He is ten years old. Brown hair, amber colored eyes, and missing most of his teeth. He is and always will be, my boy.
This love for him is not without obstacles. They are often characterized by 2 a.m. wake up calls, obvious attempts at brown nosing for attention, or just a literal brown nose. And despite his very own bed, he still finds his way onto mine every other night, leaving me precious little space to call my own. Though all is forgiven when he snuggles with me, followed by a prompt fart and swift exit through the door.
The backyard is his domain, and all who enter his domain are subject to his will. This could be anything from a game of tag, to an angry outburst of yells. But he always means well and makes it even by looking so damn cute.
One week ago, a veterinarian found a large amount of cancer inside of him. We're told he has one to three months remaining. Everyday the disease makes itself horribly apparent, and every night he struggles in his sleep. We take him for walks that he loved so much to try and reinvigorate him and remind us of what a wonderful companion he is. Soon he is battling for air and his pull on the leash has stopped, but his little nub for a tail keeps rhythmically wagging.
His daughter, Indy, which some of us grudgingly accepted, (cough, cough, Mom) was constantly by her father's side throughout her life. Always letting out a demon yowl whenever they were separated. As of late, she's rarely with him. I think she knows something has gone wrong, and I'm terrified at the prospect of red fern.
His joyous exuberance for life acts as a reminder for everyone, whether they be family, friends, or the always present delivery guy, to loose yourself in the moment and be a kid, just the way he lives his life.
Ten years ago I named a small puppy Apollo, and for the next one to three months, he will be my puppy.
In another ten years, his life will seem like a cameo in mine. Just another perpetual story of a boy and his dog. But right now, he is my snoring best friend.
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