Category Archives: Open Letter

Open Letter to A Puppy: Work Zones


My plus twos

It’s rare that bipeds come to the park without their emotional support pups (and what dogs are not?). But you’ve surely noticed the odd goings on there of late. 

Surveyors in yellow hats. Their government trucks parked horizontally over vertical stripes. Cameramen in full gear. Reporters REALLY hoping to not step in something; not in these shoes. 

Don’t worry. None of them are vets. 

No, the humans are here for politics. Politics is what we do we’re not focused on more important things, i.e., you.

The people in helmets are surveilling how much of the park can be cut and how long it can be closed. See, the Summer Olympics are coming here in 2028, and the city wants to look its spiffiest. 

Which means more bike paths. And I hate to tell you guys: They want land from your park. Our petitions didn’t dissuade. Our pressure could not prevent. 

That’s why you see all the cameras and tasty shoes. Reporters want to know what your parents think of that — along with our thoughts on a new Los Angeles ordinance banning backyard breeding (shelters are 210% over capacity).

We’re all pretty united on both fronts: You can bike the street, but a dog already has a scarcity of choices. And Charlie would like a moment in private with his former backyard bait dog owner.

So be extra patient with the unaccompanied majors you see tromping your backyard. They’ve got a job to do, even if it is to pave paradise. Some might even have pups of their own.

But Charlie, feel free to jack a leg on one of those trucks. And, for this time only, any nice shoes dropped on the ground are fair game. 

Open Letter to an Organ Donor (Samuel Flegel 8/31/78-1/11/2000)


My dearest Samuel,

This marks the first anniversary letter I’ve written to you with an ounce of hesitance. Not for any bad news, though there was some. 

I pause because my mother raised me to fear the jinx. But I believe in you more than any superstition, so to hell with it. 

You see, we met 24! years ago today. Which puts us within a calendar year of a QUARTER-CENTURY together. And, parenthetically, me within spitting distance (five months) of 60 effing years old.

Neither milestone seemed feasible when we began our odyssey in 2000. There were only two hospitals in the nation that even attempted pancreatic transplants, and docs said that the organ lifespan averaged seven years, given successful surgery. Throw in the required kidney transplant, and all forecasts or expectations should go out the window, docs said. 

So out they went. It wasn’t hard; when I caught diabetes at 13, the notion of seeing 60 seemed as far-fetched as me dunking. That’s old age. Granny’s sixty, right, from the black and white pictures?

But then we crossed paths, and suddenly I’m touching rim. 

I know it’s you, lifting me during a layup so lil’ slugger can soar. But air is air. Even when it’s getting thin.

And it’s been thin this year. We lost sis, whose last stop came three nights before Halloween. You would have loved her fire; not so much her rain.

And you know about the back/rib break. Sorry for rattling the windows. This house is creaky as get out. 

But here we are, on the 26th of 25 moonlit miles. The home stretch.

I am being melodramatic. Should I reject tomorrow, today would be no less remarkable, if only for all the ground we have broken so far.

Twenty-four years of not being diabetic. Twenty-four years of standing our ground. Twenty-four years of thinking about you Every. Single. Day.

And I ain’t one for final stops. Gimme late charges all day, anyday. 

So let’s sprint the finish, Sam. And leave the gym door open. We’ll run the mystic marathon as long as these heels still kick dust. 

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.