Because I will turn 420 tomorrow In dog years I will take myself for a long walk along the green shore of the lake, and when I walk in the door, I will jump on my chest and lick my nose and ears and eyelids while I tell myself again and again to get down. I will fill my metal bowl at the sink with cold fresh water, and lift a biscuit from the jar and hold it gingerly with my teeth. Then I will make three circles and lie down at my feet on the wood floor and close my eyes while I type all morning and into the afternoon, checking every once in a while to make sure I am still there, reaching down to stroke my furry, venerable head.