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Happy Birthday, Rhodry!December 17, 2006 Rhodry Malamutt turns 12 today. He was born sometime between 10 and 10:30 a.m., December 17, 1994: he was one of eight, and though I was present at the birth I've never known exactly where he was in the birth order. The first two, both boys, got their color from mama Nanu's Samoyed side. Number 3 was a girl, as was number 8, who arrived an hour after her siblings. Number 7 was another Sammy-colored male. So little Rhodry-to-be was 4, 5, or 6. Rhodry didn't become my puppy till he was almost three weeks old, and he didn't become Rhodry till a few days after that. Until then he was Han Solo: all five boys and one of the three girls had litter-names from Star Wars. Han Solo and Rhodry's namesake, Rhodry Maelwaedd from Katharine Kerr's Deverry novels, have plenty in common, and if you knew Rhodry like I know Rhodry, you would not discount the power of names.
I'm pretty sure Rhodry was still Han Solo when I took that picture; that's him on the left with his little puppy tongue hanging out. Twelve is old in dog years, especially for big dogs. Unlike, say, his many Labrador retriever friends of a certain age, Rhodry has not gone gray around the muzzle. New acquaintances rarely guess how old he is. Plenty of times even I forget: when he dashes around the yard with a squeaky toy in his mouth, or runs up the steep hill from the barn to panhandle the UPS man. But he's slower up the stairs than he used to be, and less eager to jump into the truck. He had a tough summer, what with allergies, sinusitis, and that bout with ehrlichia. One of these days I'll be driving down the road and Rhodry won't be riding shotgun, I'll be tacking up for a trail ride and Rhodry won't be scampering around in circles, I'll go into the bank and he won't announce his presence with a big "RRR-RR!" before visiting each teller station in turn . . . We've got a while yet. Rhodry takes each day as it comes. As far as I can tell, he doesn't worry that he's less spry than he was four years ago, or that some day he won't be around at all. I got him a ridiculously large squeaky toy -- a floppy-eared puppy -- for a birthday present. His birthday request, communicated telepathically as we went out for our morning walk, was "No brushing!" You got it, puppy.
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