I’m in Florida visiting my family, and all day I’ve been talking with people about dogs. I have a dog in British Columbia, and my two sisters here each have two dogs. I’ve been sitting in my younger sister’s kitchen, watching her nine-month-old German Shepherd, Wolfie, harass my sister’s four-year-old German Shepherd. Mia doesn’t appreciate Wolfie’s incessant sniffing, prodding, and galumphing. When he wants to play, she snarls at him.
My older sister’s dogs are better bonded as siblings. Marco, an enormous yellow lab, is a playful four-year-old, while Gracey, a smaller black lab, is his best friend forever. Gracey is drifting into old age but happily tolerates Marco’s puppy-forever antics. And Gracey has been sluggish lately. The vet says she may have a heart condition.
So my sisters and I talk into the night about our dogs while my tiny, frail 97-year-old mother listens. One of my sisters knows I have hepatitis C while the other does not. Neither does my mother. And the dog talk goes on while my mind stays half on the hepatitis topic. I guess it’s good that half of my sisters know about it.