Dog Years

It's my birthday today and I'm twelve. Border Terriers are supposed to live to between twelve and fifteen years so I'm in the danger zone. Still, the oldest dog in the UK lived until she was twenty eight and a half, so I'm not even middle-aged by that standard.

Occasionally 'Him' and 'Her Indoors' talk about what will happen after my demise. Charming! 'Him Indoors' never wanted a dog in the first place; noisy, insanitary creatures that pong a bit etc etc. He was persuaded into it, against his better judgment, by 'Junior Her', a mistake he doesn't intend to repeat. 'Her Indoors' loves owning a dog and has no intention of heading into her dotage canine free. An interesting dilemma. 'Junior Her ' could well hold the casting vote. She did it last time and I'm sure she could do it again.

Anyway, I feel morally obliged, in the interests of family harmony, to live for as long as possible. I'm in good condition for my age. All my senses are still functioning fine. I might sleep a bit longer than I did when I was younger, but that fits in well with 'Them Indoors' being out at work, so it's a comfortable arrangement. I've got plenty of years in me yet, so 'Him Indoors' had better not start planning a dog free future any time soon.