Now She Is Nine

Dear The Dog,

I really meant to be on time in writing a post about your birthday. But then I couldn't remember if it was January 6th or 13th, so I wanted to look it up in your file, but I keep your file with your food instead of in the file box so the dogsitters know where it is, and then I got engaged, and now it's the end of the month. So I'm sorry.

That's what a lot of my relationship with you seems to boil down to: I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I don't walk you enough, I'm sorry that I don't brush your teeth enough, I'm sorry that when I do brush your teeth we have to use vanilla-mint toothpaste that you don't like because of your food allergies, I'm sorry that I'm on the computer right now typing this instead of playing with you as you would like me to. I'm sorry you're in the apartment for 10 hours a day by yourself right now. (Hey, I'm trying, but the Dog Fairy hasn't brought us another dog yet. I'm working on it.)

We've been together for nine years and I still don't feel like I have the hang of not being selfish when it comes to taking care of you. To be fair, you can be excruciatingly annoying. To be fair, I should have trained you better not to be. I often feel like we're in a war, and I lose more often than not because I'm the grownup and I just have to get over it. But you've never wanted for food, water, medical care, shelter, or toys. And I think you've gotten a decent amount of love even if you'd be better off if more of that love manifested in playtime.

Hopefully you agree with me that's not too bad.

Happy Birthday. As soon as I'm convinced you're over your latest round of trying to itch off all your skin, we'll have a little party and try out those new dog treats your Auntie C. bought for you.

Love,
your mom