Trot turns 5 tomorrow and it turns out all those years of wondering if Rakes was mental was just God's way of paving the road for his little brother.
He has zigged when we zagged, gone up when we've gone down, and in general has thrown our life upside down. If you read this blog regularly you know what I'm talking about; I won't rehash every peeing incident and acts of random havoc that I've written about already over the years. I will add that he and Rakes ran ahead of us at church Sunday and when we caught up to him he was telling the man at the door that "I don't have a Mom and a Dad. They left me".
Put it this way; when he barrel rolled down the stairs at the ripe old age of 9 months I should have figured he was gonna be a little bit different.
Over the past 60 months we have laughed, cried, worried, and at one point I asked out loud if it was possible to arrange a trade. He's Dennis the Menace, Bart Simpson, Eddie Haskell and Attila the Hun all wrapped up in one blond headed, blue eyed mischievous little body.
And I wouldn't take all the money in the world for him.
Happy Birthday little Dirt Dog.
Your namesake would be proud.