The dog is busy shredding his umpteenth-thousandth squeaky-toy. I could go broke keeping him in plastic newspapers and chewy-ropes. (At least it's not shoes, right?)
I really like the medium-sized brown menace. I do. He pees outside (okay, he's had two accidents) and he plays with his toys and he entertains my children. (And occasionally leaves small puppy-sized holes in them.) For the most part, everyone (excluding the cats, who are plotting his death) agrees - he's a really nice puppy.
But I realized something yesterday.
I LIKE OLD DOGS.