Heather Anne

The veterinarian's office is the only place in the world where — in the course of filling out paperwork — you can hold up a sack of dog poop and someone will say, "Oh, good: you've brought it!" This happened to me last week when I took Margaret for her yearly checkup, and I was mid-giggle when the vet tech sobered me right up by asking if I wanted to go ahead and start Maragaret's pre-senior blood work.

I instinctively reached down and put a protective hand on Margaret's head. "Her what?" I asked.

"She'll be seven next year," the vet tech said. "That's considered a senior, and if you'd like, we can go ahead and start her senior testing."

Surely they had their math wrong: there was no way Margaret was almost a senior. I counted backwards to 2003 when I'd left for Jamaica for three months. In my carry-on backpack I'd stuffed a plastic photo album with pictures: Margaret in a trucker's cap, sitting in Amy's dad's Chevy; Margaret in a football jersey, holding a ball in her mouth; Margaret and Amy cuddled on the couch; Margaret in a party hat... on her first birthday. "07-06-05-04-03," I tallied on my fingers. "Plus one for her birthday."

It was true: Six years ago Margaret found me and Amy. Six years.

In the vet's waiting room, I promised Margaret that her years as a senior would be the best of her life. No more letting Scout chew on her. No more letting Scout chase her 'round the house. No more letting Scout share her water bowl, or run in front of her when we go for a jog. In fact, I would just keep Scout separated from her at all times, to vastly improve her quality of life.

The vet diagnosed Margaret as healthy as a show dog, as he always does. She has perfect teeth, a perfect coat, a perfect disposition. She snuggles all the vet techs so they'll coo and give her treats. Every time Margaret goes for a checkup, the vet tells me she needs to lose 5 pounds, because don't we all, but this year she'd actually lost the weight. "She'll live longer this way," the vet said. "Her joints will be much healthier."

As soon as we walked in the front door at home, Scout was on Margaret, hanging by her neck as she went into the kitchen for some water. I pulled them apart, and banished Scout into a whole other room. "Sorry," I said to Margaret, when I returned to the living room. "I won't let her do that any more."

Margaret laid down in the floor beside me and sighed; then she hopped up and went into the room where I'd exiled Scout. I looked up just in time to see Margaret dragging Scout back into in the room by her ears.

Back and forth they went, tugging, gnawing, flipping, tackling, until half an hour later they lay in an exhausted heap on the living room floor.

Margaret was looking for me and Amy, I've no doubt about it. Scout found me and Amy, but I'm pretty sure she was looking for Margaret, all along.