My old bull terrier, Murphy, turned a whopping twelve-years old this past Sunday. The average life expectancy for bull terriers is between eleven and thirteen years, but Murphy shows few signs of slowing down. Granted, she’s always been pretty slow, but she still gets the zoomies before bed and loves her rawhides (now she eats “rawhide-free” pork chomps, which are safer and better for her stomach).
Murphy has relaxed more as she’s gotten older, but she gets anxious around other dogs. I’m going to inquire about putting her on canine Prozac—Dr. Fiancée assures me it exists for dogs, and that Murphy would benefit from it—just so she can relax a bit more when she’s in unfamiliar environments. Like most modern Americans, and especially American women, Murphy may soon be taking an SSRI.
Regardless, Murphy is relaxed when it’s us hanging out. She spends more time sleeping now than she used to, and enjoys sticking to the bedroom, especially since I tossed the rug in the den (she doesn’t like the wood flooring on her nails and paws). But she is still a sweet, albeit sassy, old girl, and I love her dearly.
With that, here is “TBT^2: Happy Birthday, Murphy!“:
