Our good friend Epcot, another tall, yellow and handsome male Labrador, needed a ride up to GDA for a vet appointment, so I took the opportunity to puppy swap with his family.
When you’re used to an immature, opinionated, feisty five-month-old with the self-image of Napoleon and the brute strength of a tiny Clydesdale, you forget how blessedly “easy” it is to handle a big dog. Epcot was ever the gentleman, a pleasure to walk and cradle and command.
My neighbors were confused. They’d see me outside, relieving this big yellow dog, and the inevitable comment would come. “He’s HUGE!” Then I’d wait for the sheepish question. “Is that…the same dog?” And I’d laugh. If we were living in a soap opera, where a child who was born two seasons ago is suddenly attending college, then yes. That would be the same dog. But I would politely explain, and introduce them to Mr. Epcot, who would smile to put them at ease.
He was a good boy. Very sweet, laid back, intelligent. But as much as he tried to convince me that the floor of the passenger side of my truck just wasn’t comfortable for a dog of his size, I was not about to let him drive.