Happy birthday, choo choo.
You’re five years old.
I love you.
EDIT.
I’m going to add a bit since it made my heart drop, then rise above the clouds.
My mother called me Friday, but I missed four of her calls. She left a message that I didn’t see until after my second ultimate game. As I played the message, my blood turned cold. My mother’s frantic voice screaming that she had lost my dog - and on her fifth birthday, nonetheless. I bit my lip and everything around me went silent as I listened to the play back of the message.
She was walking Choo Choo like usual, through the middle school across the street from her boyfriend’s house in Tacoma, Seattle. And, like usual, she let Choo Choo off her leash to chase whatever she pleased in the fields knowing she would come back. As a bird flew by, like usual, Choo Choo sped off to chase it down. My mother, like usual, watched my little fluff ball flying around in the bushes and trees.
Unlike usual, the fluff ball disappeared while she watched it.
For half an hour my mother panicked and called endlessly for Choo Choo to come. Another hour rolled by and she called the microchip company that unfortunately told her Choo Choo wouldn’t be found until she was scanned at a veterinarian’s hospital. My mother walked home, defeated.
Choo Choo was waiting at the doorstep.