ME: Happy Birthday!



GEORGE: I’m pretending that this birthday isn’t happening.

ME: I can’t believe you’re 45. Did you know that you’re now half-way to ninety?

GEORGE: That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me. Or to anyone else.

ME: And just think, tomorrow you’ll be closer to ninety than you are to birth.

GEORGE: Please stop talking to me.

ME: Are you going to walk around all day reciting that poem? You know — I grow old, I grow old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled?



GEORGE: Well, not now. I didn’t realize I was so predictable. I guess I need some new material.

ME: Yes, you do. But you know what they say about teaching old dogs new tricks. And forty-five is really, really old for a dog.