My Kodachrome,

I brought you home last night.

You have never been small, but you fit inside the oversized hoodie I wore to pick you up in Oxnard. As a guardian angel drove us home, we sat in the backseat, me whispering to you the whole ride back. I’d read somewhere about the importance of “imprinting” your presence on a new Earthling.

“It’s okay, baby,” I told you during the chilly trip down the 101. I had to keep the windows open and the mask on, but our bodies warmed each other.

“You’re going to a safe place. Good Jadie. Everything is going to be good and happy and warm there. This home is yours. Good Jadie.”

You were a pandemic puppy. The biggest, loudest and most nipple-insistent of a half dozen siblings. You were not thrilled to leave mom and whimpered softly the first leg of the trip.

But around Camarillo, you were chewing my hoodie. And my sandals. And my blanket. And my rose bushes. And my baseboards and my gazebo and mygoddidsomeonedareyoutoeattheworld?

As we neared Malibu Canyon, you were grudgingly accepting the notion of peeing outdoors.

Around Northridge, you had become a regular at the Victory Dog Park, where witnesses (one of them your dad) reported seeing you run with a discarded bucket on your head more than once.

By the time we turned onto Sherman Way, you were the size of a small Shetland pony. A shedding, shameless Shetland pony.

At bedtime, you wanted out of the cat crate I was supposed to leave in a separate room but brought to bed with me anyway. Another soft whimper, and I folded immediately: I opened the door and you tucked back to the belly that harbored you home, from the squall of the day.

I know I could have been a more resolute parent, but what can I say? I’m ten cents into the dime for you girl.

You fell asleep. I did not. But I had the most amazing dream.

I dreamt you told me that the vets are full of shit. That you don’t dig because you are nervous; you dig because I am. That you aren’t colorblind; you just can’t see what-ifs. That the reason you jump as much upward as forward when you run is not because you’re working new legs; it’s to see more of a new world.

And I wake up. And it is your birthday. And you are one. And those silly vets now consider you a dog, though we both know the truth: You will never stop being my puppy.

Whaddya know? I guess you were the one imprinting.

Happy birthday, Jadie. You really shouldn’t have, but thank you for the presence.