Ode to the Birthday Dog




Today is Hank’s birthday.
He’s 13 in dog years, 81 in human years.
His beagle face is no longer a ruddy rust, rather a distinguished, faded white that simultaneously make his dark eyes pop and signify that he is an old dog.


Today is Hank's birthday.
This is the first birthday since the virus strangled us that I celebrate with the birthday boy.
No Zoom.
No FaceTime.
No face masks, gloves, hand sanitizer, social distancing.
I touch him, talk to him, pet him without fear of catching or passing on the virus.
He has no expectations of the day:no presents, celebrations of any sort.
With no expectations or anticipations to be squashed, there is no sadness.  There is appreciation of the sameness that all too often seems to suck the space dry.

Today is Hank’s birthday.
His head perks up whenever I enter his space.
When I leave, he follows me into the where/somewhere/nowhere the virus void has us suffocated in.
Bathroom?  Lies on the floor next to my feet.  Like a sphinx.  Or in side lying position.

Kitchen?  Sits expectantly on the woven rug in the hopes of either his daily ration of ham or something even more yummy falling on the floor during meal prep.
Living room?  He has his own spaces marked off there.  I know enough not to invade.
Upstairs?  Like an old dog, he mounts the stairs one at a time, two paws hesitantly, followed by rear paws.  Other times, he bounds to the top landing ahead of me, turning to ensure the bedroom is the intended destination.

Patio?  He’s attached to his leash so should he choose to exercise the prancing puppy energy that mostly lies dormant within him, he can be caught before wandering off too far.  I hook the leash to a chair.  He looks around, then collapses onto the concrete.  If I’m there, he’s there.


Today is Hank’s birthday.
I’m acutely aware that days with him are dwindling.

Today is Hank’s birthday.  And he doesn’t care.
He doesn’t care that the routine was massively disrupted.  He’s still walked multiple times a day.  Food finds its way into his bowl, as does fresh water.
Though he has yet to share same, he misses the morning walk down to the Belleair Beach Hotel, where he would assist Dan is purchasing the Tampa Bay Times, now being published in hard copy only on Wednesdays and Saturdays.  The virus has been victorious over advertising revenue.
He doesn’t much care that the lovely Café de Paris, where we could walk for a latte and delectable pastries and patrons would comment on him, tell us about their dogs, is now closed.
This we know to be true: he is unhappy that the majority of Snowbirds have fled north.  He is better known by name in the complex than his owners.  Seeing sunset is an integral part of his day.

Today is Hank’s birthday.
Looking at him, lying on the floor or couch or chair or bed, I give thanks for the normalcy he brings to our life.  To the happiness he brings to the renters in the complex.  To the reminder that he will worry the blankets in the back seat until they meet with his approval as we drive home.  That he does not care these are unprecedented times.  That if I say, “Hank,” he will turn his head into Beagle Head position with a regularity and predictability that soothes my virus savaged mind and soul like a prayerful balm.


Today is Hank’s birthday.

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