Oh, baby girl! Six years ago you were born this day. You could have fit into a teacup. I was recovering from smoking and surgery and plotting to have just you.
Eight weeks later, the worst night of your life was the best of mine, after a very rocky start. By this time, you fit into a soup pot. The one you traveled in to Petsmart so I could get you all you required to usher you from the litter into your life with us.
A quick word to all the raised eyebrows out there at me buying, not rescuing, I make no apologies for how you came to be mine. I damn near had to out bid you from a man with a pregnant girlfriend bearing a pregnant pug.
Not much has changed in that regard over the past five years. Gibson died, and that reinforced it. I am not going to get to your last day and rue the day I didn’t make you sit at the corner before crossing the street, or roll over for a cookie.
Grow old with me Muffin; our best is yet to be.