Leo, 15 today, is our big, beautiful, beloved odds defier (and “commands” defier–after he turned 14, we decided that come, stay, sit, etc., would be regarded merely as suggestions. This doesn’t apply to you, Ryder).
He smells a little, not from dog breath or from rolling in animal remains or from eating frozen deer poop (although he sometimes does that–poopsicles, we call them), but from being older. I love the smell.
I often stand over Leo as he sleeps sprawled on the floor, watching to see his chest rise. He takes fewer breaths per minute than I do, and sometimes I worry as I wait for the slow sign that air is entering his long body.
Today we’re celebrating Leo’s quinceañero. Vamos a bailar y a comer mucho (por supuesto) con nuestro perro perfecto y con su hermano menor (perfecto también).
Happy birthday, dear Schmoo, and many more.
(And happy birthday to my dear friend Camille in LA.)