My Goofy Dog

I am grateful for our goofy dog, Roy. Roy is a boxer. Roy is thirteen years old. His once-jet-black muzzle is now grey, along with his eyebrows and bits of his ears. He can be incredibly frustrating sometimes, like when he blatantly ignores my calls and keeps walking away toward the road; or when he eats so fast that he throws it all back up.

Nonetheless, Roy is a great dog. He is so sweet and loves absolutely everyone. It doesn't matter if you're a stranger, old friend, baby, or another dog, he'll walk right up to you and demand to be petted (and he'll probably lean his whole body against you just to make sure you understand). He's a great companion and is surprisingly good at reading your mood. If you're sad, he'll sidle up beside you, staring at you, as if asking what's wrong (he'll even start whining and refuse to leave you alone if it's apparent enough that something's not right).

Roy's a good dog. And he's wearing a sweater. Thanks for being so darn cute, Roy, and for making our days a little brighter.