Rusty the dog is fourteen years old. He had a significant stroke a few months ago. He had to learn to walk again (and still is learning, to some degree), can’t hear all that well, really can’t see. He wanders round in a state of half-dog most of the time. When he tries to sit, it’s this weird splayed-out drunken-baby stance, far less dignified than it used to be. He’s had a good life, and a long one at that. And considering he’s a stolen dog, he’s done quite well for himself.
This weekend unofficially marked the beginning of Grill Season at Kuri Pamu. And while his cerebral capacity isn’t what it used to, I would never consider him to be a ‘bright’ dog. He has flashes of genius – like the time he hunted and killed a baby bunny. Or the time he fell into the same hole he dug earlier than week and got stuck. Yet at twenty paces, Rusty can still tell you if a piece of bacon is done, sight unseen.
Atta boy.