Friday, March 30, 2007

A Star Called Henry

We don't plan to wake the neighbors with fireworks and parades (unlike some inconsiderate assholes whose names we could mention) but today is the perrito's 8th birthday. I suppose we should be dropping the diminutive since, in dog-years terms, he's now eligible to join the AARP. So today is the perro's 8th (or 56th) birthday. By all means, celebrate in your own way wherever you are.

If you're wondering how we even know when a dog's birthday is, well, this is Mexico, so he's got a file as thick as your wrist, which we need to present in order to take him in and out of the country. (Well, in theory, anyway; no one's ever actually asked to see it.) According to the file, on March 30, 1999, a purebred pug was born to a breeder in Kennebunk, ME, where he was christened - we swear this is true - Apple Valley's Northern Star, though in order to save him from getting his ass kicked by Rotweilers every single day, they also called him Henry.

His pedigree papers actually help explain why such an allegedly well-bred animal is, frankly, such a failure as a dog. (Oh, come on. He doesn't chase, he doesn't fetch, doesn't acknowledge the existence of cats - or other dogs, for that matter - and while we love him like crazy, he pisses on his own feet five times a day.) What happened, as you can clearly see, is that his father - the pug equivalent of a nobleman - married down. Way down. Like, to a gold-digging hooker or something.

In the dog-breeding world, the prefix "Ch" means Champion - "including 2 majors won under different judges and at least one point under a third different judge." We don't quite know what that means, but it doesn't sound like something you pick up on "Everyone Gets a Trophy" Day. Highlighted in yellow, you see that the perro's dad was a Champ descended from a pair of Champs who were in turn the product of four Champs. And God only knows how far this goes back. Mom, on the other hand, seems to have been the last of a long line of showgirls, grifters, and second-story men. For Christ's sake, her name was Harley Davidson! A few years ago she was found dead of an accidental overdose at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino, at the age of five-and-a-half.

Her bumbling-but-loveable son is now grey around the chin and his eyesight is failing (he spends a lot of time running around the house in a total panic trying to find us, as we amble along behind him yelling, "We're right here, dumbass!") He's graduated from the food "For Overweight, Less Active Dogs," to the one "For Senior Dogs." Right now he's taking his third nap of the day, despite having only gotten out of bed two hours ago. We don't plan to tell him it's his birthday - he's already got his father's shameless sense of entitlement ("Harley Davidson"? Dude, what were you thinking?) But if his dad's side of the family wanted to send a gift - or maybe even cut him in on the inheritance - we wouldn't say no. I'm pretty sure we have power of attorney over him.


Elizabeth said...

Happy Birthday to the perro! He needs a special birthday dinner: a poached egg, say, or a burrito.

Anonymous said...

Please wish Jesus "Happy Birthday" from us.
By the way, that is a great picture of him. What did you do with his tongue?


Burro Hall said...

That's an old publicity photo from back when he was under contract to MGM. It's from "Hellhounds of the Pacific," I believe.

Anonymous said...

Can we get an autographed copy??


Anonymous said...

A day late but we won't be a carrot short. In fact, there will be a few carrots, so get out the candles (and an awl)'cause we're coming to celebrate.