Several of his library friends have asked me about Boone lately, which serves as a heartwarming reminder that rowdy Rowdy isn’t the only golden boy in this four-legged family. The big brindle sighthound made some pretty powerful friendships while lying on that blanket listening to little readers, and we both appreciate their loyalty.

Since he managed to get through the month of January with no near-death experiences for the first time in 3 years, I decided to not tempt fate, so we skipped the usually-annual under-anesthetic dental work this year, for which the humans who inhale the same air he exhales will likely pay a far greater price than the old hound dog.

I’ve found some alternatives to the major veterinary procedure which are an almost acceptable substitute, but his dog breath is seriously canine – unclean, unflossed, and definitely unpleasant. He couldn’t be happier.

Actually, he seems quite happy about a lot of things. Daily walks; bits of venison sausage, string cheese or dog biscuits mixed into his bowl when the kibble just isn’t enough; unleashed access to our wooded areas, with all the trees, tracks and other animal litter a guy could want, if a guy is a greyhound.

Sometimes, he’ll snuffle his way around the yard, taking stock of all the recent passers-through, then come racing up the hill, grinning his goofy greyhound grin, every bit as pleased with himself as back in the days of his youth, when he ran full-speed figure-8’s in the horse arena.

That’s generally about the time that Rowdy comes running even faster, barely skidding to a stop before ramming into Boone with the ubiquitous big blue squeaker ball, pestering Boone to play chase. This does Not make Boone happy.

Though he needs a little more time for planning and preparation, he can still jump into the truck and onto our bed, which makes him so very happy, as the truck is the mode of transportation to any number of area parks, and our bed is still (barely) the only spot in the house where Boone can enjoy his dinner without the Happy Hooligan drooling over his shoulder, prepared to lick the bowl clean at the first opportunity.

Of course no bed offers any obstacle for Mocha, who jumps up and leans in for as much dog dinner as he wants. Or at least as much as Boone wants him to have, as the old dog seems to relish his occasional opportunity to be the boss of the Siamese-Who-Would-Be-King.

He takes a daily joint supplement with his breakfast, but pain medications have been reduced to an as-needed basis – as in when weather prevents an outdoor adventure for more than a couple days, or when Rowdy blindsides him with the ubiquitous big blue squeaker ball.

So Boone is well my friends. He is old, a little rickety, a little blind, a little deaf and a little sleepy. But a lot happy.