Eight Is Not Senior, Thank You Very Much

I knew something was wrong the minute the Chewy box hit the porch. The thunk was different, and my human was smiling too much, using that low, soothing voice that always means she’s up to something.

As she opened the box and set the bag on the kitchen floor, I approached slowly. I sniffed. I read.

Senior. Weight Control.

I did not bark. I did not gasp. I simply stood there staring at the words, wondering if my human had lost her mind.
I am eight.

Eight is not senior. Eight is peak form with institutional knowledge. Eight is knowing which chair is best at every hour of the day. You do not get to label me senior without a meeting, minutes, and my final paw print of approval.
And, yes, I may have gained a pound or two. Maybe a few more. But it’s just after-the-holidays weight. I simply overindulged during Thanksgiving and Christmas. Nothing that warranted this.

My human began explaining, using phrases like “healthy aging” and “joint support.” But since she brought it up, I would like to note for the record that my human is no spring chicken herself. I have observed the careful way she gets up off the floor. I have heard the sighs. I have seen the reading glasses in every single room.

And if we’re being perfectly honest, I noticed that the last pair of pants she brought home the other day was a size larger than last year. I have not, however, witnessed a sudden enthusiasm for celery sticks, sad little salads, or tofu.

Do I take my time lying down? Of course. I am a lady. I never flop. Do I nap more? Absolutely. The world is exhausting when it needs constant supervision.

I still patrol the yard. I still hear the refrigerator open from anywhere in the house. I still know when someone three houses away is thinking about walking their dog. These are not fading abilities. These are advanced features.

At dinner that night, my human opened the bag and a bowl was placed in front of me with a hopeful smile that said, “Please don’t be mad.”

I was mad.

I ate the food because I am reasonable and because skipping meals is not part of my personal philosophy. But I ate it slowly, with sustained eye contact, so the message was clear: I am not happy.

She watched me like this was a victory.

It was not.

Later, I heard her tell Snack Dad this was “what’s best for Sweetie.” Fascinating, since I am Sweetie and was not consulted.

I’ve heard the stories. This is how things start. First it’s senior food. Next comes someone saying, “She still acts like a puppy.” And then it escalates to, “Bless her heart. She’s getting on up there, isn’t she?”

I decided the sensible response to all of this was a nap. When I wake up, I expect this nonsense to have resolved itself.
And if not, there is always Snack Dad.