Rocky — Senior Dog
I am Rocky. I’ve always been Rocky, and I don’t know where this “Senior Dog” thing comes from.
It’s been three years since I moved onto the Big Doghouse in the Sky.
No sooner was I out of the house than those people began calling me different things.
Things like Rocky Senior, Old Rocky and even Dead Rocky — and worst of all, Rocky1.
Where did that come from?
Well, yes, they went out and bought (with money) a new dog that was supposed to look like me. Of course it didn’t, not a bit. It was a tiny puppy, golden retriever — but money doesn’t get you very much. It was really really tiny. And it didn’t act like me either: wouldn’t go upstairs, chewed on furniture and shit all over the house — ok, maybe I did that… And that.
But get this: they named it Rocky2.
Wouldn’t even go upstairs and yet they named it after me. I used to go upstairs, even tripped the old man down the stairs and broke his leg. Remember that? GOTCHA!
After that, they threatened to send me to dog school.
The ignominy.
Me, Posing in the Living Room for the camera thing
They sent Rocky2 to dog school. Oh, yeah, he’s supposed to be my Replacement Dog, but even after three years he’s still smaller than I used to be. There is no replacement for me.
A word of advice from the old dog: when you get to be fourteen years old, you’re feeling the punies and they want to take you to the vet, DON’T GO.
Your ashes will come back in a box, and they won’t know what to do with it. So, even three years later, it will just sit there on the chest in the living room.
GOTCHA!
