Dog years

A few weeks back I posted a weepy, quasi-review of The Art of Racing in the Rain, which you can read here.

It’s the story of a family – a dad, a mom, and a child – told from the point of view of their dog.

Completely unconventional and fresh, I loved the premise, was captivated by the story and I balled like a paid mourner when the dog died of old age at the end. (I am giving away nothing here. The book begins with mercifully telling the reader the dog is dying.)

I confessed how I traipsed downstairs to find my 12-year-old Labrador, tears blinding my steps, so that I could wrap my arms around him and tell him what a good dog he was. He thumped his tail and turned his gray Skeletor face to mine, not peeved in the least that I had interrupted his senior dog slumber.

From that moment on I knew I was in for trouble. I had to do something to prepare myself for the inevitable. Luke is 84 in dog years. His days are numbered, just like mine, but he has far less days on the abacus. When the opportunity came my way to add Bella, a five-year-old blonde retriever, to our family, I jumped at it – and not just for me. Luke has gotten emotionally needy the last few months, following us around the house when we’re home, pacing and moping when we’re not.

So we brought her home last night. There was much sniffing and nervous tail-wagging, a growl or two from the old man – and this morning when he woke up and saw that Bella was still here, you could almost hear him saying, “Dang. I thought I had imagined that blonde chick.” But in the end, I think he will come to appreciate Bella’s quiet presence, her desire to please, her warm personality. I know I will.

In the end.

Have a lovely weekend, Edglings. Oh, and congrats to Lia, who won Melody’s book, The Other Side of Darkness.

Peace, friends.

Author: Susan

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