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On Our Dog’s Birthday Jack Ridl Throughout the day, he’ll press his wet nose against the floor to ceiling window and watch anything that passes by, now and then falling asleep. When the cats come in, they’ll nuzzle their cold faces against the soft warmth of his forehead. We’ll also look into the day, watch the thick gray beech trees’ branches sway in the coming winter storm. Today our dog is ten. When we go to another room, he’ll follow. When later we take our walk, he will wander off after smells he finds along the way. After we return, if I toss his ragged stuffed lion, he’ll look at me, seem to want to say, “You don’t have to play with me. I’m fine,” then mosey over, and take the toy back to his spot. Tonight, if he needs to go out, he will sit by the side of the bed, my wife and I sleeping deep in our marriage, and woof softly, clear his throat, as if he doesn’t want to be a bother.

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