Category Archives: Fang & Claw

Open Letter to Our Human: The Case of the Dinner Delay

Dear Keeper of the Kibble,

We write this with heavy hearts and, frankly, empty stomachs. There has been an unforgivable delay in tonight’s dinner service, and as your loyal, ever-starving companions, we feel it our duty to address this grave oversight.

We’ve been nothing but patient. Well, mostly patient. Charlie even refrained from licking outlets, and Jadie kept sock consumption to one.

Yet here we are, the clock ticking past dinnertime, our bowls still somehow empty. We’ve tried to remind you — subtly, of course. Puppy eyes, intentional yawns, even pacing.

Still, you went about your business as if our plight didn’t exist. You folded laundry. You mopped, for some reason (as if we weren’t going to walk those floors). Then, to add insult to injury, you sat down to watch TV. We even had to endure you laughing at some show instead of addressing the situation at hand.

Now, we understand you may have had a long day. You might even claim you forgot what time it was. But let’s be honest: we know you checked your phone at least five times, so that pig isn’t going to fly.

Let us be clear: this is not revolt. We would never stage a mutiny. (Unless you run out of soft food. Then it’s Lord of The Flies.) This is simply a nudge from your devoted pack that dinner isn’t just a meal—it’s an event. A sacred ritual where we gather around bowls and pretend not to notice you sneaking people food we can smell from three rooms away.

So, please, put down the remote, step away from the laundry, and fulfill your most sacred duty: feeding us. We promise to greet the meal with the enthusiasm you’ve come to expect, even if it’s just kibble and beans. (Though we wouldn’t say no to some of that chicken you had earlier.)

Faithfully famished,

Jadie the Jealous

Charlie the Chaotic

P.S. Jadie says if this happens again, she’ll be forced to eat your wallet. Don’t test our resolve.

What Remains


What Remains

It is easy to count absences,
to weigh hollow spaces
left by what was,
to listen for echoes of a voice
that no longer answers.

But loss is a thief
who will take more
as it lingers—
it grows fond of company.

So look
not back, but around.
The light shifts as it always has,
long shadows stretching toward
some unseen horizon.

The air carries scents
that do not belong to the past,
and the earth, forgiving as ever,
still holds you.

What you have now
is not less.
It is different.
It is the pulse in your hand,
the quiet of the morning,
the small, stubborn blooms
that push through cracks in stone.

This moment—
it is yours,
as much as anything ever was.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Good Night, Mayor


Dogfather

He filled the room just by being in it,
a man too big for small moments,
too alive for anything half-measured.
When he laughed, it was the whole world laughing.
When he loved, it was with the force of a storm
that left everything standing—
only cleaner, only brighter.

He didn’t just live.
He lived. Every. Second.
Not cautious, never cautious,
but sure, as if the ground itself
rose to meet his feet.

They called him the Dogfather,
and it fit.
A presence you leaned on,
trusted —
because how could one person
carry so much life?


When he sat beside you,
you felt something solid in a world
too full of shifting sand.
And when he gave his love,
you knew it would outlast him.

In the end, it did.
He died the way he lived—
loving, loved,
surrounded by the ones
he’d taught to carry the light.

Even in sleep,
he burned like a fire.
And when the flames finally dimmed,
they left a warmth behind
that does not fade.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​