Luna’s Birthday: A Study in Financial Ruin
Luna turns another year older. I got the cake, she got the gifts, and my bank account got an eviction notice.
Luna had her birthday the other day. In a rational world, it would have been a minor event, perhaps a longer walk and an extra sausage. But we don’t live in a rational world. We live in a world where I am a Dog Dad, which meant I spent the better part of last week planning a celebration for a creature that would leave me for a stranger with a single slice of ham.
Before Luna, my Februarys were quiet affairs of Netflix and waiting for spring. This year, it was a high-stakes production. I found myself in the “dog bakery” aisle of Pets at Home — a sentence I never thought I’d utter — buying a “pupcake” that cost more than my own lunch. I stood there inspecting the peanut butter frosting on a biscuit, wondering at what point I had completely lost the plot.
The gifts were the real kicker. I told myself I’d be sensible. Then I saw a “memory foam, orthopaedic throne” in a shade of grey that perfectly matched my bedroom. I told myself she’s getting older; she needs the joint support. The reality? I bought a £100 bed for a dog who still prefers to sleep on my bed.
I’m now sitting at my kitchen table, looking at a video of her demolishing the pupcake in 0.4 seconds. She’s officially one year older, and I am several hundred pounds poorer. I am a grown man who just celebrated the birth of a roommate who pays her rent in snores and biological warfare. Happy birthday, Luna. I hope you liked the bed. I’ll be over here eating beans on toast until March.
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