Our corgi, Tutter, is headed towards 12 and although still quite charming, also has taken to barking at nothing in particular, snarling at the other dogs until they walk over and remind him “Hey, it’s me! Here, smell my butt. Yeah, you roll in my poo al the time! I eat yours! Haha — crazy misunderstanding.”
My husband calls these fits his Growlzheimer’s flare-ups, and it may be true. Getting old sucks, even when you’re a corgi.
But he still loves to stand on the arm of the couch and fling his fat fluffy across the chasm between it and the armchair, hurtling into my lap if given the slightest bit of encouragement. Nothing rivals 30 pounds of a catapulting corgi to jolt you out of a Facebook-checking coma.
It encourages me, as 2013 begins, that if a geriatric corgi can still fling himself across the chasm between couch and chair, I can surely make some similar leaps.
More love, laughter, listening, and trips to the gym. Less stressing, sleeplessness, slothfulness and trips through the drive-through.
More faith. Less fear.
More leaps. Less growling.