The long-awaited day finally came; KiKi turned eighteen yesterday and made the trip by cab with no problems. In addition to many treats, I baked him his own meatloaf and served it on my nineteeth century French china with gold trim. We did everything possible to make him feel like the special friend he is.

I know I obsess about this dog, but he has brought me so much pleasure over the years that it all seems so right. Unlike most other dogs, KiKi has never done anything wrong; he seemed naturally trained, never chewed up expensive belts or shoes, and displayed a unique intelligence. Of course, he does like to snap at fingers and toes, but he has never really trusted people he doesn't know. He was rescued from a woman who dowsed him with fluids and tried to set him on fire; she went to jail and KiKi went on to become a legend. When our former neighbors exclaimed that, at eighteen, it explained why KiKi is so "grumpy". "No," I replied, "He's not grumpy, he's just opinionated."

Before the birthday dinner began, though, he was awarded a medal proclaiming him "#1 Dog". (And, if I had thought of it sooner, probably could have had Mayor Bower proclaim December 14 "KiKi Day".)

The countdown has begun: the ten days of holiday parties until Christmas Eve (traditionally celebrated at Ditmar's, but since he moved to Ft. Lauderdale about as reachable for us as The North Pole). After KiKi returned home, we ran up the street with checks in hand to Barker's holiday fish fry/SoBap benefit. It was too late for the fish, but not for the Grey Goose.