I am a terrible mother. I realized at about 4:31 this afternoon that Sherman turned two years old today. I was comforted by the knowledge Sherman returned to daycare today and had a heck of a good Tuesday, so at least he had a bit of a birthday party, even if his own (adoptive) momma totally dropped the ball. It seems a little pathetic after last year’s birthday extravaganza, but I think we’ll all be just fine once we get over it.
It’s hard to believe the speckled one is already two whole years old. In the last few months, he’s moved notably beyond puppyhood in personality and listening skills. When he looked like he does in the photograph below, all he wanted to do was play, and while he’s never been “bad,” a pooch whose factory settings include only gears four and five is a heck of a lot of work. I’m glad he’s found the rest of his transmission, and that he’s happy to just sit and relax now instead of constantly needing entertainment.
It seems the more freckles accumulate on his pink nose, the better Sherman gets. He’s not perfect, which is fine with me because no one truly is, but each day with him is more enjoyable than the last. Also, it’s a real treat to hang out with him now that he has decided it’s in his best interest to follow more or less all the commands I give him, not just the ones that he thinks sound like a good idea. I’ll try and get a photo some time of him responding to “leave it,” because it’s hilarious to watch him spit out whatever it is I want out of his mouth with a ptuh! sound and a protruding tongue, not to mention a heavy dose of the stink eye. He’s also outgrown the need to be kenneled most of the time, and I can send him for a nap or put him to bed for the night without locking him up, a much better situation for all involved. Sherman sleeps on a big dog cushion beside my bed, and there is nothing more comforting than waking up from a bad dream to sloppy kisses on my hand while I’m trying to get back to sleep.
Here he is in his second birthday photo, exhausted from daycare and looking very zen.
I am a mutt lover. Owning a purebred dog doesn’t appeal to me, not because there’s something wrong with papered canines, but because I like the variety provided by a handsome mix like my sweet boy. Sherman was a bit of a gamble, since a boxer/border mix could have provided me twelve to fourteen years of hyper dog hell, but I’m so very glad I trusted my gut and brought Sherm home.
Happy birthday, spotted friend. May you have at least another healthy decade as a valued member of this family. You are very much loved, even if I forgot to build you a cake. Sorry man.
We’ll go to the farm mart next weekend, and you can pick any bull penis you want.
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