This is a post about my dog.
If you are someone who doesn’t like chatter about beloved pets, you best move on. And quick.
Because I embrace the accusation of weirdness that often follows those that love their dogs just a little too much. Apart from cat people. Now they are weird. You know who you are.
Today Ella Fitzgerald Griffin turns 7. This fills me with great joy and shame in equal measure. You see, until about 2 days ago I thought she was already 8. It turns out she was only 6 at the time.
But today she is lucky number 7 years old. I feel like we’ve been given an extra year together. Although she’s promised ardently never to die. (I believe her. My heart has to.)
Pet food companies insist that dogs age 7+ are considered “Senior.” Well, my Ella still skips about like a puppy. So that cannot be right.
I adore her. Because she is moody and curly and stubborn and playful and warm and cuddly (when forced) and ever hopeful that the chicken you just cooked is coming her way.
She skips in circles when it is time for bed. She waits patiently on the stairs when it is time to put the lead on. She NEVER listens when I tell her not to splash in puddles or roll in fox poo. When she really wants something, she sits up on her bottom and double pumps her front paws. The little tail she was left with moves at 1000 wpm.* She barks in her sleep. She always gets the last, grumbling word. She recognises the clunk of my Clio door and rushes to greet me.
I feel like I can’t do her justice. People tut at me and say “but she’s only a dog!” She is not ONLY anything. She is everything to me.
Happy Birthday my gorgeous girl. You’ve got chicken for dinner tonight.
All of the images above were taken with the camera in my pocket (my iphone) and edited with Instagram. Want to keep up to date with my dog obsession? Well, who wouldn’t? Cat people, that’s who. You can find me mucking about by following me @kgphotographer here.
* wags per minute.