Wednesday, April 2, 2008

April: No Fools Here

So, yesterday was my dog's birthday. Well, we think it's her birthday, anyway. She was born in a barn with sheep, and the only veterinary care she got before I adopted her at ten weeks old was to have her poor tail docked. Judging from the date of that visit, we think she was born around the first of April, and given her comical ears and lack of tail, we decided we might as well settle on April Fools as her day for extra treats and new bones -- the extent of the usual celebration, lest you think I'm one of "those" people. (I don't know, the kind that dress their dogs in sweaters or let them ride on their laps when they're driving) I mention this for two reasons: first, O. really enjoyed the idea of Scout's birthday -- his being less than a month away, he's INTO the birthdays lately. We stopped at the grocery store on our way home from playgroup yesterday to buy her a new bone and new treats, and found a bucket of something called "Pupcorn" for her. O. was delighted, for this meant he could have some popcorn of his own, and Scout could have her own. It became a little birthday picnic in our family room, with O. dropping handsfuls of pupcorn over the back of our easy chair for Scout to gobble up, and each of us tossing her individual ones to catch in her mouth. (regular popcorn is one of her favorite treats, and catching it one of the few tricks she'll deign to perform)
The second reason this is perhaps worthy of recording is that yesterday's birthday was number eleven. And in my family, that's a true record for a dog. Not in my lifetime has a dog reached this milestone -- all others passing on by age ten. I'll admit, it's been a rough year for her, but the freak out moments have been getting less frequent of late, so perhaps we're on a good stretch here before the trials of doggie old age set in.
I feel obliged to mention that April is, as well as birthday month (Scout, O., my mom, my favorite girl cousin, the soon to be be born Magnus), also National Poetry Month. It's a brief time during the year when I consciously try to remember that as well as my current job title of mother, I've got that Masters in poetry hanging around waiting for a use for it to be invented. I'm currently receiving a poem a day via email, and have so far really enjoyed the selections. If you would like to do the same, you can subscribe here. Perhaps you'll use this month, as I will more often than I'm wont, to check out Poetry Daily -- the link is always on my page. There's also a scheduled "Poem in your Pocket Day" that I hope I remember to participate in, and I invite you to do the same, so you can spread the word to others who might not be so poem savvy as you, dear readers. I'd get a kick out of knowing that I helped spread some poetry into corners of the world where it's not used to living.

While I'm posting, some O and N moments for the day:

O. took a ridiculously long nap today -- really, could he please cut these marathoners in half and use the time for the days he DOESN'T nap? So, N. and I hung out and organized toys after her much shorter nap. She is crawling for real now, up on all fours and looking up at me with the biggest grin like she is SO pleased with herself. She also gnawed on a frozen mini pancake at dinner tonight because I was tired of her pawing at my food and she acted like "well, now we're talking. Bring on the rest!"
Also, J. is going to have to lower the mattress in her crib already, because when I put her in not quite asleep tonight, she was climbing the bumper pads and grabbing on to the rails, and if she had worked a little harder would have been kneeling in there. When I checked on her after putting O. down (late, due to the marathon nap), she had one arm slung over the bumper hanging out of the crib -- it looked like she was trying to swim right out of there.

At tumbling today, O. was getting set to run and jump across some equipment with help from the teacher. She said, "OK, O. Run!" He replied: "No, wait a minute. I have to count. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, Blastoff!"

In the car: "Mommy, I don't think we should get a real kitten. Maybe just a pretend one. Because I think if we had a real one you would sneeze and and I would sneeze. We are aller-sic, the both of us."

On our walk outside today in the chilly but thankfully sunny weather, we passed a man walking his three very small dogs, Yorkies I think. I pointed them out to O, and he asked what their names were. I said I didn't know. He said "I think they are, 'Patty, Stinky and Mee-ya'" I told him I thought those were great names for small dogs. "Yes, and big dogs are called 'Bigs.' That's what they are called."

Conversation towards the end of our walk:
Me: Okay, let's go home, I'm getting tired.
O: Why, Mom?
Me: Because you are heavy, and N is heavy, and the stroller is heavy too, so it's hard to push.
O (as if trying to get it all straight): I am heavy, N. is heavy, the stroller is heavy. Are you heavy too, Mommy?
Me: Maybe a little.
O: Is that why we are walking??


Actchy said...

Happy Birthday, Scout! Here's hoping you have many more (good) years left in you. My family's crazy dog lived to the ripe old age of 15 before it was time to put him down -- all good years (including those during which the sound of the kitchen fan made him spontaneously urinate, as I have noted here at Small World before.)

mep said...

Thanks for reminding of National Poetry Month! I could use a little poetry in my life and will follow up with the links you gave.

I continue to be delighted with all accounts of O-speak. Your kids will be so excited to read these posts someday . . . at least that is what I tell myself about my blog. Who needs elaborate scrapbooks anyway?

Happy Birthday to Scout, a very fine dog!