An admission

I’m a dog person. I love my dog. I talk to my dog.

Heck, I’ve even been known to sing to my dog.

And I’m thoroughly convinced that most of the time, my dog isn’t as into our relationship as I am. If you think a dog isn’t capable of giving you a withering stare, you haven’t met Muffin. If you don’t think a dog can make you feel like you’re being stupid, you haven’t met Muffin. She’s a one-of-a-kind, I tell you. And while she’s a mess, sometimes mean to me, not so great with kids, and a tiny bit weird and/or crazy, I love that dog. I’m thankful that I’ve gotten to take care of a tiny bit of God’s creation by being her owner. I like coming home and seeing her wagging tail that says someone is happy I’m here. I like her enthusiasm for every new morning. I like the way she relishes her breakfast and snaps to attention when I say the word “treat” (or any word that sounds sort of like it). I love my dog.

Today, I had to drop her off at the vet for a dental cleaning. There will be extractions; she has advanced periodontal disease. They’re going to give her anasthesia, which is worrisome to me because she’s 11 years old and a so-called senior poodle. It’s a surgical procedure and not one of my favorite things ever. But it has to be done.

So I dropped her off and she cried and cried. As the tech was leaving the exam room with her, she looked at me, cried, and reached out with her front paws. I won’t deny that that made me a little teary.

I love my dog. She’s not my kid, and I know that, but she is my dog and a special part of my family. She’s the one who’s with me when I’m sad, when I’m happy, when I’m at my best and at my worst. She’s the one who’s happiest to see me when I come home. It doesn’t matter that she may be so happy because she knows it’s almost time for dinner.

All you pet lovers out there will understand how I feel. (And I’ll let you all know how the surgery went when I find out. . .)


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