yesterday when i called the shelter, the woman at the desk told me i was mistaken about Bruno. he wasn't 7 or 8 years old. he was closer to 11.
11?! I repeated, heart sinking.
11. she confirmed it. in 2002 he had a microchip put in him. an 11-year-old dog? i had qualms about adopting a 7 or 8-year-old dog. there's no way i could do it.
"take the week to think about it, honey." the woman at the shelter said.
i went to visit him instead.
Bruno came out of the kennel smilling and wagging his tail. he does this thing where he puts himself right over your lap so that you can dig your fingers into his mane and give him a good rubbing, then he swivels, and sits down right next to you.
after sitting with me for a minute he wandered to the front door, clearly looking to go out. when i called him, he came trotting over, took some petting, then went back to the door. outside. now please. the kennel guy said i could take him around the block. i opened the door while the kennel guy proceeded to talk to me. the whole world waiting for him, Bruno patiently stood next to me.
though he's capable of taking two hour long walks, Bruno's back legs are definitely a little stiff. he'll need to eat glucosamine on his food for the rest of his life. he has a teeny cough. apparently his teeth are black (though otherwise in fine shape, they just need a cleaning) and he has a few fatty lumps on his chest.
last night i bought a hair brush and a toothbrush. neither is for me.
i did it. i adopted him. i adopted an 11 year-old-dog, because he is perfect for me. the whole time i was with him, i was smiling.
tomorrow, Bruno comes home. and heck yes, you'd better believe he's getting groomed first.