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.

My better two-thirds,

Today you are both three years old. Happy birthday! Drinking age!

I must keep that pace in mind. We fancy our “birthday months” on this end of the mammalian spectrum. You are toasting three years in one day on this planet. So let us raise a paw high:

Jadie, my mocha heart. You once cast those golden eyes for assurance and attention. Now you gaze them when I need either. Or both. Or all.

Charlie, you are the surprise co-pilot. A rescue pit/beagle (peagle?) once suspicious of men, now you fight the temptation to jump into laps. You are up for any ride, down for any walk. Or either. Or both. Or all.

You two have seen me back to my feet, and made good your pledge to retake the park. Though, you still whimper on every approach there, as if we would somehow forget it. Every visit is Just. That. Crucial.

In the spirit of Harold and Maude, I didn’t get you anything. We all know where it would wind up, anyway. Instead, let me tell you how much you matter.

In our three years, you have taught me maths beyond time’s relativity. You have shared your Work-Life Theorem, the 7-Second Anger Rule, and the upside of any tennis ball. You have taught me the Canine Equation: that every dog deserves a human, though the formula does not always work in reverse. Yet I’ll be damned if I can find any bitterness.

What do you give a gift? How do you celebrate a celebration?

Beats me, but belly up to the bar, young adults. This wine-dipped rawhide is on the house. And have I got some great stories to tell you about your aunt Caroline.