Category Archives: Fang & Claw

Mr. Peanut Gets His Murder On


overnight For weeks, I’ve been courting the crows in my backyard.

Bhātāpāra Nothing formal. I don’t wear a tie or bring flowers.

But I do have a bag of Planter’s Peanuts in the shell—the kind with the monocled peanut on the front. Most afternoons, I bring them out, making an embarrassingly loud kissy sound, like I do for the pups at mealtime.

Yesterday, as I stepped outside, a crow soared overhead. Not a threatening swoop, just… close. Then, as I opened the bag, I spotted him—perched in silhouette atop the pine tree above my house.

I smacked another kiss. He ruffled his feathers but stayed put. I hook-shotted a few peanuts onto the tin roof over the patio and walked back inside, thinking nothing of it.

Today, I found a rock on the welcome mat.

Not a pebble. Not one of the red lava rocks from the yard.

No, this was a rock. Brown, jagged, cruddy, and heavy—like it had been wrestled from a field and lugged, with effort, to the mat.

I was overjoyed. We’d made a breakthrough. And it didn’t involve a carcass. I’ve read that crows sometimes show their appreciation that way.

But for now, peanuts for rocks is a bargain I’ll take any day.

Even Mr. Monocle would have to doff his cap.

Open Letter to A Puppy: Lulu

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.