Our family’s pet – a golden retriever named Lucy – recently turned seven years old. I say pet, not dog, because we’re not entirely sure that she’s not human.
She has weird habits, like having to have some part of her touching one of us at all times, whether that’s sitting as close as she possibly can to my dad’s chair without actually being on his lap – though she would in a heartbeat – or lying in front of my mom’s chair with her paw on one of my mom’s feet. She begs to lick the beaters after my mom’s done using them for baking, just like a little kid. She drives us crazy sometimes, my dad most of all, I think, but she’s a good dog.
She lets us dress her up to look like a boy scout or Yenta from Fiddler on the Roof – “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match..”
She will wear a T-shirt sleeve on her head if we want her to – and it makes her really happy! And she will arrange her toys in a pile, all OCD-like. She takes after me in that way.
She is afraid of dogs that are relatively the same size as her head. And she really, really loves ice cream, which she got for her seventh birthday as a treat a couple of weeks ago.
Like I said, crazy. And spoiled. But I do love her.
On account of... 