This month Chuck turns eleven years old. Vets and trainers have always said that because he’s in such good shape, is relatively small, and is so thoroughly a mutt that he could live for many more years. Recently his compulsion to destroy things has gotten completely out of hand. And I don’t know if it’s a factor of his age or separation anxiety or unresolved resentment that I ever brought home Coco. Regardless, he’s on leash and by my side all day in the new house until I figure it out. Don’t feel sorry for him. If you do, buy the book of poetry he’ll write once this is over.