On The Occasion Of Master Bogart’s 1st Birthday
Well, the Boge-meister turned a year old this week. We’ve been looking forward to this day for about ten months now, confident that with each passing month, Bogey would mature a little, learn a bit more and begin to show signs of the amazing young guy he is destined to be. By his first birthday we were sure he would be knighted as the third “Sir” of the Round Table.
Let’s just say some puppies advance more quickly than others.
His Aunt Lori calls him ‘her little nugget’ – her love for him is one of his redeeming qualities. The truth is that there are nuggets rolling around in Bogey’s brain, like the numbered orbs in a power ball machine. Very few thoughts translate into a logical sequence of actions with this little guy. Jo has offered to put together a behavior management program for him. I’m thinking of taking her up on it.
He occasionally knows his name, although this is a variable occurrence unless treats are involved.
We think he hears voices.
None of them are ours.
There is something under the bed (the carpet) that inspires low growls and threats. The ripple created by the pool filter is reason enough to howl menacingly into the darkness (from behind my legs – one mustn’t take unnecessary risks after all). He debates with golems in his sleep; the golems win.
He has finally potty-trained us – as long as Andy remembers the 9:00PM walk. Should he forget, all bets are off.
I will say that Bogey is highly verbal, engaging in various conversations with real and/or imagined characters whether awake or asleep. He has learned that if he whines incessantly (and it really is a whine), the Sirs will forego any toy with which they are playing, and let him have it, so that they may enjoy a little peace. He may be a little short of brain cells, but he knows how to manipulate a crowd.
He is ridiculously cute – despite his apparent lack of smarts. And he adores Andy. In truth, wherever Andy goes, Bogey is right there. Andy is besotted and looks at Bogey adoringly while often commenting, “he’s going to be a terrific dog when he grows up a bit”. Um…ok sweetie, whatever you say.
When we drive up to the mountains, Master Bogey sits up front with Andy. I sit in the back with the Sirs. Never looking out the side window, or sticking his little head out to catch a breeze, he sits straight and looks at the road ahead, focused on…well, nothing probably. Occasionally he checks in with those of us in coach, sniffing with a certain snobbery I don’t find all that becoming.
Earlier this week, we sang “Happy Birthday” to our baby dog, and as he began jumping up and down, I felt this urge to break into “You’ve Got To Fight For The Right To Party”. He is definitely a party dude. I’ve always been a James Taylor kinda girl. Sigh…
And yet, as I write this he’s asleep on my foot. He leaps and pounces with a complete lack of grace. He loves everyone he meets – arguably more than they may want to be loved. Teddy cleans Bogey’s face with affection and Bogey in turn licks Archie’s face diligently. They’re a pack. They’re my fur-guys. And I guess we were due for a little crazy.