, one of these came right in front of a restaurant in Magnolia Village (I won’t tell which one). Heather was mortified when that happened and spent time trying to clean up all trace. Mike, speeding ahead toward his next stop at the bank, was oblivious, as usual. This year, in fact, old Mike couldn’t remember exactly what day my birthday is, or even how old I am. For months he told everyone who asked that I was approaching my 13th birthday. not my 12th. I feel a whole year younger already.
Anyway, I think I’m doing pretty good for an old broad. Just a few gray hairs, a couple of warts here and there, a few less throws per fetch session before I decide to pack it in. True, I’m not jumping as high, or as often, as I used to. I usually let Heather or Mike lift me up into my camp chair or into their bed without protest. But just the other day, I leaped into my chair unprompted; well, somewhat prompted by the promise of cheese when I got there. Yes, I can still move along pretty well when food is involved.
Besides, if I should ever get too tired or infirm, I’ve always got Heather (Codename: Sherpa) to carry me. We had a trial run last week, using a canvas bag that my old pal Charlie gave them back in the days before I was born and newspaper promotions were common. Ah, those were the days! Or so I’m told.