She’s looking her age now. Her dark, tan color has slowly faded to white. It’s illuminated at night when we walk—the light of the moon shows it off. She’d be happier if the clouds covered it.
She’ll be 8 years old this October. I’ve had her since she was six weeks old. I could barely boil water but my boyfriend at the time wanted a dog and somehow believed we’d be capable of responsibility for one. I cared even though I didn’t want to. It hurt to be around her after the break-up. After all, she was our dog.
But if there is one thing a dog can’t stop doing, it’s love. She stayed by me even when I ignored her. When I came out of my break-up recovery, she welcomed me the same way she did while coping—with kisses.
We had a good thing going for us for a few years, her and I. And when I welcomed a new man in my life, she did, too.
It took both of them to get used to each other. Now, of course, I am nothing but air to her when he walks in the room. Any time we arrive—no matter if we were gone a month or a minute—she is an all-in greeter. After 8 years, I am still amazed at how much she loves me.
While she may look old, she doesn’t act like it. Not many 8-year-old dogs are as spunky as her. If she had it her way, she’d live outside just to have enough space to run around. I think that’s how it would be if I had it my way, too. She deserves a big yard. She may not play well with other dogs, but she has done well keeping herself occupied all these years.
Sometimes it seems that she’s half her age because of how hyper she is. But then I see her face in the moonlight and I remember.
Recently I looked up her life expectancy—about 12-14 years. I consider that to be quite old, since most of my childhood pets never reached 10. But I suppose when she leaves, I’ll always consider it “too soon.”