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Rhodry Is 13!December 17, 2007
Rhodry turned 13 today, a very Malamutt day on Martha's Vineyard: temps in the mid-twenties (F), bright sun, high-gusting winds, and snow on the ground left over from Saturday night. On second thought, it would have been more suitable if Malamutts came with crampons on their paws because yesterday's thaw turned to hard freeze in today's early morning and the ice is formidable. The well-wisher above is Nickleby the adventurous, who lives in Oak Bluffs and recently brought home a (dead) muskrat bigger than he is. Wendy and Alex may have helped him with the sign, but Nickleby is a cat of many talents so we're not making any bets. Rhodry started the day with a liver-laced breakfast, which he obviously relished. He snoozed on the air-conditioned deck most of the morning while I worked inside. We started our afternoon rounds at the West Tisbury branch of our favorite bank, where I had a couple of minor snafus to straighten out with my checking account. (Note to self: Letting the reconciliations slide a couple of months is fine, but letting seven statements pile up is ridiculous.) Rhodry made his entrance with woo-woos for all, and managed to panhandle the tellers while standing on his hind legs. This was good to see because some days he's not as strong in the back end as he used to be. Today he'd no sooner finished one biscuit than he had his forepaws back on the counter to ask for (hah! "Demand" is more like it) another. Old guy or not, this was faintly embarrassing. After picking up mail at the post office across the street, we headed down-island to SBS, the feed store. I deliberated for some time over the squeaky toys: the multicolored jack had a squeaker in each of its eight points, but the squeaks were fairly feeble, whereas the dog (??) with the reindeer antlers responded to my squeezes with robust yawps. I finally went for the dog with the antlers. Rhodry, who thinks that advanced age is no reason to give up squeaky toys, clearly approves. I also bought a big bag of the Blue Seal senior dog food, which Rhodry has no objections to but he likes it better when I dress it up with cheese or egg or liver. At the barn the paddocks are rough ice and the ring looks like a skating rink, which is to say we're not riding anywhere till it thaws. It's now 7:30 p.m. and cold enough that Rhodry's water had a skim of ice on the top half an hour after I put it outside. Rhodry, of course, is sleeping outside. It was about a year ago that he started seriously showing his age, or that I finally realized that he'd passed from middle age to old, but he's doing OK. His deafness is no longer selective, but he can hear me when I project, and when whatever noise I'm making has a smell attached, like making popcorn. Sometimes he seems addled, as if he can't remember where he left his mind; other times he drops a squeaky toy in my lap and won't give up till I get down on the floor and play. Thirteen years and counting . . . Rhodry, have I told you lately that I'm glad you're my puppy?
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