My clan,

Sorry the humans got all up in your face at the dogpark today. I know you wanted to see what the fuss was. Or at least sniff its crotch.

You see, a new puppy, Whiskey Sour, was introduced to the park and world, and she can’t be around you for a few months. But she can meet bipeds.

I know, I know: Irony is the most abundant element in the universe.

But you should see that face! Jadie, you may recognize the retriever in the golden coat; Charlie, you’re gonna love having a fellow low-rider — for a few months, at least.

It’s crazy, but there was a palpable buzz about a new member of the woof pack. Whiskey came swaddled in her mom’s arms (and a zippered satchel meant for toy breeds).

But it wasn’t just the glow of being new that drew the humans near. We congratulated mom, shook dad’s hand. All that was missing were cigars.

Because you two — and the millions like you — are true family to millions like me.

I know there is an unfathomable gap between biological parenting and rearing fang and claw. But you and yours before are all the metric I have.

And when the sun begins to stretch shadow fingers on the backyard, and you yawn awake from a summer nap, this summer nap, to await a chef’s special of kibble, mush and salmon oil, you are just the metric I need. Or need to fill.

How I wish I could convey the sense of purpose you do without thought or intent, which is probably why it takes. I have known many who needed to feel needed and never did.

But you. You are instant care, instant need, instant worry.

Instant presence.

Forgive your old man. I’m still a little tipsy on whiskey sour. Ignore my wonderings about the real difference between two and three.