Dog Days

One member of our family is a dog, Rowan. We adopted him from a dog-rescue lady about 5 years ago. She thought then that he was about 4 years old but we think she probably underestimated his age. He's a sweet, faithful, fluffy, big, old dog.

And he drives me nuts.

I used to think it was because he reminded me of living with a clingy, whiny, cranky, demanding toddler. Like a toddler, he follows me everywhere, even into the bathroom. He won't go to bed until I do, and then he insists on sleeping right next to me. He refuses to eat his dinner unless I sit with him and he begs constantly for unhealthy snacks. He badgers me to play outside but then wants to go right back in almost as soon as we're through the door. And when someone messes with his toys, he bites.

But the thing is, I'm actually kind of good with toddlers these days.

No, I finally figured it out. Rowan doesn't drive me crazy because he's toddler-like. He sends me around the bend because he reminds me of . . . . me. He's going gray. He has constant skin complaints. He has to watch his weight. He's always hungry. He has tummy troubles. He's frequently constipated. He becomes irritable when his routine is upset. He finds it harder to make new friends. He's reluctant to walk in new directions. He's afraid of the household teenager. He can no longer see the point in chasing after squirrels. He's very fond of naps and cheese. And as I watch him pacing the halls, his nails clicking crazily on the wood floors, one big furry bundle of neuroses, I see me. Rather less hairy but fully as neurotic and demanding and needy and annoying.

Damn. You know, I could use a good chew toy.