By Moose Li, as told to and translated by Micki Voisard—

My name is Moose Li. I’m a rescued Chinese Shar-Pei puppy with wonderful parents. They smell delightfully like salmon oil and sardines. But let’s be honest—my mom was 78 years old when I was born. Living with seniors is quite a lifestyle adjustment, even for a five-month-old puppy like me.

When my family moved from the United States to San Miguel de Allende, I brought my wrinkles while my parents packed the pee pads. Shar-Peis are not exactly known for being marathon runners, but I practice heavy-duty zoomies every day. I also go to weekly training, and my absolute favorite is agility. Yes, me—a bulky, wrinkly puppy—loves hurdles and climbing boulders.

Because of this training, I imagine a human parent as someone who sprints alongside me over the A-frame. My parents don’t do that. They’re in great shape for their age—walking San Miguel’s steep, uneven cobblestones with impressive skill—but they definitely do not run the agility course they created. Instead, my mom relies on hand signals. Poor thing. I also have to bark loudly in a high-pitched voice, since I don’t think either of them can hear very well.

Sometimes I stare at her while she sits at her computer or reads a book for what feels like hours. Then I catch a glint in her eye. She stands up, closes her computer, and practices her own version of human zoomies with me. Once, I heard her tell a friend that she reminds herself every day that my time on this earth will be far too short.

On our daily walks, I hear other seniors whisper, “Oh, a dog—especially a puppy—is just too much work. That’s why we don’t adopt.” From my point of view, they have it backward—it’s the humans who are a lot of work. I’m constantly reminding my parents to drop their serious faces, stop overthinking, and play tug-of-war. Training a 78-year-old is the real full-time job.

What my older parents lack in speed, they make up for with something a dog could only dream of: time. Because my mom is home most of the day, her schedule revolves around my canine clock. If I want to spend five minutes sniffing a single leaf in Parque Juárez, there’s no rushing.

Humans are funny. They fill their homes with fragile things, yet when I manage to snag one of their treasures, they don’t even bark. They just sigh, trade it for a tasty bone—or one of Dad’s wonderfully smelly old socks—and carry on. At their age, maybe they’re happy to see a few things get shredded. I’m glad to help.

The three of us probably look like an odd match strolling toward the Jardín: two sharply dressed seniors walking a wrinkly ball of kinetic energy. Maybe my mom won’t hurdle park benches with me, but having 78-year-old parents is the ultimate luxury. I get endless love, patience, and time. They get a daily reminder that life is meant to be savored like a marrow bone buried for three months.

My best advice to you older folks? Adopt a dog. We’ll liberate you from your stuff and fill your days with fun. You give us your time and your slow, beautiful pace of life. It’s a pretty wonderful tradeoff.

My name is Moose Li, and I’m a young dog with older parents.

Support Animal Welfare in SMA:
Sociedad Protectora de Animales de San Miguel de Allende (SPA) San Miguel’s oldest no-kill animal shelter, SPA rescues, rehabilitates, and rehomes abandoned dogs and cats while also providing low-cost veterinary care, sterilization programs, and humane education. http://www.spasanmiguel.org

Read the article from
our January 2026 issue: https://theeyehuatulco.com/2026/01/03/san-miguels-oldest-no-kill-shelter-the-lifesaving-work-of-the-s-p-a/

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