Category Archives: Fang & Claw

Open Letter to a Puppy, Chapter XI: Sit, Uber, sit.


I have it on good source that, pretty soon, you may be able to call an Uber for Fido.

That source is my multiverse self. Which apparently lives somewhere in London.

I discovered this Brit doppelgänger more than a year ago. His name is also S. Bowles. But Sam. He must have thought putting a period after the ”s” but before the ”b” gave him a unique gmail address, or even a working one.

It does not, Sam. It comes to me.

Don’t feel bad; I hear at least once a week from companies with urgent sbowles notices for Seth or Stephanie or Sarah. I had one ”Sami,” though that may have been a typo. And Steven Bowles, you asshole, at least use an original pseudonym on your conservative slackwit sites.

But Sam, you sound legit. And I get a frightening amount of personal information in mis-sent emails. Like your penchant for McDonald’s late at night. Or that time you moved. I feel a little creepy looking. But it’s tough not to read an email with a receipt not only attached, but printed in the body of the text. Just sayin,’ it pays to copy edit. Where was I?

Taxis for terriers! That picture above arrived in my email last week, and I nearly had a carpet wee wee. This would be a godsend to stranded pet owners — and pets. And I know a half-dozen people who would leap, LEAP! at the chance to be a canine cabbie. My heart sank a little when I discovered it’s an England-only kennel club.

But that may mean it’s headed here. We love our grandparents’ stuff: the war medals, the shouty politics, Monty Python. And your love of pups. Bless your filthy Western European hearts, you’ll let Sir Barksdale lick his balls and off your warm cafe plate, in that order.

But share a ride with fur and slobber? I think I have that comfort spread covered.

So too, would America, I suspect. Our numbers are too large to ignore — particularly as domestic pets crutch us through a still-bubbling pandemic.

And as Uber has proven: If there’s profit in it, there’s motivation for it.

So bring on the dandered cavalry. Sam, I hope you have a pup — and a valid email. And Chuck & Jadie, tell you what: If and when it gets here, not only is the first ride on me, you can have both window seats.

Open Letter to a Puppy, Chapter IV: Running with Big Dogs


Sir Charles,

You have been home a half-year now, yet this is my first note to you solely. My apologies; you’ve kind of left me thunderstruck since your arrival.

A confession: I adopted you as a supplemental pup. I wanted Jadie to have a pal, a sibling, a guarantee that she live adorned in unapologetic love. And how you adorn.

What I hadn’t planned on was that adornment becoming integral. No, essential. And not just to your sister, but to me.

You are small (compared to Jadie): 30-pounds of car-friendly serpentine velcro that looks to anticipate — to submarine — whatever my next step. You grant me a 15-yard leash of unaccompanied movement in open spaces. Surveillance, of course, is mandated 24/7, and, to hear you tell it, isolated confinement for either of us may as well be the death penalty.

To say I don’t love every bit of that is to lie outright.

But see, Jadie was to be the velcro pup. Jadie was to be the side presence. Jadie was to be the co-pilot. And she is that. Seismically so. And you fit so well in each other’s life cockpit I will think: ’Dumbass, YOU’RE the supplemental one.’

But there’s that 24/7 surveillance thing, and you seem ever-present to correct me. I swear to god, I think you listen to me. Like, listen: You cock your head at every sound from this cavernous skull. I have few closeups of you NOT looking at me cock-eyed, like I’d just done something stupid. Wait a sec…

Anyway, the point is that you were a rogue wave, a bundle of cosmos that proved so much more once I got my Hubblehead in proper orbit.

You play in the big dog park because small dogs bore you. You fit on an ottoman you can’t help but eat. You’re too short to run fast. You have ruptured tendons and torn skin to play. But apparently all are requisite to run with the big, risky ones.

I guess you knew that long before us.

So let’s end your first note on two points.

One, you were never supplemental; dad just has vision problems.

Two, welcome to the family. It looks good on you. 

Open Letter To A Puppy, Chapter VIII: The Picnic View


Starlings,

You may have noticed your valet sitting cross-legged atop the picnic table during our morning dog park excursions.

Please know: It’s not that I’m a helicopter dad, though I certainly am that. Here’s the deal: I dig your dog park. It is an amazing place for meditation.

Not for the quiet. Not for the peace. Certainly not for the janitorial duties.

I love your park because, everyday, I see a display of life lived right.

You both have made the off-leash Victory Dog Park your second home and, thus, mine. You whimper when we near in the car, strain collars when we approach on foot, and burst forth when we finally! unfasten.

So I take a hoisted seat, and marvel at the Great Canine Stage, where you and your wolf cousins seem so joyous, so unbridled and becoming. As best I can tell:

  • You hold the right amount of consciousness. I can spot no ego, vanity, posturing or scheming. If you’re worried about how you look or what others think, it doesn’t show. If mortality frets you, your poker face would school Gaga.
  • You hold anger for the right amount of time. Seven seconds, I count. Enough to feel it, express it, and move on.
  • You hold memory for the right amount of time. A half day, tops. Enough to greet yesterday’s friends like today’s kin. Enough to forget parental failures — or at least to forgive so deeply it feels like forgetting.

A confession: I also like the park because I suck at meditating. I’m too much an emotional hoarder to clear my mind.

So I wolf a version of meditation, based on what you do. I take a corner of the table, hopefully dappled in sun, and cross legs. Elbows on knees. In through the nose, out the mouth. Deep both ways. Slow. Down. Time.

And I will watch you all and think: More than the joy, more than the forgiveness, more than the love amnesia, teach me how you are never anywhere but in the now.

I’m pretty sure that’s where meditation is supposed to take you. I’m positive it’s supposed to take you to a place place that embraces life, which you do without conscience. How did we help form something so present-minded yet forget ourselves?

It’s not just at the park. I think I have photographic proof of you both lazing in the sun on your backs, gazing at the sky, perhaps pondering what a nimbus smells like.

At least it looks that way from a tabletop.

So ignore the chauffeur in the corner of your eye, practicing his breathing and trying to take mental note of your dance moves. 

Dad’s just trying to dog.