Category Archives: Fang & Claw

Open Letter to a Puppy, Chapter III: The Scenic Overlook

My forever from now,

There is no way to take this other than wrong, so I am just going to say it and explain.

Nearly every time I am with you, I want to die.

Don’t worry. Your mom is not a cutter and your dad is not a jumper. Quite the opposite.

Some days, usually as the sun is clocking out, we will head to the backyard. I will bring music and ice water. You will bring a rawhide. And we will laze beneath a mister as Alexa DJs the picnic.

And a song will come on. And you will be on your back, in the shade, gnawing, blissfully oblivious. And a breeze will catch, and pour over us both.

And I will think: I could Go.Right.Now. It could End.Right.Here.

However heated the heart attack, however seismic the stroke, however excruciating the embolism, it would be no match for you. Ending on the high note of you, with you, is worth a momentary grimace. After all, we all have to take the final exit ramp, honey. Pull over at a scenic overlook than a truck stop.

As you bound forth, child, ask yourself: How would I like to go? How should the final reel play?

Whatever the answer, make it your choice. Make it mid-joy.

One recent dusk, I tempted Fortuna. I was sipping, you were bully sticking. A misting breeze kissed us as the sun serenaded. I could have Gone.Right.Then.

Cat Stevens’ Tea for the Tillerman played. You know the song: It’s a one-minute tune that ends on a crescendo of piano and gospel voices.

I closed my eyes and called Fate out. ‘Make it as painful as you want,’ I offered. ‘I can Go.Right.Now.’

The keys struck. The voices lifted.

I opened my eyes to you. There you were, panting and grinning and drooling and asking what’s next.

And at once I realized: YOU are not ready for me to go. YOU want me to hear you as you have your say, see you as you make your mark.

So I will witness all of you, baby.

It’s enough to make a heart beat Just.Like.This.

Open Letter to a Puppy, Chapter II: The Hard Bite

(Photo by Daniel Scherl)


My hallelujah,

Last week, you took your first hard bite.

I do not think it was an intentional, aggressive nip, though it might have been. You were roughhousing at the dog park with your regular woofpack. You disappeared into a joyous scrum of slobber and tail. I could not see you.

But I heard you. I know your yelp. Mothers always do. Your grandmother says a parent not only knows their baby’s cry, but knows what that cry is communicating: fear, hunger, pain. This was pain.

You bolted from the pack and thundered toward the end of the park. You let out another yelp as you galloped, although you were far from anyone. I will never forget that image, of you, in flight and in pain.

There was no stopping or catching you. Those paws kicked up mud like a Clydesdale (Take no offense: I love, LOVE that you are a big girl. Distrust anyone who does not).

You did not stop until you reached the chain link fence at the corner of the park, where you trembled near the gate, perhaps asking to go home. When I got there, you shivered a bit as I checked you for a cut, a gash, a bullet or knife wound. Nothing. Just fray.

So I coaxed you back, stooping as we walked with my hand on your side as if I were a banister for a toddler, which I guess I was (you’re not even four years old in human measure). I will never forget that image, either.

Your walkers, who saw the skirmish, told me the dog that bit you was not part of their clique, but a pit bull that often wants to join the club. Last year, they said, he nearly bit another dog’s ear off. They tried to get his human banned from the park, but I guess it is hard to prove assholery, let alone prosecute it.

That is not the point. This is: Some days are going to fall on the hard. And when they do, it is rarely personal.

It can be difficult, not taking hurt personally. Your grandfather could not do it. Often, I cannot, either. Grudges are easier so see, easier to hold, easier to swallow than indifference. Indifference is like a water-flavored rawhide. What is the fun of chewing something if you cannot taste its disintegration?

But keep this in mind as you bound ever forward, youngling: You have no right to someone’s opinion of you. And when you do get it, it is likely projection, not reflection.

Which was probably the case last week. Pitty belongs to — and I’m sorry to use this language — a Bad Dog. Maybe the dad is insecure. Maybe he is overcompensating his courage. Maybe he is just an asshole.

The point is, it was not you. There are only two things to do when you meet a Biter: let it go, or learn from it. Given your ode to joy dance when we rejoined the pack, my guess is you already did the former. I will do the latter. That is my job.

But if a day does fall on the hard, and you are feeling the gnash and gnarl, you know where I’ll be. At the end of the fence, by the gate, stooping to walk you wherever you need to be.

https://youtu.be/grwcV6VuVko