Lately, I have been thinking about Frank and whether he is happy.
Frank is my dog. I got him at a rescue shelter for pugs in 2014. They told me he had the eyes of a two-year-old, but the teeth of an eight-year-old: he was either just past the puppy-qualifying stage or on the verge of being a senior citizen. Our veterinarian said Frank was more like eight – two was a story the rescue facility was peddling to make a senior dog more appealing. Frank is now almost 17, which puts him at the end of his natural life, though he insists he will live forever. It’s a joke my partner and I make for him – putting words in his mouth – in which Frank has comically mistaken the idea of a “forever home” with the idea that he will live “forever”.
