Maud was born on Dec. 29, one of those inconvenient, post-Christmas, pre–New Year’s orphaned birthdays that humans tend to resent. People with late-December birthdays always speak in the fragile tones of hostages: “No, it’s fine, really. Christmas counts for both.” It never does. But for a dog, it’s perfect. The humans are home, slightly dazed from overeating, wandering around the house in slippers and trying to remember which day of the week it is. They’re generous with snacks, naps, and existential gazes out the window. In other words: paradise.
The period between Christmas and New Year’s–Twixmas, or my favourite, “Betwixtmas”–is a week suspended in time. A liminal zone. A societal shrug. People drift between family visits and reflective solitude, talking about “the year that was” and “the year to come.” Some set resolutions with the determination of someone who has never met themselves before; others plan indulgent New Year’s outings engineered specifically to sabotage good judgment.
It’s the week when no one, absolutely no one, is truly working. Even the people who are working are not working. Entire offices survive on the efforts of one reluctant employee logging in from a parent’s basement, replying to emails in a housecoat while sipping a hot toddy.
For Maud, this is the natural rhythm of life: snacks, naps, and walks where the destination is irrelevant. For humans, it’s a rare occurrence.
My husband Patrick and I have now missed four of Maud’s seven birthdays, the last four consecutively. Each year we leave St. Andrews for a two-week migration to Barbados to see our dear friends Vincent and Roberto.
The dose of sunlight rejuvenates me, and being nearly 4,000 kilometres from the TV station ensures I won’t “just pop in” to finish something. I love my job, and I love my life and where I live, but there is something profoundly restorative about stepping away long enough to fully recharge.
Maud has no clue that we are missing her birthday–or that she even has a birthday. What she does understand is the sight of a suitcase. Suitcases mean Fredericton, her own private Club Med, also known as Nana and Papa’s house.
We have to spell their names in regular conversation to avoid inciting hysteria. Just saying “Nana and Papa” is the linguistic equivalent of shaking a treat bag next to a megaphone. When we need her to look into the camera, we simply whisper, “Nana and Papa,” and she fixes us with a gaze of such longing and devotion it is almost heartbreaking. Suitcases equal Nana and Papa. And Nana and Papa equal bliss.
Maud has her own bed at their house, positioned beside Nana and Papa’s bed. Even if we stay the night before the airport run, she still sleeps in their room, as if reminding us of her priorities. Life in St. Andrews may come with its own canine stresses, too many squirrels to chase, so many deer that they’ve actually become beneath her notice, but at Nana and Papa’s she experiences unfiltered dog freedom.
She rides shotgun in Papa’s truck as though she’s inherited it. She visits Ivan, Papa’s friend, where she is greeted like visiting royalty. She receives samples of Nana’s home cooking, small bites, but enough that you could reconstruct an entire casserole from them. Nana bakes daily, drawing from her Wilkins family recipe book–a recipe book that I suspect is equal parts tradition and witchcraft. No leash is required; they live on the river with nothing but fields between them and the nearest neighbour. She doesn’t even need a collar. It’s a pet sabbatical with cookie breaks.
People like to say dogs don’t understand time, but I disagree. When we return two weeks later, well into the New Year, Maud jumps higher and cries louder. Her anguish is specific: you were gone too long. Not you missed my birthday. Just too long. For a dog, every reunion is a declaration of love.
“It’s like we’re Nana and Papa and she’s actually missing us for a change!” I once said to Patrick. It was the closest thing I’ve had to being promoted within my own family hierarchy.
Stepping out of your routine has a way of reminding you what your routine actually means. We return home with our Barbados memories–sun, sea, friends, the illusion of new beginnings–while Maud looks out the window, sitting in my arms–all 65 pounds of her. She’s done this since she was a baby. I can’t believe she’s 7 now. She’s been in our lives so long, I don’t know the world without her. And in that moment, we celebrate her birthday. Together, we follow the winding, snowy road into St. Andrews, past fields wearing winter like a wool coat, past snow-capped trees that seem to be sleeping, recharging for the spring.
