I have a dog.
His name is Henry James Fisher III. He’s my first dog. The “III” makes him seem distinguished. As does his handlebar mustache and pipe. He’s a rescue mutt that’s a brew of dark chocolate, caramel and mixed nuts.
The day I found him, I was feeling lost. So, it worked out perfectly.
This photo was taken the first day I met Henry. He was about 6-weeks old and someone left him near a highway of an office where I was working. My guess is that they couldn’t afford him and hoped that some nice soul would find him. I could’ve sworn I saw my name and address written in his Day Runner.
He’s now 4-almost-5 and so integrated into my life that I can’t imagine a house without my 70lb love nugget.
I have daily in-depth conversations with him. He’s a great listener, but his advice is a bit prosaic. His voice sounds like Mark Walhberg, unless, of course, he’s singing. In that case, he sounds like Mos Def, and we all know they’re both better rappers than singers.
I love this boy.
I love him when he snuggles with me at night, lets me stack treats on his face for my own amusement and I even love him when he’s slurping on remains of rawhide and spewing toxic fumes from behind that smell of pink erasers, yesterday’s steak and wet trash.
That’s true love.
Warning Cat Lovers: This will not be my only Henry post. There will be more. And you will be forced to love him.
This is Day 6 of my 100 Days of Blogger.