Category Archives: Fang & Claw

Open Letter to a Puppy: Bottoms Up (for Sis, with Love and Squalor)



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.

Open Letter to a Puppy: The Gash


My girl,

You have served as nursemaid for months now. Today, you are the nursed. 

You went to bed last night scratching behind your ear as if your brain itched. But it couldn’t be fleas: I check your thick auburn coat like a hungry chimp weekly, and you and Charlie both  down or spritz NexGard regularly, as prescribed.

But when we woke today and I gave you the morning ear rub, my hand came back wet. You had scratched a bald spot behind your left ear, and I could see the laceration, nearly two inches long and covered in red bumps and puss.

I called your vet’s office, which said the wait would be 2-4 hours. Your walker suggested another clinic, and off we went — with Charlie in tow. He’d rather panic in company than solitude. Who wouldn’t?

After a 45-minute wait, the doctor confirmed an infection from punctured skin. Perhaps you played too hard and were bit. Maybe scratched. Whatever the cause, you never made a sound.

That is, until the doctor saw you. You wrenched and whimpered so much the vet, who was at least 200 pounds, had to sedate you to examine you. 

Seeing you in fear or pain is hard to describe. It chokes me up, even in memory. Especially in memory.

You have always made eye contact with me. When I’m wincing from the busted back, I usually look up to see you staring, sympathetic and silent and still.

Today you gave that gaze, this time for suggestion. How I wish I spoke dog. How I wish I could explain that you are going to be fine save for pills, antibiotic spray and a cone you must wear for two weeks.

How I wish I could tell you that you won’t be able to go to the park for 14 days — or 3 ½ months in human time. I forget that your life speeds at seven times the speed of mine. Maybe that’s why you live in the moment so.

Now it’s my time to be here, immediately. The mat you slept next to, you will sleep on. We will take meds on the same  timetable. We will recover jointly. 

And Chuck, you were a champ. You are officially a support dog, government licenses be damned. I’ll help Jadie learn the geometry of conical living. You point out the Snausages. 

And when that cone comes off, younglings, we will storm the park like fucking Vikings with a score to settle.

So have a seat, baby. Or a bed. It’s my turn to fetch.