Today is Mr. Guinness’s birthday.
Fifteen years ago, Trudy threw a party for him. It was his first, and to celebrate, she had invited the dogs up and down the street to a party where they wore party hats and ate hot dogs. I can only imagine the event, because Trudy and I had only just met online and were tentatively getting to know each other on the phone and with brief visits on the playground behind the school that was a kind of no man’s land between where each of us lived.
What I’m saying is that I wasn’t invited to the party. But on that day (or maybe the day before or after), Ben and I walked across no man’s land and delivered an envelope to the mailbox in front of Trudy’s and Guinness’s house. It was a birthday card that I had drawn myself with all the flourishes and designs and celebratory colors I could muster. A birthday card for her dog. On his first birthday.
It was the smartest move of my life. And because of it, I am happy to say, Mr. Guinness and Trudy and I have been together on this side no man’s land for fifteen years and running.
But he’s moving slowly now. His back hurts. His front legs sometimes hurt when he takes a step. And he hasn’t been eating, even though he wants to be hungry. And so he doesn’t jump, anymore. And he doesn’t bark at the door, anymore. He doesn’t run around in the rain, anymore. And his waist is wasting away to almost nothing.
Yet his dark liquid eyes still look up at us. And on a good day, his smiles still smile. And no matter the day, when you walk up to where he is standing motionlessly because it must hurt too much to move, his eyes look into yours, and … and his tail still wags his prize-winning wag.
Mr. Guinness is sixteen today. That’s old. Very old. He hurts so much that it sometimes makes him tremble. He takes a very long time to wake up in the morning. And it’s a chore to get him to eat maybe just a bite of anything.
But today was his birthday, and in celebration tonite he ate well — two slices of ham, part of a hot dog, a slice of cheese and a small piece of watermelon. (He refused anything else.) Having eaten, he wagged his tail and looked up and said, “What about a walk?” which was quite a surprise. So we went halfway down the block, he and I, until he decided that was far enough. And as we returned, the fair and industrious Trudy drove by, at which point he began to pull on the leash so that he might meet his mommy in the driveway. And once back in the house, he wandered into the backyard and let out a loud bark just like we used to tell him not to do.
Happy birthday, Mr. Guinness. It was a good day.