There is no earthly being that I love as much as I love my dog. I am not joking.
When we picked out a little yellow lab puppy nearly 10 years ago, I knew that the one sitting in the shade and only selectively giving out face kisses had to be ours. I even picked his name – Walker. Now, however, he goes by things such as Pupsy, Woof, Snuffy, Walker Doodle, Strudel Doodle, Smelly, Big Butt, Mr. Baby, Booty – and that is just to name a few (didn’t even add in the truly weird ones, like Widdie and Squiggs. Also, don’t ask. The more you love something, the weirder your nicknames are for it. Fact).
Whenever I’m at my parents’ house, the first thing I do every morning is tiptoe down to the basement to retrieve Walker from his bedroom.
And I’m sure every morning he looks at me thinking “Ugh, can she just leave?” as I wake him up with a rousing chorus of “Good morning to YOU! Good morning to YOU, Walkie! Good morning, buddy! Get your baby, let’s go upstairs!”
I’ve seen this tweet multiple times on those parody accounts: “‘At least you really love me, I whisper to my dog, holding him to my chest as he tries to run away.” That is my dog. We used to take him to the breeder where we got him whenever we’d go on long holidays – a week or two. And he would get to play with his biological family and other dogs, running wild and having a great time. When we’d pick him up, he would hate us for interrupting his fun. Every time, I’d make him homemade dog treats as an effort to bribe him to come near me.
I’m sitting here watching my dog sleep in a pile of his Lambies – Lamby is his favourite toy – a squeaky plush Lambchop in various sizes and colours. And I can’t believe my little baby man turns 10 on Thursday.