My scoundrel,

It occurs to me I rarely write to you solely. Usually jointly, the second name of conjoined existence. Mr. Hardy. Mr. Costello. Mr. Jadie. 

And when you came into this home, your role was as adjunct, as supplement, as ventilation for Jadie’s endless combustion. You were my last attempt at Labradoring.

Now you are helping me to human.

I didn’t realize the lesson initially, which perhaps meant it was to take. You were a hyper, nervous wreck when you got here. Or I was. Sometimes it is hard to tell the difference, so constant are you now.

But then. Then you were a bait pup, a dog race bunny mix of pit and beagle used to train attack dogs. A family had returned you for being too anxious. Now you sleep stretched like a hobo  on Xanax.

You used to fear humans. Now you stand on hinds to lick fingers (we gotta work on that).

You used to hate crates. Now you bound into yours for food and toys.

You used to navigate life. Now you celebrate it. 

Thus, do I. You have seen: I am not fully recovered from the back break. Some days, you must join Jadie and the dog walker, for this body abides its own calendars and alarm clocks, and I hate that they don’t always jibe.

But you do. Everyday, you are there. And I mean tHERE. When I join you kids in the park, you greet me like a teen girl at a Beatles concert.

When I go under hot water, you lay in bed to steal an ear tuck when I dry.

When I do yoga mat stretches, you plant your nose about an inch from where mine dips. Maybe less than an inch; definitely lick-lengthed.

And with each dip, you remind me how a little bad luck can land you on the wrong side of the crate. That timing is everything. That acknowledging the timing — here, at this very second before you reach the period — is everything plus 1.

This isn’t me keeping things whole. More than one physical therapist told me to literally brace for back issues in geezerhood (i.e., Tuesday). The five months since the break haven’t been completely wince-free. And Jadie, you’ll get your futon pad back soon, I promise.

Until then, Chuck, you’re the star, the headliner, the top of the fold. Mr. Abbott. Mr. Laurel. Mr. Charles DeAndre. 

Take a bow, bud. Keep this up, and soon I’ll be able to, too.