Hello, my name is Ridge, and I am a dog. A ten-year-old black Labrador Retriever who may or may not have been sired by a Chesapeake Bay Retriever. I was kind of an accident.
I was a scrawny four pounds when my mom and dad took me home to their first house. When I arrived there, there was a big chocolate lab already living there. I thought he was going to eat me when they finally threw me into the kennel with him. Perhaps because I was still the size of a rat. But Mom and Dad were tired of my pooping in the house, so out I went. I was pretty stupid in those days; good thing I had a big brother to help me out. He was really smart, so I just did what he did. Except for eating socks and underwear. I didn’t do that; that was kind of weird.
When my parents moved a few years later, they couldn’t take dogs to their apartment, so my big brown brother and I went to live with with our uncle. In an unfortunate turn of events, my brother was hit and killed by a car, and I became an only dog. Boy, my stupid days were over. I had no one else to take care of me, so I had to smart up real fast.
My uncle started working out of town a lot, so I began to get shipped back and forth between his house and my grandparents’ house. So many trips in the car. I used to be crazy freak riding in cars, basically crawling onto the driver because I was so scared, but I eventually got used to it, and Grandma took really good care of me. And I was pretty good at living in new places. They started calling me the family foster dog because I hopped around so much.
I had always had a limp, and my parents used to call me a faker, but one day Grandma took me to the doctor and they found out I had torn ligaments in both of my back legs. Bad news. By this time my mom and dad had a bigger place again, so they asked my grandma and my uncle if they could have me back to take care of me. They probably felt bad for thinking I had been faking all those years.
I’m pretty old now. I’m getting awfully gray, and there are a lot of things I can’t do. I really want to jump up on people I meet, but I can’t support my weight on my back legs. It’s hard for me to get up on people’s beds. Playing fetch makes me really sore, and I always pay for it later, but I can’t help myself. It’s like crack; I just can’t stop.
I will live out the remainder of my days with my mom and dad, my human brother and sister, and my little dog sister, an overly enthusiastic and annoying yellow lab. I take a lot of medicine, but it helps me play a little fetch, and I basically sleep 23 hours a day, so it’s all good.