If I had a dog like you …
Wait! I DO have a dog like you.
If this was a day like today …
Wait! THIS IS a day like today.
If I could remember this moment …
Wait! I CAN remember this moment.
If I could always love you …
Wait! I WILL always love you.
Oh, the possibilities.
Oh! The possibilities …
“It’s a big magical world out there, isn’t it?” said the little red-haired girl, bringing a huge smile to her adoptive father’s face.
“It surely is, Summer, it surely is,” Daddy replied. “Why, you could start your day as a sweet golden retriever and become a beautiful little girl by sunset.”
“You always said I am your beautiful little girl,” she said with her big puppy eyes.
“Yes, but even more so this evening,” he said. He tousled her hair and rested his hand on her shoulder, and they watched the sun set.
(Thanks to Meta AI for a serendipitous mistake translating our selfie into anime.)
Today marks the beginning of my 74th trip around the sun. This past year has been as eventful as ever. This will be my second birthday shared with Mary, who herself is embarking on her (mumble, mumble)th season.
I have had a mixed relationship with March 22 in recent years. I have always been tickled to share my birthday with William “James T. Kirk” Shatner, sportscaster Bob Costas, and Werner “Colonel Klink” Klemperer, not to mention (looks it up) Reese Witherspoon, J.J. Watt, Stephen Sondheim, Andrew Lloyd Webber, James Patterson, M. Emmet Walsh, Marcel Marceau and Chico Marx.
But then five years ago the date was ruined, forever I thought, by the death of Willow The Best Dog There Is™ on my 68th birthday. I knew my birthday would never be the same, now that it was a marker of my best canine friend’s departure more than my own arrival.
Sure enough, the next three March 22s were somber days, especially after the even deeper loss of my beloved Red, who had been my partner for close to 26 years. Nothing, it seemed, would restore any sense of happiness to my natal anniversary.
Then a sweet woman offered me a hug one fateful Sunday morning. A week or so later, during coffee after church, I happened to mention to a friend that my birthday is March 22. A voice popped up behind me, “Why, my birthday is March 22!” It was the sweet woman who had hugged me. We talked about what a fun coincidence that was, and it was another thing that led to other things that soon caused our fellow parishioners to start calling us “you two lovebirds.”
And so the reputation of March 22 is redeemed in my eyes. That one year is sealed as my worst birthday ever — God forbid there ever be a worse one — but I’ve discovered it is still possible to have a happy birthday after all, especially since now it’s a celebration of the woman who hugged me back to life.
