Today is a special day in the house with no name.
Barco is one year old.
For almost any other breed of dog, that would mean he had become an adult and that he would put aside puppy things. But that is not what happens in the world of golden retrievers. Most of them remain extreme puppies for two years and transition into moderate puppyhood until about the last year of their lives.
The problem is that his puppy brain now resides in the body of an adult dog. He is markedly smaller than Professor Jiggs, but he is still large enough to bulldoze almost anything out of his way.
Oh, and there is the other aspect of having an adult body. About two weeks ago, he discovered girls. Rather, he discovered that Güera, who has faithfully served as his surrogate mother, aunt, and guardian, is a girl dog. Testosterone has a way of altering male perspectives.
Even though she has been spayed, his nose is directed at her tail when she accompanies us on our walks. If she stops, he stops. If she runs, he runs. And if she lets down her guard, he starts acting like a Kennedy. Güera will have none of that. She puts him in his place with a quick snarl and snap.
I had considered repairing the screen doors and replacing some of the gnawed woodwork when he reached his first birthday. But, to Barco, this is just another day on the calendar when he gets to greet Dora, run like a crazy dog, and give us all the promise of many more years of his antics.
Feliz cumpleaños, Barco. May you dream of a world of sock piles where no one ever tells you "no!"
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