My new
Boxer, Roscoe, is ten years old, and already graying in the muzzle, sporting a
look of wisdom that only age can imply. Yet,
If Roscoe
were a real boy, he would have mastered his skills on a ten speed bike, and explored
all the area creeks for tadpoles and crawdads.
He would
have whined and aggressively procrastinated beginning his fifth grade writing
assignment on U.S. presidents. He would already have buried a pet and had a
friend break his heart.
Roscoe as a
real boy, would have loved coming home and smelling spaghetti for dinner and
watching the Three Stooges before he was ordered to set the table.
He also
would have rather died than take a car trip with his parents. Died! But,
Roscoe isn’t
a real boy. He gladly loves any car trip
with his dad, and explores his changing world from the front seat of a car. A
soda cracker is his idea of heaven.
His only
responsibility is to be comfortable, a job he performs wonderfully on a giant
pillow in front of the fire lit hearth. He
loves walking in the snow, and remembers to sniff the fresh spring flowers as
they first display their fragrant blooms.
Because he
isn’t a real boy, he will be elderly in the eighth grade… and very wise.
