Annoyance

So yesterday was Bob's made up 8th birthday. Made up because he's rescued and we don't know the exact date of his birth. But by the Delaware Humane Association's estimate, he was born close to Thanksgiving 2009.

We just got back from the long drive from Michigan after spending Thanksgiving with my parents. Over these last six years, my mom and dad have not been terribly impressed with Bob on our visits. He let loose his inner beagle and howled pathetically if I went out to see friends and left him in this unfamiliar house. He pestered visitors to distraction. He plied his awesome counter-surfing skills (see earlier post). And yes, once (ONCE! In 6 years!), he pooped in the house.

I always took it personally that they would criticize my dog. Well, it wasn't that much of a stretch to take it personally when they said "Oh Good Heaven's Carol, do something about this dog!" It's not like he was attacking or drawing blood, or even destroying the baseboard (which my brother's "perfect" dog did due to separation anxiety). He's just being the friendly, feeling dog he is.

Well, this year my parents admitted he's a good dog. He didn't stop howling or pestering or counter-surfing. He just stopped sooner than in the past, before it became a real annoyance. I assume this is a matter of just getting older and not having the energy to keep fighting for whatever you think, or thought, was important. And in the #MeToo era, you're deemed OK as long as you stop before you become a real annoyance.

"Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History"

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

Bob the Celebrity

Oof, busy day for Bob and for Bob's mom. One of my many errands today was to take Bob to the pet store to get his claws clipped. (Don't judge me, his claws are black and clipping is so challenging I give that to the professionals. I mean, I DO brush his teeth ya know!)So turns out I was a day late and a dollar short. Bob's rabies vaccine expired yesterday. YESTERDAY.  After 3 years? Really?? No  claw clip. AARRGH.

Actually, they call it a "nail trim" rather than a "claw clip." Seems they're really marketing for the dog pedicure with, and I kid you not, nail polish. Um, I love my dog, But there is no way I would subject him to celebrity owner arrogance with, oh for God's sake, nail polish. There is NO WAY I want to cart him around in a purse. Not just because that would be impossible -- can you imagine my chiropractic bills? But because what the eff is the point of having a dog in a purse??

Anyhow, this does make me think. I'm not a celebrity in my neighborhood. But Bob is. My neighbors and I are alike in that we know the names of the dogs we meet on a walk far better than the names of those who are walking them. And we fawn over them with petting and snuggles. Not that that's a bad thing. But why does our human nature drive us to do so?

Hmmmm. What IS celebrity? Why are we so drawn to it?

I have an idea. And the concept of celebrity enriches that idea. And I wouldn't have thought of that if it hadn't been for Bob.

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob.

p.s. as of this afternoon, Bob is up to date on his rabies and all, vaccinations. Plus a baseline CBC since he's now 7 (aka my age, see previous post). And the vet said I was taking good care of his teeth. Yay.

Dog & People years

This morning, Facebook tossed me a picture from six years ago. It was Bob swimming in the exercise pool as part of the vet-sponsored Biggest Loser contest back when I first adopted him, back when he was dangerously obese. Bob is not a fan of water. But he DID win the contest! And has been a healthy weight ever since.

I adopted Bob on March 15, 2011. The Ides of March. Which is relevant only because that helps me remember the date. No stabbing involved. March 15 is now known as “Gotcha Day” and eminently worthy of celebration.

This Facebook thing reminded me that Bob is now well into his 7^th year (DHA and I reckon he was 1-1/2 years old when I got him). Last week, after one bag’s worth of denial, I finally purchased a bag of “Active Longevity” – Science Diet’s signal that your dog has moved into the next demographic. Great. He’s still a puppy-like goofball. But we all know where this is heading.

And I realize that Bob and I are the same age. In dog years, Bob’s in his mid fifties. A little grey. Delighted to sniff around the neighborhood and meet other dogs walking their people. Then go home for food and sleep. Occasional explosions of physical exercise (typically chasing the cat, or often with no discernable reason). Snuggle on the couch, then curl up in bed.

Ya know, except for the fact that I don’t greet my neighbors by sniffing their butts, that pretty much describes my mid fifties too.

I know where this is heading, Bob. You caught up to me in age, and now you’re gonna blow by me and just get, well, old. And you’re gonna show me how to do that. Meanwhile, you are not gonna pay any attention to that ticking clock. You are gonna wrestle with your little cat sister Penny because it’s fun for both of you. You will continue to scramble, SCREAM down the ubiquitous stairs of our house, until you have to take the stairs a little slower.

And I ain’t going quietly into that good night any more than you are, darlin’

Good Lesson. Thanks Bob