He’s 6 years old, been with me since he was a fuzzy 8 week old who could sleep in my lap. He was the biggest of his litter and practically jumped over the others to see who was coming to see them and I knew that he was my dog. I got him from a breeder up in Plymouth, at the time I was not educated on the importance of adopting animals – if you can – but I don’t regret my decision. As far as I’m concerned I saved Malcolm just as much as he has saved me.
Now he’s the same age as me, sorta.
6 in dog years x 7 in human years = 42 (forty-two), I think… I have convinced myself that I am horrible at math.
Either way, he’s my dog but he is also my son and my funny, smart, full-of-personality friend.