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French Louie is rolling around on the rug as he gnaws his rope toy, and I’m sitting next to him, playing tug-of-war. He’s small, only four months, but Tom says he’ll grow into a big dog. He was a gift from Tom and Patty for my ninth birthday. ‘But you need to walk and feed him,’ said Patty. ‘We old fogies don’t have the energy for that.’
It’s true that Patty and Tom could easily be my grandparents – most people think they are. They’re too old to chase after a puppy. And they’ve got their hands full with me. So I do take care of Louie. After a while, I discover I love brushing his fur and taking him on walks and even scooping his smelly poop. I enjoy having a thing to care for, something that’s all mine. It makes me miss Boy a little bit less each day.
‘French Louie, fetch!’ I toss th
