I Wish I Was My Dog
I have a dog. Charlie is his name. Aside from a few traumatic times in his life such as being homeless and when someone who shall be unnamed amputated his tale in the door, he’s had a pretty great life. We buy him the kibble he likes best, mix it with the wet food he likes best, and then add bits and pieces of steak or pork chops while begging him to end his latest hunger strike. We had to get a bigger couch to accommodate his napping needs. And he has many, many dog toys strewn about the house, yard and even the couch. I mean, what about his life doesn’t sound pretty great, aside from the hygiene techniques and hot sidewalks?
Charlie is a Greyhound Boxer cross. I know because I finally caved and had him genetically tested. Boxers have a predisposition for seizures and it was good to find this out, especially the first time he started shaking.
As a Greyhound-Boxer, he is the best of both breeds. Big and fast, yet playful and very protective. And did I mention he’s beautiful? He is. So any walk or run I take with Charlie typically results in someone telling me how beautiful he is and if they can pet him and is he a Greyhound and does he always sit so nicely like that? Who wouldn’t want to be complimented like that on a regular basis? I think most of us could get a bit used to that kind of attention.
It is his running ability that I covet though. We both have beefy thighs but his seem to be far more effective than mine. And forget muffin top. He has no body fat which means he wears cute coats and rain gear living here in the Northwest. He and I go for a run and he runs along looking like he can run forever and much faster. He doesn’t even pant while I’m gasping for breath.
Yes, I think I’d like to have that ability what with that half-marathon coming up eventually this year.
But there is one main reason I’d like being my dog. Perhaps not for long, but I’d sure like to try reclining on the couch and everyone in the house wanting to sit near me.
Oh wait, I already know what that is like. Every time I go into the bathroom.
And Charlie and I are both early-greyers. His muzzle and my head sport the work of the same hair stylist.
And the cat doesn’t like me any more than she likes him–except for when I feed her or do whatever else Her Highness meows for.
Actually, my dog and I have too many things in common now that I think about it. I guess I just wish I could run like him and get such a kick out of having my ears rubbed.