By Amy Palumbo-LeClaire

Luke’s birthday falls on the last day of January, topping the month off with sweet inspiration. 

Readers may recall last year’s birthday bust, when I found a deep scratch on his neck, the result of a rare encounter with an opossum. I rushed him to the vet and poor Luke had to wait half the day for song and celebration. This year, I wasn’t taking any chances. I gave Luke two celebrations, the first of which has made headlines here.

We headed to his friend Obi’s house, pup cakes and a numeral three candle packed. “We’re going to Obi’s house to have a party, Luke!” He popped his head from the travel crate sunroof and searched the streets for Obi. Dogs live in the moment. “I hear my friend’s name. I know what he looks like. But where is he?” Cars, storefronts, other dogs walking with owners, and shops passed us by like a scene from a movie. Luke perked his ears to the sight of other dogs. Where was Obi?

“LUKE!!!”  Obi was on the opposite side of his massive lake house when we arrived. “THAT’S OBI’S HOUSE DOWN THERE! WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF THE CAR.” I parked, circled to the back of my vehicle, popped open the trunk and unzipped the mesh door. I was just in time. Luke dove like Superman from his travel crate, nearly plunging through the fabric. “TIME TO PARTY!” Both dogs, ecstatic, reunited in a back yard flanking Singletary’s frozen lake.  “Happy Birthday, Luke!” Obi greeted his friend with a head poke and invitation to play Chase. Dog play had begun. A dark and light-colored male rolled, romped, chased, fought for the blue snake, cheated, grabbed ears, and teased. Meanwhile, the moms held mugs of hot tea by a slider door that made play far too convenient.

“We want to come in.”

“We like to be out.”

“It’s time for us to be in.”

“Can we go out please?”

“We want to play inside now.”

The life of a Dog Mom is unglamorous, especially in January. We opened and shut the door dozens of times, letting out heat and letting in the cold air. We used damp cloths to skate over a dirtied floor and filled bowls of water. “Why did we get a dog again?” We chatted and chuckled while our dogs caused trouble.

“Ha ha. You can’t get me here.” Obi, the master of cleverness hid behind a shrub with the blue snake. “A frustrated Luke barked. “It’s my turn now!” Obi, kind to the core, gave up the snake. After a few more crazy games, we noticed Luke sniff the frozen shoreline, testing his boundaries. A light bulb went off in his head. “I remember swimming here. What if I go ice skating instead?” 

The ice was, indeed, safe, but we couldn’t set the precedent that it would stay that way. The appearance of a frozen pond is deceiving. I imagined for a horrifying second the image of my curious Luke, on a later day, realizing that his paw broke through and cracked the ice. He’d start to sink but he’d manage to— 

“Luke! Come!” Obi’s Mom commanded the rule with her sternest of voices. I gushed as my almost three-year-old dog rushed toward her voice. “Today is my birthday and I am so aiming to please!!” The choice to behave called for cake. I put the pup cakes on a plate, and lit Numeral Three.  The flame quivered, as though aware of Luke’s pressing stare. He didn’t sit at my heels. He was nearly on top of them, following the flame’s shaky path as though managing an eye exam. He lifted his nose to see better. “I am so worth it.” 

Something about his energy (intrusive, stalking) made me nervous. Luke wasn’t a jumper, or a counter surfer. But birthday cupcakes were a whole different animal. What if he jumped on me and inadvertently caused my clothes to light on fire?  

“Happy Birthday dear Loo-ewk.  Happy Birthday to you!” Honestly, I couldn’t wait for the song to be over. I blew the frightened candle out, tore off the paper wrapper, and flipped a peanut butter frosted pup cake (one inhaled in one second) to the floor. Meanwhile, Obi smacked his lips sideways as though making a llama impression in a game of charades. “Myyyyyy mmm---outh feeeeels stiiiiicky.”  The texture of the peanut butter had caused Obi to eat in slow motion. Luke noted his friend’s vulnerability and sat like a shark in front of him. “Momma, I think Obi is allergic to peanut butter.”

“Let him be, Luke,” I chided, but we did allow Luke to lick the bowl when Obi was finished. 

It’s not every day that your dog turns three. 

Visit Luke at IG

livingwithlukevalentino

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