Six years--in dog years, that's like . . . ummm . . . forty-two years! My math isn't all that good since I only have eight fingers and eight toes. Those humans think they are so cool with those opposable thumbs and all. Anyway, I bet my parents are going to get all mushy tonight and go out to get sushi or something tonight. And my dad will probably bring home those green sticks with red petals on them. My mom is weird and puts them on the table. She doesn't eat them at all. What a waste of perfectly good sticks. Ah, sigh . . . I wish I had a boyfriend. No one ever brings me sticks.