Happy birthday, Cowboy. March means you are three.
The start of Daylight Savings Time seems like a good day to call yours. You are easy to associate with a lost hour of sleep. But I’m glad you are on my case.
Your were a sick pup when you came. I’d say you’re plenty healthy now.
You are an active, always-alert blue heeler. I try to keep up. Our friend Dianne thinks I should have named you Hoppy for the spring in your step and silver and black, Hopalong Cassidy coat. I joke that I should call you VLA, for the Very Large Array.
You recognize the sound of my COPD inhaler as a sign we are about to walk. I know that taunting me with socks and hats is just encouragement.
You put up with with my slowpoke literary efforts. And I still believe you can be Rin Tin Tin.
I knew we were solid three summers ago when we watched your first rain. You were a foster care dude up until then. I don’t know if you remember the tick bite and long stay at the vet before you arrived.
Don’t worry, minor infractions have been forgiven. By the way, cucumbers are better with yogurt and dill.
And thanks to two-legged, neighborhood friends, Lori and Dianne and Allie, and four-legged friend, Sara, for being our pals and helping to keep you entertained.
Thank you, Cowboy, for keeping me amused and often on my feet.