As a diabetic alert dog, time is something I don’t understand. But apparently, I have walked through another human year and turn eight years old.
I love birthdays.
I know the sound of the song well. In fact, when I am in the company of someone who is having a birthday and the song is sung, my ears perk up.
I look around for the treats I am about to eat, but only get a regular kibble from Mom. Oh, well. I’m never disappointed when I get something from the treat bag.
Everyone says I’m getting old because I have some grey whiskers showing up on my chin. But most people think my brindle coloring is me turning grey.
Mom politely tells people it’s a rare genetic defect that gives me the look of muddy or grey paws and face.
Mom has a genetic defect too. But she quickly tells them it’s to her benefit since I’m extremely handsome because of it.
The thing about birthdays is, I get something called presents. Mom doesn’t wrap them up like she would for humans because I am not a destructive dog. I could never tear up paper or even de-stuff a toy, for that matter.
I live with an older small dog who would, and he will steal my new toys, but that’s for another story.
Until then, I’m going to enjoy this birthday thing and hope it lasts a long time.
