This Is The Way The World Ends: Not With A Bark But A Whimper

Spare a thought today, if you would, for my man Buddy.  He's going under the knife. Actually, the sharp sterile pair of scissors.

In one fell swoop, all his rose-coloured progenic dreams of one day sitting in an old armchair with his grandchildren on his knee will be dashed to pieces.  A virile man will slip peacefully into slumber only to awaken somehow hollow and depleted. Gone will be the desire to chase down trucks, but in it's place a luke-warm preference for chasing butterflies.

As I put him to bed last night, I gave him an extra hug and pat, man to (for the time being) man, reassuring him that I'd never think of him as less than the dog he is in my eyes.  I told him I'd always fondly remember the star-jumps.

All the best, Buddy Boy, see you on the other side.