Rolo is almost 14 years old.

I have told him that he has to live to be 35, so we’ve still got a lot of good years with him left, but life with an aging hound is kind of weird. He is totally deaf now, and sometimes bumps into things. He needs help jumping into the back of the car when we take him for a ride, but as soon as he’s outside on a walk, he’s got a spring in his step and can go for miles. He whines to be let outside, then three seconds later, whines to come in. Then he repeats the whole thing all over again, like ten times. He likes his alone time, and will withdraw from a crowd if he’s given too much attention. But every time we get family photos taken, he is in there like a dirty shirt, making sure his furry rear is in every shot.

He’s the first dog I ever really loved, and I know that every extra day with him at this point is gravy. He has been hit by a car, been driven over by a golf cart, leapt off a ten-foot high deck and smashed his leg, and lived to tell about it. The way I figure, he’s still got a solid six lives to go, so we’re good.