You Know You’re Middle-Aged When…
I’m starting to act my age and that’s not good
I’m middle-aged. It’s a fact. But the strange thing is that until recently, I didn’t feel middle-aged. But then last week I’m walking my dog in the park and we run into Ruby.
Ruby is cute — a small, feisty, golden AdoraDoodle — but she’s also incredibly annoying. She rolls in mud (I’m putting a good spin on things; it’s goose poo) and then jumps on other dogs, and their owners.
I dread seeing Ruby. It’s not the dog; it’s her owner.
She never apologizes, even when you’re standing with your jaw open and crap all over your jeans. Instead, she chuckles and says she just can’t control that dog. Her smile tells you she thinks her dog is pretty perfect just the way she is.
Then last week, she confirms it:
“Ruby has this great little character. I don’t want to train it out of her.”
And I’m thinking:
I have a great dog too, but as with my child, I’m training him not to be a nuisance to others like by smearing poo on people or knocking down toddlers.
