Today is my seventh birthday. My mom almost forgot: she’s got two teleseminars to deliver today plus she’s going out this evening. So we aren’t doing anything much to celebrate.
Besides, my mom said, “you’re going off to board at the Downtown Dog Lounge while I go out of town. You’ll be there 5 days. That’s plenty of time to celebrate with your buddies.”
And tomorrow I get to go to Magnuson Park with my Aunt Sara, just like every Friday.
Hey…I just figured it out. A city dog’s life means every day is like a birthday.
Turning seven isn’t a big deal. My mom thinks I’ve slowed down a little since she adopted me, almost four years ago.
“Thank goodness!” she says. “You aren’t chewing as much. And I don’t get all worn out trying to keep up.”
Earth to mom. When I was first adopted, I didn’t get twice a week excursions to Magnuson with my Aunt Sara. So of course I needed more exercise. Anyway, getting adopted can be very stressful for a dog, even someone as flexible as I am. Back then we had Tiger the cat, who totally ran the household. I had never seen a bus, let alone been a passenger.
“Graice, you’ve been with me longer than you’ve been wherever you were before,” my mom says. “You should totally have forgotten your pre-adoption life.”
Pre-adoption? What’s that? I can’t imagine life without my mom. Even that fat cat Ophelia has become part of my family. And I think I was born to be a CUPPIE.
Carry on, world. Being seven is pretty awesome.