Birthday Dog

Sometime at the end of May in 1998, after the death of sweet, laid-back Leia, we went to the Cobb County Animal Shelter and found a shivering fuzzy brown three-and-a-half pound puppy. She had big liquid eyes and was shy, so the name "Willow" from the Buffy character suggested itself immediately (this was before Ms. Rosenberg turned from shy geek to überwitch). They told us she was about 10 weeks old, so we counted back and declared her birthday to be something we could remember, hence the St. Patrick's Day date.

Please be assured we aren't having a canine birthday party for her, complete with doggy buddies in party hats and a special dog ice cream cake as I've seen done. Wil is spoiled in ways, but she's still a dog, and she doesn't get party hats or cuddled and called "little sweetie doggums" or the equivalent. James won't even let me buy her reindeer antlers. :-) She has to "make do with a Christmas bow.

She probably will get a nice Little Champions packaged dinner tonight--and as always wolf it down in ten seconds and then look eagerly for more.

I was thinking about the birthday party thing with some amusement because one of the guests yesterday on Dr. Phil was a woman who claimed she felt like her husband loved his dog more than her. He comes home from work and, although wife and baby son are sitting right there, the first one hubby goes to greet is Lola, the lab/pit bull mix. He snuggles with Lola in bed instead of his wife. Plus, the wife is pregnant again (so I guess there are some times Lola isn't in bed) and her nose is so sensitive that all she can smell is the dog in bed. (Dr. Phil has a beagle and part of the conversation digressed into what it was with women and the smell of dogs.)

I don't have to worry about Wil in bed; I'm allergic to her so she's banned from the bedroom. Seeing how she sleeps, though, I wouldn't want her there anyway; she'd hog the bed and make sure she got a pillow! James does greet her first, but it would be hard not to: she's usually been staking out the door for an hour waiting for him, giving deep sighs when the next car down the street isn't the truck, and is scrabbling at the glass when he enters.

Over the years, too, we've joked about changing her name. Sometimes we'd like to call her "Hilary Booth," because she's occasionally a demanding little bitch. Lately, though, she's turned into "Teeny," the little girl who always bedeviled Fibber McGee. When Wil curiously sticks her nose into something, we can almost hear her saying "Whatcha doin' mister? Whatcha. huh?"

I figure if Wil could talk she'd either sound like Marian Jordan doing Teeny or Josie Lawrence of the British version of Whose Line is It Anyway.