Ranger turned the big 1-2 today.
Yep. My baby boy is twelve years old. Which makes him eighty-four in dog years. Yikes.
To celebrate his birthday, I treated Ranger to a long, lovely walk in the late afternoon sunshine.
I know. We do that every day.
But back at home, my Irish lad was delighted and surprised when I served him a celebratory feast of ground beef, cooked to perfection and served over a bed of his usual dry dog food.
He devoured every morsel with considerable enthusiasm.
And while that may seem like a bare-bones birthday, even for a dog, the truth is this.
There's not a single thing more in this life that Ranger could want. He is, to be sure, a most contented dog.