The Aging Puppy

Soon, any day now, in fact, the pup turns 12.  I don't know about you, but I remember 12 as a big b'day.  I thought 12 was going to be epic.  In reality, it was more of letdown.  I expected all sorts of things. Popularity.  Boyfriends.  Long legs.  A growth spurt of any kind.  Thick lustrous locks.   A pink princess telephone.  Didn't happen.  And so, I wondered if the pup named Dusty shared similar dreams on the eve of his pre-Bark Mitzvah.  The simplest answer is no.  Not really.  Not that much.  In dog years, he's far more realistic than I was as a human-type. His dreams, if I may be so bold as to interpret for him, are closer to those of a very old man.  A good poop would be nice.  A little less arthritis in the legs, please.  Enough already with the hip dysplasia.  A little more vim and vigor couldn't hurt. In his mind, he still thinks he's a pup.  But his body is telling him a different story.