Delmas Open Letter to A Puppy: Dog Day of Summer
For years, I thought you and Jadie shared the same birthday, November 1st. I was sure of it.
When I adopted you from Pet Orphans of Southern California, I could have sworn the paperwork said November 1st. Maybe I misread it. Maybe the form was asking about Jadie, the one I wanted you to meet.
Either way, I liked the symmetry of it: two dogs, same birthday, same age. Instant siblings. One big cake every year, no calendar reminders needed.
Turns out, I was wrong.
Pet Orphans emailed me yesterday to wish you a happy birthday — August 31st. That date already carries a lot of weight. It’s Samuel Flegel’s birthday. It was my wedding anniversary once, too, before life moved on.
Funny how a single date can hold so many lives inside it.
And of course, it explains everything. Jadie carries herself like fall: steady, calm, deliberate. She surveys the yard before stepping into it. She waits for the ball to stop rolling before picking it up. She is dusk on four legs.
You, Charlie, are noon.
Summer dogs don’t sleep when they nap. They don’t stroll; they streak. They live in exclamation points, never commas.
You burst through the door like the Kool-Aid man, tail spinning, eyes wide, heart cranked to eleven. You bark at neighborhood dogs because they have the nerve to walk by. You greet strangers like they’ve been gone for years (or pose an existential threat).
Summer dogs wag fast, run faster, think about neither.
And maybe that’s why you and Jadie work so well. She’s the long pause; you’re the punch line. She plans; you pounce. She’s fall leaves; you’re fireworks.
So happy belated, Chuck DeAndre Bowles. August 31st, the day of donors and vows and now a streak of fur blazing through the yard. You were made for heat waves and late sunsets and long, reckless afternoons.
So you’re not Jadie’s twin. But you are always her lighting bolt.
And mine.
