On his thirteenth birthday, we turn the blog over to Boscoe

Thirteen. Hmph. You'd think I'd get some meat loaf with a candle in it. They know how much I love meat loaf. Or even some pot roast. But no, they had quite the birthday surprise for me this morning--a big bowl of kibble.

Hmph.

And actually, when all's said and done, it wasn't all that big of a bowl.

It was thirteen years ago today when I came squirming out of my Sainted Mother. Me and my 37 brothers and sisters. I was the cutest of the bunch. Small, wriggly, with eyebrows that don't quit. The smartest, too. No question. I could do algebra in my head when I was only two and a half months old. If I had fingers, I could have written it down.

It's been almost thirteen years since I decided to take up residence with the couple that I like to call Frizzball and Mophead. It hasn't been all bad, except for the lack of meat loaf. If I'd known they were going to be so stingy with the food, I might have looked for accommodations elsewhere. But by the time I figured it out, it was too late. I was already pretty well bonded with their other dog, a dumb blond they called Toby. (But I know his Real Name. His Dog Name. Though I'll never tell.)

I kind of liked the old guy, even though he could be quite the crab.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of naps and cuddles, of hiking trips Up North, of being given away to Lo and her husband and then mysteriously retrieved, of dogs that come and go--well, Toby went, and Riley came. Of walks every morning over to the park to look at the geese and ducks and eagles and take a quick pee at the edge of the pedestrian bridge, if I can get away with it. Of rolling in sweet grass and sometimes dead squirrel, of finding all kinds of contraband--tortillas and steak and glazed doughnuts and hamburger buns--and occasionally being able to swallow some of it down before being discovered.

Thirteen years of enduring vet visits and baths, steep stairs (the worst!) and smoke alarms (OK, those are the worst) and the occasional malfunctioning doorbell (the absolute worst).

Today, I hear, we'll celebrate with, oh, a long walk in the park to look at the ducks and the geese. I plan to take a whizz at the edge of the pedestrian bridge, whether they like it or not. Hey, it's my birthday! And then this evening, I hear they're planning a very special dinner for me: a big bowl of kibble.

Stop on by if you get a chance and give me a present. (Meat loaf would be good.) I'm the only one in this bunch who's considered social.

Happy birthday to me! And Happy Fourth of July to all of you!