Falling Downs going to the dogs

From time to time me and the Far Manager talk about getting another dog. Boomer, our Rottweiler-Shepherd mix, is closing in on fourteen years. She’s not quite as nimble as she used to be. Stumbles now and then on our morning ramble, and in the hot weather I’d shave a couple of kilometres off the walk just to make sure she’s not over-stressed.

Our baby, the Tennessee Treeing Brindle, is seven. She’s never known a day without another dog since she arrived here, and we intend to make sure she never does.

The upshot of these periodic discussions was that when the time was right, we’d add a third hound to the pack, and we developed a few criteria.

No puppies. They spend a year or more chewing everything they can clamp their jaws on. Lucy literally ate the better part of a couch, not to mention numerous shoes, random articles of clothing, and a Bible.

No sirree; no more puppies for us. We’d get a dog from the pound about Lucy’s age. That way they’d hopefully expire around the same time, freeing us to explore some non-canine pet options.

Second criteria; it’s time for a smaller dog. When the FM “walks” one of our girls she looks like she’s wakeboarding. She’s got both hands gripping the tow-rope while she struggles to stay upright… while the dog goes wherever it wants.

Here’s the new hound.

Meet Phil. A fourteen week old Mastiff.

Ticked all the right boxes, obviously… Sure, fourteen weeks isn’t quite seven years, and ya, she’s maybe not gonna grow up to be a “small” dog, but what the hey. She’ll be meeting her new sisters on the weekend.

We had dinner at the Twin Dragons tonight. Best water-view of any Owen Sound restaurant by far, and the food’s pretty decent too. The two of us can get out of there for fifty bucks including the buffet, a couple of drinks, and a generous tip.

The FM’s fortune cookie read:

A new member is joining your happy family soon.

I couldn’t make that up.