Puppies puppies everywhere

Last Friday morning when I grabbed my alarm clock I felt a strange texture on the front, and found that early in the dark hours of morning, as I slept, Mr. A had crept into my room and applied a tiny little half-inch tall puppy sticker to the snooze button. It made me smile, and all morning, as I wandered around the house getting ready for work, I found more stickers stuck to all kinds of things he knew I would find – mirrors, a juice glass, keys.

Thus began the official first day of the Seven Days of Tater's Birthday, which culminates today – his actual birthday – with a cream cheese and lox omelette for breakfast, a small party of friends for dinner, and special treats from the dog bakery a block from my office for dessert.

Nine years ago my friend called to let me know that sometime around five in the morning, his dog Beachwood had given birth to ten healthy puppies. I went to see them and instantly fell in love with Feather, whose black body and white facial markings reminded me of my cat Elvis, who had died (strange I'm just realizing this for the first time) an auspicious nine months before. Hmm!

A few weeks later I was holding him and noticed one of his eyes was open, looking me right in the eye. "Hey," I yelled to my friend in the next room. "When did their eyes open?"

"They haven't yet," he said. "I checked them this morning – none of them have."

I looked at the other pups and all of their eyes were still closed. That was when I realized that Feather was in some ways a more evolved little being than his brothers and sisters, and also, that I was the very first person he ever saw in his whole life.

As soon as he learned to crawl, he started coming to me to snuggle. He would crawl up inside the sleeve of my sweater and fall asleep there, as if it were a little hammock made just for puppies. When he was finally old enough to come home with me, I took a week off work to house train him. The very first night he woke me up at 3 a.m. to let me know he needed to go out, and I realized he already knew everything he needed to know about how to behave in the house. He's still never had a single accident.

I named him Tater standing in front of the 1960 Rambler American I used to drive, under a star-filled sky in the driveway of the house where he was born, in Penngrove, California, the night I finally brought him home to live with me for good. In the last few weeks his name had somehow changed from Feather to Shakespeare, but I knew I didn't want to call him that. My friend had walked us out to the car and we were talking about how fast the time had gone since the day the puppies were born. "They were so tiny," he said. "Yeah," I said. "All snuggled up against Beachwood like sweet little potatoes on the barbecue."

In my mind, I was picturing the way we used to roll up six or seven roasting potatoes in a cylinder of heavy foil, then twist between them and drop them on the grill to steam along with the chicken or fish or whatever else we were cooking. The puppies were about that size when they were born – small enough to hold in one hand.

"I think his real name is Sweet Potater," I said.

"You can't call him that!"

But the name had already stuck. You know how that happens sometimes.

He knows how to sing, and he loves to dance to Motown music. He taught me about partner yoga before I knew such a thing existed. He actually listens when you talk to him, and sometimes he tries to talk back. He still loves to sleep in our laps, even though he weighs as much as a 10-year-old child now; he climbs up onto the couch and puts his arms around your shoulders and lays his head on your chest, and looks up at you, and sighs. He has strange fears and anxieties – he fear-bites strange dogs who sniff too insistently, and every time the ice maker dumps a load of ice, he leaps up and runs out the dog door. He sleeps with his head on a pillow and knows how to pull the blanket over himself when it's cold.

I could go on and on, but my point is just that he's a magic dog. He's been magic for me from the day he was born.

The photos were taken when he was ten weeks old, and almost nine years old – just a few weeks ago. For those who don't already know this, it is very hard to get a dog to look at a camera long enough to take a photo like this one. In the first photo, he'd never seen a camera before, and was curious. In the second, I kept his attention by holding a Beggin' Strip on top of the camera.

Happy birthday, Mr. Magumisaki-san! We love you!

P.S. I got memed by Rozanne! And am almost ready to post my answers. So stay tuned!