A Boy in Dog Years

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.