The picture you’re looking at is my dog Tucker. Today is his birthday, he just turned 9.

A week before my father passed away, I bought him in a store on Long Island. I know that you’re not supposed to buy dogs in stores. You should rescue pets. You should also hug trees and recycle plastic bags, but I don’t do that either. I didn’t want a mutt. I’m spoiled I wanted a pure bread.

He was the best 250 dollars I ever spent. He was on sale.

When I bought him, I had just graduated college. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life. My father was dying. So I got a dog because he made me happy.

It was a mistake.

He was untrained, barked all the time and chewed up all the furniture. I wasn’t prepared for the responsibility. Especially since I could barely take care of myself.

But nine years later and over 3,500 bags of dog shit I’ve picked up, he sleeps in my bed. We’re best friends. I don’t know what I’d do without him.

So today on his birthday he gets some extra treats, a new tennis ball, a doggy cake, and I get a big glass of wine, because today is the day that I celebrate that I’ve kept something alive for 9 years.

He is proof that I am responsible.

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