Dear Muffin,

 

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.

Having no clue what I was doing, I broke every rule and you proved a most patient teacher. When Gibson came along and bit me, the trainer revealed the devastating and hilarious truth that it was YOU in fact causing the problems and running the show. She commented, “She’s extremely intelligent, she’s done an excellent job of training you.”

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.

 

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