This is my dog Charlie.
Charlie is nine years old (that’s 63 in dog years).
Chuck (one of the many other names he is known as) had his annual physical this week. It seems that my dog is “remarkable.” His flexibility, his teeth, his bloodwork and everything else on the inside and outside are perfectly healthy. So much so that combined with his advanced age, the vet said his health is remarkable.
I find it ironic that my dog, my pain-in-the-butt, afraid-of-the-furnace, compulsive-couch-licker, barks-at-such-a-high-pitch-it-makes-ears-bleed dog is in perfect health, yet his very-sweet, lets-Chuck-sleep-in-bed-with-her, gives-Chuck-good-dog-bones, dries-Chuck-off-when-he-comes-in-from-the-rain owner is not. I am so far from remarkable.
Go figure. Long live Charlie. That mother chucker.
As always, more to come…