Monthly Archives: July 2025

Open Letter to A Puppy: Lulu

narcotically Open Letter to a Puppy: Lulu

My punctuation,

As you may have noticed, there’s an 8-pound visitor in our home. Say hello to Lulu.

She puts the toy in Toy Yorkshire Terrier. Jadie, I think she’s as heavy as your left paw. And twice as fragile.

Actually, make that at least seven times as fragile as that paw. And that was the revelation.

See, before taking her on, I thought: What’s another mouth to feed? Mochi’s spent the night plenty of times.

But when my dear friend told me what Lulu’s needs included — eye drops, special kibble, special treats — I realized I wasn’t just taking on a third mouth to feed. I was entrusted with guarding a life.

I guess I always knew that, but this time, I did the math: She wasn’t a 12-year-old Yorky. In our years, she was an 84-year-old lady. A little blind, a little deaf. I should be that spry when I’m 60.

Which I am.

Which got me thinking about math. Lulu is exactly one-fifth my age, yet nearly a quarter-century older. When I viewed her through that lens, everything changed.

She wasn’t sleeping over. She was checking in for a couple weeks — 2 ½ months for her — and deserved the over-protective care I’d give my mother, who is around her age and would demonstrate her spryness should I utter another number.

Every day, it seems, I discover I am drawn to dogs (to all living organisms, actually) as I was once draw to writing. It never was work: I’d clearly do this for free.

So it seems with pups. Long ago I lost any pretense about my house looking or smelling like dog. If it doesn’t, call the cops, delivery heroes.

It’s a funny obsession. You know how small a matter it is on the list of Earth’s concerns.

But you build that world regardless, and they with you, and you see how seismic the concern. If a life is measured by how one affects life, what the hell was I doing for forty years?

Which brings me to Lulu. I promise you: It’s not a permanent change, and is no reflection of your goodness, which has only grown in her sudden presence. I should be so accommodating with the prospect of newness.

I’d tell you scooch over a half-inch for a few days, but I don’t think she’d take up that much space. So let’s make this home as fit for royalty as dogness permits.

The math of love.

ID. Buzz Kill


Volkswagen’s new electric van, the ID. Buzz, was supposed to be a love letter to America’s freewheeling spirit; instead, it’s a Dear John note from the future.

VW thought nostalgia would drive sales — that Americans would sprint to the showroom to reclaim a piece of the ‘60s, this time on battery power. They slapped a $60,000-plus price tag on it, slapped a few surfboards in the ads, and expected buyers to slap down deposits.

But the ID. Buzz missed its moment, misread its audience, and underestimated the hard math of the American driveway.

The Buzz promised sunny California vibes but delivered European practicality dressed up in pastel marketing. In a country that loves big trucks and seven-seat SUVs, this was a lightweight with a short reach. The range — just 230 or so miles — looked more like a commuter car’s resume than a road trip warrior’s.

And in a land where “bigger is better” is stitched into our national psyche, the ID. Buzz simply looked like a toy.

Then came the price. VW asked for Tesla money without Tesla specs or status. Americans looked at the $70K window sticker, remembered there were no tax credits (thanks to German assembly), and politely declined.

The Buzz ended up in a weird no-man’s-land: too expensive for the hippie van crowd, too small and underpowered for suburban families, too slow to make an impact in the flash-flood EV market.

Early adopters who love to brag about range, tax rebates, and resale value found better choices in Kia’s EV9, Rivian’s R1S, or even the old-guard Model Y. Meanwhile, anyone seduced by nostalgia could grab a restored gas microbus for half the money and twice the smiles.

Add to that VW’s signature rollout stumbles:

• Recalls for missing seat belts.

• Brake warning lights that didn’t meet U.S. standards.

• Delayed shipments and dealer markups north of $20,000.

• A final sticker shock after import tariffs kicked in.

When the Buzz finally arrived, the moment had already passed. Volkswagen’s electric microbus barely made a ripple in U.S. sales waters: just 564 units delivered in Q2 2025—after only around 1,900 sold in its first full quarter on sale—and fewer than 3,000 shipped to dealers by late March, despite being marketed as a “halo” product meant to draw crowds.

The U.S. EV market had moved from curiosity to cold calculation: price per mile, battery warranty, resale depreciation. VW arrived dressed for Woodstock, but the crowd was at a finance seminar.

The Buzz is not necessarily a bad car; it’s just a bad bet on who we are. Americans love to talk about flower power and road trips, but they buy F-150s and three-row SUVs. VW should have known.

Maybe there’s still a second act — a longer-range version, local production, smarter pricing. But for now, the ID. Buzz looks like the kind of experiment that ends up on the museum floor next to the New Coke can and the Segway.

The only buzz left is the fly circling around the showroom.