A year ago, on August 25, 2009, a puppy—half shihtzu, half toy poodle—was born. I don't even know exactly where that happened, but a little less than three months later, we bought her, and named her Lucy. She's become accustomed to us, and now we're her pack.
By the time dog is a year old, you probably shouldn't call it a puppy anymore, but since Lucy will always remain a small dog, we still think of her as one. Most often, when I return home and she's waiting, I greet her with, "Hello, Puppy."
Until we got Lucy, I never imagined myself as a Dog Person. Dogs always seemed like so much work as a pet—needy and inconvenient, especially for a family such as ours that likes to travel. And yes, they are. Yet our dog is also a great comfort, especially when I'm sick, and she makes us all happier. I now understand the appeal of dogs, the oldest domesticated animal.
Lucy is, of course, entirely unaware that she is one year old today, or even that such a thing as "a year" exists as a concept. We mark the occasion for our own benefit. Today we plan to take her to the dog park, where she'll have some fun and meet some other dogs. Woof woof.