Happy b-day, Mel!

    Sure, I'm just a dog. But that doesn't mean I don't think. Or talk. I do talk, you know. I make snappy comments that you could probably collect and publish as a bestseller, the way they did with that American president. Or ex-president, I can't remember. "Snowy Witticism", I'd like to have my memoirs called. It has a nice ring to it. Kinda punnish. And I'm a punny dog.

    But not many people hear me. Maybe they just don't want to listen. I mean, dogs aren't supposed to talk, right? We're supposed to be silent and accepting. We're supposed to be man's best friend -- loyal and always by his side, never saying a critical word. That kind of thing. But I ask you, what kind of best friend is that? Aren't best friends supposed to bite each other in the butt everytime they screw up? That's what Tintin and I do to each other on a regular basis. We laugh and tease and critique each other's foolishness. . . we're close like that. It's what we do.

    Like the time we were going up that Tibetan mountain and the Captain's knapsack was leaking whiskey. I trailed after him all the way, catching each drop with my tongue. The result? A very drunk dog who fell off a cliff, splashed into a river, and got towed away by the current.

    Tintin ran after me then, risking his own life to save mine. Had to stretch from a rock and grab me in time before the current could washed me past. He made sure I was okay. Then he found out that I had fallen off the cliff not because I was suffering from vertigo, but because I'd gotten drunk. Boy, was he pretty mad to have a potentially alcoholic dog.

    "Next time you can go ahead and fall!" he yelled at me. Something along those lines. "I won't even try to rescue you!"

    Hey, you have to love a friend who cares enough to yell at you and threaten to participate in your death.

    I watch, you know. I observe. Life is fascinating, especially when you're around Tintin. The guy is more energetic than a six-year-old. He's gone to Tibet, to China, to the US, to Peru, to Scotland, even to the moon. He's forever going to places, even though they're not part of his reporter assignments. He uses any excuse he can find. They're mostly based on the sake of friendship; when Professor Calculus needs him, Tintin drops everything else and goes a-running. No objections, no "let me check my schedule." Like he doesn't have a life of his own. He just hops along for the ride and takes me with him.

    When General Alcazar had to go into exile after Tapioca took over his country, Tintin leapt forward to help him, not even caring about his own safety. Helped restore Alcazar to his throne. The Captain got mad at him for being so foolhardy (another good friend). I mean, Tintin risks his life without even blinking an eye, something that drives the Captain and I up the wall on a regular basis. He does anything for his friends -- he goes to other places, to other countries for them. He never stands still.

    Sometimes I wonder if he does that, if he insists on traveling, just because he never feels truly at home where he is.

    He's never had a family. He's never mentioned a mother or a father or siblings or even distant relatives to me. Sometimes I want to ask him about them, if he remembers anything about them, but I don't, because I'm scared that the question might break his heart. Don't ask me how I know; it's a dog thing. We just know.

    He's never had a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, if he's inclined that way. Never kissed anybody, at least not while I was looking. And it's not for the lack of knowing people, either, because he's met plenty in the course of his work. There have been no family generations before him, and seeing from the way things are going, he's not going to have any after. He's not going to have any children. He's not going to have anyone to love, to shelter, to protect. We, the Captain and I, have to protect him instead.

    He has no one to call at night to tell them "I love you," or to have them tell him "I love you." All he has is us, his friends. We don't always deserve his selflessness. Sometimes I hate him for never thinking of himself. I did, for a while. Then I realized that it was his own kind of drug, these adventures. They were something to distract him, to take away the loneliness, to suppress the pain. They were the only things to give him meaning in his life.

    I'm his best friend. So if that's what he needs, that's what I'll support him in. I'll grumble and whine and bite about it, yeah, but I'll be there for him always.

    And once he realizes that he doesn't have to prove himself all the time, to prove himself worthy of love, I'll stand by him and weep with relief.

    Until then. Because really, dogs aren't supposed to cry, right?

If you walk out on me
I'm walking after you
-- Walking After You by Foo Fighters