Happy birthday, little man.


The sun rises tomorrow on Spriggy’s 14th birthday. All hail the world’s best little dog, captured here on Sunday, a typical day in his interesting and action-packed life. He doesn’t usually wear his life jacket on boat rides, but this was his first time on the new boat, and we didn’t know how he’d handle sailing’s sometimes sudden changes in pitch — he’s been known to bail out of the kayak when he stopped enjoying himself, and I really didn’t want to go after him with a boathook.

But he was fine. He found a place in the sun, laid down and enjoyed himself. Which is pretty much what he’s been doing all his life.

Why do we love our pets so? It’s not the unconditional love, which isn’t really unconditional — Spriggy’s heart belongs to the person with a handful of crumbled bacon. It’s not the companionship, although that’s a big part of it; there’s nothing more peaceful than working in a quiet room while a good dog snoozes at your feet. It’s not complex, like human love, but I can’t quite explain it. Partly it’s because he’s cuddly and affectionate. Partly it’s because he has a sense of humor and approaches every day like the adventure it is. Mostly it’s just because, for 14 years, he’s been our dog. I remember the time we took him camping, and he woke up in the middle of the night when the coyotes started yipping. I remember when we introduced himself to the newborn Kate by letting him lick her feet. When he got lost, and we found him at a yacht club bloody-mary brunch in the Upper Peninsula — we thought he’d lit out into the wilderness after a deer, but he was cadging cheese nibbles and popcorn from a bunch of ladies who thought he was the cutest thing in boots. When he flunked obedience school for growling at the teacher. When I tried to send him down a groundhog hole, pointing and saying, “Get that groundhog!,” and he jumped straight into the air and bit my finger.

It sounds like I’m writing his obit, and I’m not. He’s still in great shape, and I hope he’ll be around a couple more years, even though by every dog-years calculator, he’s well into AARP territory. When he finally goes to dog heaven, I’ll be able to say we took good care of him and gave him a good life, and he enriched ours in return.

Yes, I’m baking a cake. Some will probably fall on the floor for the birthday boy.

Tomorrow’s my brother’s birthday, too. He’ll get a phone call. He’s enriched my life too, but never laid at my feet while I worked, so our relationship is a bit different. Happy birthday to Uncle Charlie, too.

So, bloggage:

The Free Press ran this story today, about women opting for genital plastic surgery. I’ve mentioned it here before, and ultimately I think it’s not worth worrying about — the number of women who will pay thousands of dollars to have a doctor reshape their ya-yas are probably so small as to be insignificant. There was a long section in the middle of the story, though, that made me despair of editors who, in trying not to offend readers, muddy the waters:

In 1997, she was happily married, the owner of a publishing company and a mother of one with a second child on the way. After giving birth for the second time, her life changed drastically.

“My uterus felt like it was going to fall out,” she says. The Free Press is withholding her identity because of privacy concerns. “The doctors said I already had two children. They suggested a hysterectomy. But to me that sounded radical and extreme. They would never tell a man whose scrotum was hanging to chop them off. I was annoyed and embarrassed.”

She fell into a depression. She became so self-conscious about the way her body looked that she avoided changing her clothes in front of her husband. Eventually, she refused to have sex with him. Their marriage ended in divorce.

For three years, she searched for a doctor who could help her.

…”I think being a mother is the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life,” she says. “But that doesn’t mean I should sacrifice my sexuality or that my anatomy should look prehistoric.”

Just what, precisely, is this woman’s problem? Is her uterus coming through the roof? If so, she has a medical problem, not a cosmetic one. They’re “hanging”? What’s hanging? Look “prehistoric”? What does that mean? More info, please. I mean, if we can get a scrotum in there, we ought to be able to talk about…whatever her problem is.

Finally, more DetNews blogging.

Posted at 10:54 pm in Uncategorized |

12 responses to “Happy birthday, little man.”

  1. alex said on September 7, 2005 at 12:05 am

    Miss Loosey Goosey sounds like every anorexic I’ve ever known. Twenty-five costume changes before you can even get ’em out the door.

    “Does this make me look fat?”

    Please. It’s clinging to your ribs so tightly they’ll think you’re wearing greasepaint.

    If her anatomy’s “prehistoric,” here’s betting her frame of reference is the Field Museum. And she needs to eat something. Anything.

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  2. Nance said on September 7, 2005 at 8:46 am

    No, I don’t think that’s her problem, Alex. Post-childbirth, lots of women have the sensation that their upstairs are coming into the downstairs, so to speak — think of it as a female hernia. But that is a problem for her regular OB/GYN, not a plastic surgeon. That’s where I would have appreciated some more data — are her labia, what, protruding? And so on.

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  3. vince said on September 7, 2005 at 10:29 am

    Woof woof woof woof arf arf!

    Woof woof woof woof arf arf!

    Woof woof woooof woooof arf Spriggy!

    Woof woof woof woof arf arf!

    (Terrier-to-terrier singing Happy Birthday. From Daisy.)

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  4. Dorothy said on September 7, 2005 at 10:37 am

    Augie sends his birthday shout outs as well!

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  5. 4dbirds said on September 7, 2005 at 10:46 am

    The woman sounds mental. Perhaps her doctor suggested a hysterectomy not in seriousness but as a way to shock her back to reality. Some women opt for plastic surgery on the labia, but what do they use as a reference? Who has the perfect ya-ya?

    Spriggy is so cute.

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  6. Joe said on September 7, 2005 at 11:06 am

    The worst looking ya ya still looks good.

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  7. John said on September 7, 2005 at 11:11 am

    Ode To The Perfect Ya-Ya, didn’t Keats write that?

    My experience has taught me that ya-ya’s as well as ta-ta’s come in all shapes, sizes, symmetry, and colors, but the perfect ya-ya belongs to the one I’m with.


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  8. Nance said on September 7, 2005 at 11:15 am

    It better, buster.

    As for what the perfect one looks like, if you read the story you’ll find that the woman has submitted photos from porn magazines, and said, essentially, “This is what I want to look like.” You’re right: I think she is mental.

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  9. mary said on September 7, 2005 at 11:45 am

    Happy Birthday to Sprig. Two weeks ago, Rudy, my ancient Great Dane went on to doggy Valhalla. Twelve years (incredibly old for a dane) of good health, then a sudden neurological “event” as the vet called it. Rudy had a good life and gave us as much or more than we gave him. Truly a distinguished dog.

    Filling his job now is Smokey, a mostly Lab 8 month old. We got him from the pound. So far, so good. Acutally, he’s wonderful. Very sweet and loving, and up for endless games of fetch. He lies on my feet when he snoozes, too. A good sign.

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  10. mary said on September 7, 2005 at 12:02 pm

    Off topic:

    I heard from my friend in St Tammany Parish, Louisiana just now. She’s ok, the pets are ok, and although most of the trees in her yard are down, none of them hit the house. The contents of her fridge, however are not so good.

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  11. Dorothy said on September 7, 2005 at 1:57 pm

    Hey Mary – my daughter is in the process of trying to adopt a rescue dog, a beagle named Rudy. How ’bout that? She wants to re-name him Boo Radley, but just call him Radley, from “To Kill a Mockingbird” of course. Radley sounds enough like Rudy that I think the dog will adjust to the name change.

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  12. mary said on September 7, 2005 at 4:36 pm

    New pup Smokey’s photo is in Flickr now. Oldest son Tom, in his gawky/Greg Allman phase, is also in the pic. Ah, the teen years.

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