My scoundrel,

It occurs to me I rarely write to you solely. Usually jointly, the second name of conjoined existence. Mr. Hardy. Mr. Costello. Mr. Jadie. 

And when you came into this home, your role was as adjunct, as supplement, as ventilation for Jadie’s endless combustion. You were my last attempt at Labradoring.

Now you are helping me to human.

I didn’t realize the lesson initially, which perhaps meant it was to take. You were a hyper, nervous wreck when you got here. Or I was. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference, so constant are you now.

But then. Then you were a bait pup, a dog race bunny mix of pit and beagle used to train attack dogs. A family had returned you for being too anxious. Now you sleep stretched like a hobo  on Xanax.

You used to fear humans. Now you stand on hinds to lick fingers (we gotta work on that).

You used to hate crates. Now you bound into yours for food and toys.

You used to navigate life. Now you celebrate it. 

Thus, do I. You have seen: I am not fully recovered from the back break. Some days, you must join Jadie and the dog walker, for this body abides its own calendars and alarm clocks, and I hate that they don’t always jibe.

But you do. Everyday, you are there. And I mean tHERE. When I join you kids in the park, you greet me like a teen girl at a Beatles concert.

When I go under hot water, you lay in bed to steal an ear tuck when I dry.

When I do yoga mat stretches, you plant your nose about an inch from where mine dips. Maybe less than an inch; definitely lick-lengthed.

And with each dip, you remind me how a little bad luck can land you on the wrong side of the crate. That timing is everything. That acknowledging the timing — here, at this very second before you reach the period — is everything plus 1.

This isn’t me keeping things whole. More than one physical therapist told me to literally brace for back issues in geezerhood (i.e., Tuesday). The five months since the break haven’t been completely wince-free. And Jadie, you’ll get your futon pad back soon, I promise.

Until then, Chuck, you’re the star, the headliner, the top of the fold. Mr. Abbott. Mr. Laurel. Mr. Charles DeAndre. 

Take a bow, bud. Keep this up, and soon I’ll be able to, too.

My murmurations,

You may have noticed dad walking more gingerly than usual lately.

Fret not: It’s not the weed, and your father is sober(ish). The 420 has been 86’d, and the evening wine is on sunset, replaced with aspirin and Tylenol.

See, I took a fall. A serious one. One that fractured four vertebrae and busted a couple ribs.

Doctors are still looking for reasons why. They think it followed a seizure, which they also are investigating. It may be the result of 23 years of immunosuppressants, 44 years of diabetes, a lifetime of brazen recklessness or just plain-old aging, which your old man has down pat.

I just didn’t want you to think I was going to the dog park without you. I would never do that. That place sucks without you. Kind of like all places without you.

It came out of the blue, during lunch with some of the bipedal animals of the dog park. One minute, I’m ordering overpriced french fries and a diet Coke. The next, I’m looking up at EMTs who tell me they’re taking me to the hospital.

You were right all along. What silliness, to ambulate upright, with your vital organs exposed, vulnerable, and your noggin so far above the ground. Did you know your nose experiences time slower than your toes? It’s true; just ask Einstein.

But I’m guessing you’re not interested in theoretical physicists. You’re interested in the parade of nurses at our door, who force you to share an oversized crate or unkempt office (and don’t think I haven’t noticed your Internet history at Barkbox and Chewy.com).

No, they are here to check on the vertical fractures of T6 through T9 of the thoracic spine, draw some blood, take some pulses, show me how to properly lift anything under two pounds. I don’t mention that your bag of kibble is 15 times their recommendations. And there’s not much to do about the ribs except wince.

But as I said, fret not. Life for you will not change — unless the power goes out again or we’re ordered to evacuate Los Angeles in this monsoon. Even then, we’ll just share closer quarters.

Speaking of which , you have surely noticed the pillows and mats on the living room floor, too. You’re welcome to join pops on the new bed.

Don’t worry: I’ll never ask you to catch me when I fall. But I do ask that you slobber and dander the hell out of me when I faceplant. It helps me rise more than you will ever know, more than any painkiller, more than any yoga positioning.

So scooch over and settle in. We’re on a new adventure.