I had to take Felix in for his yearly shots and some blood work this morning. It was amazing. Actually, he was amazing. It was the first time we’ve ever gone to the vet that he wasn’t a complete jackhole, embarrassing me from start to finish. He was seriously really well-behaved. I guess it shouldn’t be surprising as there wasn’t a single other animal in the waiting room when we got there, which in itself was a win for the trip. Had there been a dog anywhere around, especially one weighing in at under 15 pounds, he would have flipped his shit and despite being scared of them like I’m scared of spinach, he would have barked louder than a hyena caught in an iron trap.

But there wasn’t one, and he didn’t, so he got a couple treats.

Getting treats is something he’s obviously grown accustomed to lately as he tipped the scale at 100.4 pounds. We actually put him on a diet a couple weeks ago, cutting him back from his normal two cups of food at night (he also gets two cups in the morning) to one cup plus a can of green beans. Otherwise, he may have been more like 104 or more.

Still, his weight was down from two years ago this month when he was 102.8. That was the same trip to the vet that Saydee was listed at 75.3, making for a solid 178.1-pound boxer dog train. I saw that picture on Facebook recently and just smiled. I do that a lot now after seeing all of Saydee’s pictures from her #fuckcancer photo spree. I miss that sweet, stubborn asshole so much. And that’s why I was a little disheartened today when we got done.

You see, they gave me his paperwork, acknowledging that Felix was all caught up on the vaccines he needed, but right there in black and white on the page was something that caught me off-guard. Under age, it was listed as 11.

Huh?

I did a double-take. I thought he was only 9. Like, I was sure he was only 9. We got him when he was 5 or 6, or at least I thought, and that was back in 2014, in late summer around Labor Day. So, about 3 1/2 years ago, which would put him at between 9 and 10.

It’s just a guess, I know, but seeing the vet, the one who’s the expert at making those kinds of guesses, say he was 11 just made me a bit sad. A quick Google check will let you know why. Boxers live to an average age of 10 to 12 years. Here I thought he was just coming up on the shit zone, and now I find out he’s already across the line. The vet even recommended doing a blood screen for a “senior” which now makes more sense.

Don’t get me wrong. He’s healthy, and nothing is imminent. It doesn’t change anything with how well he’s living his life right now, but it makes me want to make sure to value our time more while I can. Be a little more understanding, which I haven’t been the best at lately when he’s acted up. Be a little more giving, especially of my time since I know he won’t be here forever. None of us will. It makes me think sometimes that we should treat each other like our dogs and the world may be a bit better place, just a little. No, seriously, think about it. Think about how people put their dogs on pedestals, how they worship them to a degree, and if not worship, then humanize them to the point where they really are like their own children. What if they treated others just as, what’s the word? Humanly? That’d be something.

Anyway, I’m not going to solve the world’s problems in a little blog on a dreary Monday night. But I am going to make one pup’s night by signing off now and going to get him a treat — another treat, no matter his waist size — and ask him to join me on the couch for some snuggle time.

The old boy deserves it. And I think I do too.