Oliver

Oliver will be 7 years old this month. 6 years and 11 months ago, old Ollie weighed less than a pound. He hadn’t even had a name yet. That’s when he fell out of the back of a truck in a parking lot in Reno, and into Michelle’s arms. They’ve been together ever since.

A guy like Ollie needs a girl like Michelle. They both enjoy long walks in the snow. Neither of them likes to get up very early in the morning. Ollie sleeps under the covers at the bottom of the bed, just behind Michelle’s knees. If Oliver is woken before his liking he will simply crawl right back under the covers and resume his slumber. Throughout the day the two of them enjoy a good lounge, especially if it’s in the sun. Ollie really acts more like a cat than a dog, which is perfect since Michelle grew up with her grandmother’s cats.

Every great couple must have their polarities, and Michelle and Oliver are no different. Michelle’s never been one for organized sports, which is great, because Ollie enjoys playing catch with himself. Ollie is hopelessly devoted to Michelle. He consistently tests her devotion by throwing a fit, or having a pout. And it’s when he turns his back to her that she turns up the coddling, and their fondness of one another truly shines.

My favorite aspect of Oliver is how terribly persnickety he is. Food, people, toys, it doesn’t matter. Ollie will first decide if it appeals to him, then he’ll decide how close he’ll let it get to him. And don’t, whatever you do, try to convince him otherwise. To Oliver it doesn’t matter how big he is, or how he earned his lot in life. He identifies otherwise. The integrity of his mental empire is under his control.

I must apologize to Ollie’s #1 fan, my mother. I neglected to consult her before writing this blog post. Please check the comment section, where I’m sure she’ll her own delightful anecdotes about this wonder dog.

Today we celebrate Oliver. Tomorrow we’ll celebrate the United States of America. Have a fantastic holiday everyone. Don’t eat too much corn on the cob.