Today is the natal day of Odd Trundles. (He wants a cake. I am not so sure.) He’s celebrating by trying to chew everything in my office. I am told bulldogs don’t calm down until they’re two or three years old, which means a lot of sawdust before he becomes a couch potato.
Miss B does not care that today is Odd’s birthday. She believes it is just another day during which she shall torment him mercilessly to teach him his place in the pack, which is firmly at the Very Bottom.Odd, like any adolescent, has a very difficult time with this notion, and resists most mightily. The two of them crash around the house and backyard like huge furry rockets of teeth and growling. Visitors often seem concerned. “Is that normal?” Well, yes, it is. Sound and fury signifying very little. They never truly harm each other, they’re just…loud. Like, those honeymooning neighbors at 3am loud. You’re glad they’re having fun, but still…
It is funny to see short squat little Odd and lean agile Miss B tumbling in a knot. He is (like the movie Gimli) very dangerous over short distances. But sooner or later he decides to stay in one place, and Miss B tears around, coming by in widening or shortening arcs to nip and tangle at him, while he chomps his jaws and returns the favor. It’s obvious they are having a marvelous time of it.
Odd is still as sweet and adorkable as ever. There’s slightly less drool, and he still doesn’t want to go down stairs if he can help it. Well, really, since he’s so front-heavy, I can’t blame him. But still, I’d like it if I didn’t have to carry him to the car whenever we go anywhere. *eyeroll*
“HEY,” Miss B says, nosing me urgently. “LOOK, I DON’T CARE WHAT DAY IT IS. LET’S RUN. YOU WERE SLEEPING ALL NIGHT AND I MISSED YOU. LET’S DO STUFF.”
Odd blinks from his pile of deer antlers. *chewchewchew happyhappyhappy* *snortwhistlegrin*
Guess it’s time to go get started on the day. Happy birthday, Odd. Glad you came by.