The Ruby Rose Report: Accidentally Growing Up

As the seasons shift and the days grow shorter, I’ve found myself adjusting my walks to embrace the warmth of the midday sun. It’s become a welcome change, though there are moments when I pause, turn back, and long for the comfort of home. My dad, my loyal walking companion, gently tugs at my leash, urging me onward. Yet, when I choose to turn back, it can feel like trying to move a 16-pound boulder with just a rope! In those instances, he sweeps in to lift me, carrying me a short distance before setting me down softly. While he holds me, the stubbornness vanishes, and I find joy in our continued stroll. It’s a delicate dance of small compromises that weave our bond even tighter. 

I often reflect on the day I first arrived at my new home, just shy of my first birthday, brimming with energy and mischief—something my parents find endearing. Back then, I thrived in two states: sleeping and playing, both pursued with unrestrained enthusiasm.

Now, as I approach two and a half years, my spirited antics have softened. I’ve become a more tranquil dog, content to relax and lounge peacefully—unless, of course, the faintest sound catches my attention, sending me racing to the window to bark at whatever elusive presence intrigues me. While I still indulge in my long naps, my playful side has waned.

During supper preparations, my devoted mom in the kitchen, my dad and I cozy up in the front room—a repurposed bedroom that has transformed into a pantry—where a box of my toys awaits along with the only rug in the house. This space fills me with joy as it’s where I love to play.

One of our cherished games involves Dad teasing me with a stuffed squirrel, making it hop across the floor while squeaking. I pretend to be uninterested, only to suddenly pounce, caught up in the thrill of the chase.

Yet now, at two and a half, I find the soft squirrel less engaging than before. As Dad places it on the floor and moves it around, I can't help but think, “This again?”

I suppose my thoughts must have shown on my face, as Dad glanced at me and asked, “You want to play with something else?” I could see the flicker of disappointment behind his eyes, the silent question lingering there: “Is she outgrowing this?”

I hadn’t realized that my playtime was about more than just my fun—it was also for my parents’ joy. I want to hold onto the spirit of my two-year-old self for as long as I can.

If not for my 

 sake, then for theirs.

The last thing I ever want to witness again is the look of disappointment in their eyes.