Six years ago to this very minute . . .

. . . I was lying in repose at the edge of the old sinkhole across the street from the tennis courts, digesting a nice dinner provided by one of my arms-length caregivers. Suddenly a car pulled to a stop a few feet away, and the driver got out. It was some random guy I'd never seen before. He was carrying a camera, and before I could say "Where's the fridge?" he took my picture.

It was the first one that Mike ever took of me--and as you can see, it was a bit blurry:

He later told me that he'd rushed the shot because he was nervous, since I looked like I could easily have chomped his head off for dessert.

"Would I do that?" I asked him. But at the time all I thought was Just don't try to touch me, Buster, and we might get along. I stood up and struck a pose, and he took another pic, which came out a lot better:

Our friendship grew slowly. It took seven weeks of cajoling before I let him and Jeannie lay hands on me--seven weeks of them crawling up to me on all fours to feed me pieces of raw sirloin steak. You can't be too careful, am I right?

But I think it all worked out okay. Don't you?