I was going through old photos the other day. Photos of us. My God, how we’ve changed.
I found pictures from when we were younger. I was skinnier, you had less gray on your snout and long floppy ears. You were all ears when you were a puppy.
I found the picture of the day I first got you. We both grinned at the camera.
What a day. I’ll never forget it. Someone let go of your leash, you ran toward me, ears flopping, tongue hanging out. Your paws had no traction on the wood floor. You looked like Bambi on ice.
I told you that you were a “good girl.” You gave a wide-mouthed, satisfied look because you understood those words. All dogs do.
It is the highest form of praise man can give a dog.
I also dug up pictures from our first day trip together, on the beach. I learned how much you liked swimming. It was at Fort Pickens National Park, I let
you run straight into the Gulf of Mexico. Splashing. Jumping.
I got it all on camera. What I didn’t capture on film was the park ranger issuing me a warning for having a dog on the beach.
“This is a national park,” he said. “No pets allowed on the beach.”
You licked his hand while he wrote a ticket. Then you squatted and left a steaming parting gift.
I have all sorts of photographs. Some from the days when we still used disposable cameras from the drugstore. God, how times have changed. Those things are antiques now.
I’ve taken you camping a lot. You’re the perfect camping partner. You don’t talk too much, you enjoy sleeping late.
My favorite photo of us was snapped when we were in the truck together. That’s our place. You in the passenger seat. Me driving. You’ve destroyed…