Kirby stream-of-consciousness

So tonight I was brushing my teeth, thinking about what I was going to blog about tonight, when all of a sudden, I had a crushing thought.

We forgot our dog’s birthday.

Kirby was 4 on Friday.

Immediately I thought, ‘Oh! So that’s why he’s seemed a little down lately.’ Then I thought that I am completely insane for thinking that our dog has any concept of when his birthday is, what a birthday is or even what birth itself is, when he doesn’t even know better than to hump on the Jake — on the Jake’s head no less.

But then I’ve always anthropomorphized our dogs way too much.

Then I started thinking how 4 was really a magical kind of age for our dogs. It’s when they stopped being so annoying and puppyish (not the cute, round, puppyish either) and settled down to enjoying the good things in life — belly rubs, rawhide chews and snuggling in tight under a nice down comforter.

Then I realized that 4 is really 21 for dogs. (Who came up with this theory anyway? Is it just because the average life span for dogs is 10 years and humans is 70 years therefore 70 divided by 10 is seven? Aren’t we just kinda forcing our ideas of how long a life should be on the poor dogs? Maybe they don’t want to be 70. And maybe a year to them is not like seven years to us. I dunno. The whole thing kinda makes my head hurt.) And how maybe they settle down like we settle down after partying all those years leading up to 21, then you go out and get completely crocked on your 21st birthday and then swear you’re never going to drink again. (There I go, putting my evil human preconceived notions on the poor oppressed dogs. I should join PETA or something, to atone for my sins. That is, if PETA weren’t the most reactionary, misguided charity/activist group/dumbasses ever.)

Then I thought about my own 21st birthday, and how one of my friends made me go out to a couple of bars, but I wasn’t really into it — I think it was a Monday night or something — and we ended up back at one of her friend’s apartment at Village Square, eating potato chips while a joint was passed around. (Ahem.) Depressing.

Then it hit me: I turned 21 in 1995! Oh, sweet Jesus! That is, like, eons ago! It was Clinton’s first term for the love of all that is good and holy! I’m ancient.

So it all comes back to me. As usual.

Sorry, Kirby.