Max is 8 years old. Eight and a half, actually. Yesterday, he was a puppy. He came into my life, into my arms, and changed my world. He drives me crazy, and he makes me laugh, and he’s the only creature on this earth who has ever totally loved me – totally been mine.
And now he’s 8 years old. They tell me that makes him a “senior.” Every time I think about it, I burst into tears. Do I start counting the days we have left? Senior implies the end is near. I’m not ready for that. I’ll never be ready for that.
So he’s not a senior. He’s just a bit older than he used to be.
And if he doesn’t quit barking at whatever is outside and making me think there’s an axe murderer in the woods, he may not get to be a senior after all!