Monday, 30 December 2013

I Adopted a Polar Bear

When I was three, my best friend was the grey, pot-bellied cat that my parents had rescued from the SPCA. During the summer, I would follow her around our sunny backyard, taunting her with leaves and having epic swordfights--waving twig versus madly flicking, crooked tail. During the winter months, I'd feed her milk that I'd warm in the microwave and fall asleep to the sound of her incessant meowling.

When I was six, we added a German shepherd to our family--a female, because my mom was of the opinion that a female would be smaller. She may have been right, but, since the dog grew to be over a 100 pounds anyway, it probably didn't make that much of a difference.

When I was twelve, we welcomed a happy-go-lucky little golden retriever to our home. This particular little bundle of joy was smart as a tack, and gobbled up new tricks and commands about as quickly as she gobbled up the snacks that "fell" off my dad's plate during family dinners.

When I moved out into my petless new home back in March, I have to admit that I was at a bit of a loss. The thought of not having a living toe-warming or a vacuum that came when called was absolutely foreign, and the weekly visits to the parents' animal-filled home wasn't quite cutting it.

So, after a two-minute conversation between myself and the tomcat--during which we both voiced our opinion that we needed a pet--the decision was made. We were going to become parents.

Over the next few months, we ironed out the details. Without further delay, I'd like to introduce you to our fuzzy little polar bear golden retriever, Charles Tucker III.

Four weeks.
Eight weeks.

Nine weeks.
Thirteen weeks.

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