Not that it started out that way.
“What breed?” the receptionist asked.
“Golden doodle,” I answered.
The receptionist smiled and covered her mouth with her hand. “And that is …?”
“A golden retriever and a poodle.”
“Oh, a groodle,” she said, typing that into his records.
When I told our pleasant young vet that Milo was a golden doodle, she smothered a laugh. I made a mental note to investigate the reason for their hilarity later.
My anxiety began when the vet started to cheerfully list all the things in Australia that kill dogs. The bite from a red-bellied black snake or brown snake would kill him (and me) instantly.
Watch out for snakes, check. What else?
And yet, here we are, more than six months later. Me, still peering fearfully into the tall grass and around every rock pile on our morning walk, while Milo prances by my side, as happy-go-lucky as ever.
I could learn a lot from Milo's attitude about life.
Milo the wonder-dog—long may he remain just the same.