I have never owned a dog before, and to be honest: I’m not so sure that I really “own” Indy…he’s a part of the family; he’s not our property he’s one of the kids…in fact, much to my son John’s chagrin, we often call for “JOHN” when we mean to call for Indy, and visa versa.
We all look down at him, and helplessly: one of us will pick him up and feed him some chicken, beef, hamburger or fish. And we won’t feed him that fatty left-over stuff either, he gets his fair share. Indiana
You, see: I’ve become one of THOSE people…a so called “Dog Person”. I never thought I’d be in this state; I never for a moment imaged that I’d look forward to the time I get to spend with MY puppy.
My nights are spent with my 16 (going on 17) year old son on one side of the couch, Indy in the middle, and myself on the far side sitting in front of the HD TV broadcast of our beloved Boston Red Sox. When Big Papi get’s up to the plate, we all rise INCLUDING Indy, who is always first to shout (bark) for Papi to get a hit.
I’m convinced that he’s not a dog, you see. I understand that his genetic origins are canine in nature; but there’s something about this puppy…I’m telling you. Others who have come into my house have sensed this as well.
You want to talk about sweet? My puppy is dripping with sweetness: IT’S HIS SUPER POWER. At a party we recently had at the house, he came into the room and everyone turned with awe at his calculated entrance. He walked over to the two human infants in the room, rocking in their baby-carriers, gave each a snuggle in response to their coos and then turned in regal display as if to say “Greetings guests, the party may now truly begin for Indiana Jones is in the house” and then, trotted away to the kitchen.
This creature is in charge. If someone walks near the vicinity of our house, at some “known only to Indy” distance, he will commence angry barking: but, should that person come to the door and pass through the door: the sweetness factor is turned to ELEVEN.
Indiana Jones is the alpha dog in our house, and the rest of us are powerless to his control. I warn you NOT to stare too long at the photo’s that I’ve included with this post: you will be hypnotized into providing him with perfectly cooked ocean caught salmon, filet mignon and some kind of chicken dish. Don’t laugh, THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOU!
We recently celebrated his one year anniversary of impenetrable cuteness, according to our pet age calculator that makes him roughly 11 human years old. That means he’s just as conniving, calculating, and pesky as my 16 (going on 17) year old son is.
I am both doomed and in love.
Happy Birthday Puppy.
- Steve
