This whole dog-years thing is getting me down. If I were to believe the truth about dog years (and I’m not sure I do,) that would mean that today I am 37 years old. I don’t believe it. Honestly I feel more like I’m 20. Well, 21, so I can lap up some beer from time to time.
I calculated it using this link: http://www.calculatorcat.com/dogs/dog-years.phtml
It figures that a site called calculator cat would define something so insidious as a dog’s old age. More proof that they’re just waiting for us to die. I calculate that cats are jerks, and that’s something I do believe.
So, in honor of my “21st” birthday, I will list the things about getting older that I despise.
Loss of Puppy Carte Blanche. I’m not a puppy anymore. Big people don’t let you get away with chewing on anything you want or peeing on the floor.
Lizard Loss. Chasing lizards is getting harder. Either they’re getting faster, or you’re slowing down. If they ever get ahold of one of those tiny toy skateboards, I’m tearing up my hunting license.
Salt & Pepper. Some of my whiskers are turning gray. Some dogs think it’s distinguished, I just think I look a little weird.
Distinct Aromas. Lately when I lick noses, they wrinkle afterward. Sometimes a Big Person will shriek “Eewww dog breath!” I assume in Big People speak that means that they’re not fond of the smell of liver and cheese. I’ve also let loose a few gaseous emissions in my time, and they seem to become more potent with age.
I can’t learn new tricks. Just kidding. I learn new stuff all the time. Just yesterday, I learned that if I whine long enough, one of the Big People will give me something tasty to chew on. I think I’ll go practice that one right now.
In conclusion, getting older is no fun, but I’ve still got a few good dog-years ahead of me, and I’m hoping they’ll be full of delicious bacon.