I was chatting up an owner today and talking to him about his dogs. Both dogs and owner were nice, genial types. The owner started talking about his history with dogs growing up.
“My first dog died at 16,” he said. “A boxer.”
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “That’s a great lifespan for a boxer!”
“Yup,” he replied. “She died of cirrhosis.”
“Uh oh,” I said, “An alcoholic, eh?”
“Yes,” he said, “She really was.” I laughed. “Mom made three martinis a day- one for her, one for Dad, and one for the dog.” He grinned.
I looked at him, confused. He grinned more widely. “Oh- uh- you are kidding, right?”
“No,” he said earnestly. “Things were different back then.” Indeed they were. “She got a martini every day, but I did get Mom to stop giving her chewing tobacco when she was 10.”
And he really wasn’t kidding. I felt guilty over the occasional Lays potato chip Emmett would get- guess I should go a little easier on myself!