It was Harlee’s birthday on March 21. Hmmm, it might be the 22nd. Definitely not the 23rd.
It’s the 21st because I remember it was the first day of Spring.
Oops, the first day of spring in 2017 was March 20th.
Okay, let’s try this again.
It was Harlee’s birthday a few day ago; either the 20th, 21st, or the 22nd of March.
He turned seven.
At least I think he’s seven. The rescue association, Labs4Rescue, told me he was two years old but the folks who work at rescue places don’t always know the exact ages of the animals they save.
So, Harlee might have had a 7th birthday.
At least he got a donut.
And even though I don’t remember the exact date, and yes, I could get up and dig out the paperwork from when I adopted him but it doesn’t matter, I’ve had him in my life for five incredible years, that’s what matters.
He’s been with me through losing my sister, hip surgery (my hip, not his), COVID (me), falling multiple times (again, me, not him), serious visits down the rabbit hole of depression (yup, that’s mine too), and a gazillion gallons of ice cream (mostly me but he helps out from time to time), and multiple donuts (both of us).
He’s been by my side through the loss of Shadow, and then Cleo.
He’s entertained me…
…and keeps the ducks in line.
He’s loves to go for rides in the car and in the canoe.
He’s a serious pillow, or whatever, pounder.
Supervises all outside chores…
…and can sniff out a chipmunk no matter how deep the hole.
He’s a pro at guilting me into giving him a cookie.
He’s my confidant, sounding board, witness, and companion.
Happy birthday, pal.
Blessed be :}
Mi manchi, mia amata immortale.