My little one,

It’s rare that I write to only one of you; I know you share everything anyway. 

But I want to praise you solely.

Last week, you emerged from a friendly frenzy at the dog park limping more than usual. As you neared the bench, pant-grinning the whole time, I could see blood trailing down your left leg, the dew claw dangling. 

The park regulars watched Jadie as I sped you to the vet, which saw us in 20 minutes. It’s the first time I’ve heard you whimper. Let’s just agree to not do that anymore, okay?

After much anesthesia, sedative and whittling, you emerged stoned on painkillers and sporting a cast of bandage and adhesive, walking as if you’d had one too many. Maybe you had.

I asked Alexa what a dew claw does. Apparently, it allows you to climb trees or better handle whatever it is you’re chewing. So there’s that. 

I don’t know if it will grow back, or remain a stub. Regardless, I don’t want to see you do anything but hike a leg around trees. And do you have to play so hard EVERY DAY?

Of course you do. I knew it when you sniffed your cast like a bloodhound and licked it like it were a summer snow cone. I’m surprised it lasted four minutes in public before it became a floppy, cumbersome sock.

Which brings me to the praise. I see how you handle infirmity and can’t help but ponder deep pain. Is it momentary, kept throbbing by memory? Do I choose what scars? Can I release whatever gave way in yesterday’s dew?

How does one chuck, Chuck? I know you have a clue.

So I’ll bribe you with cheese to get the antibiotics down, and spray the paw whenever it holds still. Which is never.

I guess that’s your point. I’ll try to make it mine.

Oh, and your uncle Spencer says we all need, like, a serious bath. I’m inclined to agree. Don’t tell anyone I said anything.