Birthday Boy enjoying a Dog Chew (click to enlarge)

Tuesday was Miles' birthday. He's three.

They say that dogs grow to be like their owners. Or was it the other way round? I forget.

Miles and I are very similar in personality. We're both fairly laid-back, we're both very affectionate, we both have an eye for the ladies*, and we both shed on the carpet.

Therefore, it was no surprise that his approach to it being his birthday, was similar to mine. He feigned disinterest, whilst secretly hoping he'd be taken out to a restaurant for some fine dining.

In the end, he was taken out to Washington Park, for some fine walking, along with Saoirse, and a friend of mine**.

It was a beautiful evening, just the right temperature, with the sun low in the sky. The walk was only marred by the number of grumpy people we passed, who failed to respond to my cheery 'hello's. There were so many of them, I started to feel like I was back in Britain again. I guess we'd hit the post-work/post-commute crowd, who were still in Driving mode, and still hadn't de-stressed from daily trauma of trying to drive on I25 without spilling their sugar saturated, triple venté mocha's on the SUV's leather seating***.

When we got back home, Miles had a few doggie cookies from his favourite shop in the whole world - Remington & Friends.

These cookies, are hand-made on the premises, with no artificial ingredients, and come in a variety of flavours, including chicken, vegetable and beef. A recent, new edition seems to be cheese and garlic flavour.

I don't know about you, but I think garlic is the last thing a dog's breath needs adding to it. What the heck was Rick, owner of Remington's, thinking of?!

A Selection of Cookies (click to enlarge)

An Asside
As I write, I've just discovered something that's worse than a dog with garlic and cheese breath. Benny (Vice President in charge of Purring in my house), has been sat next to me as eat lunch, and now type.

Throughout lunch, whilst I'm trying to eat food, not throw it up, he has been farting. I don't just mean one or two. I'm talking about a concerted campaign of the flatulence equivalent of carpet bombing.

I guess his diet of rich kitten food^† and milk is finally taking it's toll on him. I know it is on me.

But it's the way he waits until I'm sat eating, and then hops up on the sofa next to me, and begins his olfactory assault, that is pure cat evil.

Now Where Was I?
So anyway, it was a fairly quiet birthday for Miles this year. Quiet, except for the sound of flatulent cats, crunchy dog cookies, and playful growling, whilst playing like this:

Footnotes
*Although he gets away with a lot more than me.

**A fellow batchelor, who wishes to remain anonymous, mainly because he's convinced that when we walk around together, people think we're a gay couple.

Hey! I'm stylish and fashionable because I'm European! I can't help it. I was born that way! It's not just a lifestyle choice, girlfriend!

***Although what the hell a 'truck' needs calf-skin leather seating for is beyond me. It goes without saying that these types of SUV driver go off-road less than the tarmac itself.

†Because of his diabetes, he has to have kitten food, despite being 11