It's Luky's Birthday

I was asking Luky why he's been so quiet of late. He's dictated maybe 3 or 4 posts in the past 2 months. His first reply was "time" - as in, he has none. I know that's a ruse! He has plenty of time to ogle the dogs on our floor, to nap, to lick his chops when a squirrel runs past within 50 yards . . . plenty of time to remind me of the Science Channels' program listing for A Dog's Life (we caught it at 6:00 this morning).

After the requisite back-and-forth I found out that he's even more excited about the January 26 th program called The Language of Dogs.

Then it hit me - TODAY IS DECEMBER 30. Luky turns eight years old today!

"So, correct me if I'm wrong," I raised my voice to indicate that I'd figured something out . . . plus, we were walking in parallel steps down the street - he, about 20 feet into the grass of the dogpark, and me on the sidewalk safe from the accidental tripping of any of the soft landmines planted by one of Luky's pals (one whose human counterpart is somewhat less responsible than I) . . . "But your birthday is here," I continued, "and you've been waiting to see if you were going to get fan mail or something!?!"

"No such thing," he snorted. He was sniffing the grass while he spoke. It makes him sound like he's slurring his words.

"You do realize that you are eight years old today, right?"

"Sure, but that doesn't mean anything to us."

As I've indicated in previous notes, the royal reference to himself in the plural is his way of suggesting that canines are not only an exclusive club . . . but humans are explicitly excluded. On the other hand, I've never been one to make a big deal about birthdays so I wasn't going to take issue with his attitude.

"Remember, I've got your birth certificate."

Luky looked up with an expression of mild alarm. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
"Yep, I've got a certificate that says on this day in 1997 Atertak Kanga Ublarpaluk was . . ."

"Don't say it!" He shouted.

"Say what?" I asked with as much innocence as I could feign.

"You know. It's not that I care, but I just don't want to offend any of my friends who might be listening."

I looked around . . . not a dog, nor human, in sight.

"Yeah, right."

"Thanks," he said as we turned in unison to head back to the loft.

"We have to pack for Florida, you know," I added. I thought I'd put him somewhat at ease by changing the subject. He already knew that we were driving down to visit his cousin, Barney, who shares almost the exact same birthday (I think Barney turned eight last week).

"Maybe you and Barney can celebrate your birthdays together," I suggested.

Luky looked at me with a knowing grin. He knew I was going to get it in one way or the other.

"Whelp," I semi-shouted, "I guess it's sure going to be a big day!"

"You just had to use that word, didn't you?"

Luky just hates the fact that, at least in human terms, dogs aren't born - they're whelped. He thinks it sounds demeaning.

"Whelp please . . . what's wrong with you? What are you talking about?" I responded.

Hey, it's his eighth birthday. If he were me he'd be 56. Why should he skip all the razzing? I plan on replacing "well" with "whelp" all day long!

"I'll be glad when this is over," he said.

"Whelp, you can say that again!"

Happy Birthday, Luky - and Barney!