Category Archives: Fang & Claw

Open Letter to A Puppy: Three’s Company


My frenzy,,

You may have noticed a fourth slow-feed dog bowl at the supper table lately. And no, we aren’t getting a third pup — yet (though the notion draws ever nearer).

You’ve got a roommate for the next few weeks. Mochi’s mom landed an acting gig for a few weeks, so we’re pup sitting this month. Which brings the poundage in the household to at least 180, dwarfing my own. 

And you wanna know something? I love it. I guess there’s no need to pretend I’m NOT that dog guy.

I’ve come to calling you the triplets: three shades of lab/pit  brown that will play triangular tug-of-war with the same rope, share wet food and sleep on the same single pad that nursed my back last year.

You all hop in the creamsicle hatchback, wrestling over squeak balls and whimpering to greet any passing canine. I should be so warm-hearted. 

More miraculously, even your pettiness charms.

What can be more beautiful than a jealous dog? One that bodies into you so closely it could be a vital organ? After dinner and some backyard fetching, I’ll drop to the cot and try to distribute two arms to three bodies evenly, though I know it’s never enough. 

When I return from another room, you cluster at the door like I FINALLY showed up for a staff meeting I’d called hours earlier.

If it sounds like I’m complaining, you should know: This is a lot more doable than I thought. Sixty pounds may be too much for this patch dirt. But 20? Ten? A man gets to thinking.

Until then, I’d ask you to make some home space for the rest of March. But when it comes to your hearts, I guess it’s never cramped. 

Open Letter to a Puppy: The Don’t Claw


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.