Baby, what am I going to do with you?

You returned to the emergency room today. You’re beginning to outpace me in hospital trips, a mantle you do not want to hoist, love. 

I’m not sure when it happened, but you bounded to me at the park today, grinning and filthy and hyper from a fresh round of romps. You backed in for a quick booty scratch before returning to the scrum.

And I could feel the blood on your spine.

I grabbed your collar, pushed fingers through your maroon double-coat. The problem with a Chocolate Lab is that when she bleeds, it’s hard to tell the difference between mud and plasma. This wasn’t mud. 

When we massaged your coat to inspect deeper, all the humans gasped: a deep gash, at least two inches wide, raked across your backbone.

You and I hopped in the car as the park watched and returned Charlie home (though I hear his undies were in a twist the whole time at the park: don’t tell him I said anything). I phoned the vet hospital, which saw you for emergency surgery.

You know I’m a wreck when you do this, right?

The vet said you must have carved yourself on a fence or other jutting metal; the tear was not consistent with a bite. He said the wound was recent, no older than a day or two. 

That just made it worse. Did I miss something last night? I’ve gotta be more thorough. 

Now you are home, shaved, stitched, sporting a drainage tube. In three days we’ll remove the tube. In two weeks we’ll remove the stitches. In a month life will be normal. 

But, goddamn, I’m sorry love. 

And, to whatever karmic force is at play here: I am used to your shit. Bring it. But leave her the fuck alone.

Sorry baby, hospital talk stirs the blood, as you’re starting to learn. It’s even got your dad asking stupid questions.

I know exactly what I am going to do with you, Jadie. Be there Every. Single. Time.

My plus twos

It’s rare that bipeds come to the park without their emotional support pups (and what dogs are not?). But you’ve surely noticed the odd goings on there of late. 

Surveyors in yellow hats. Their government trucks parked horizontally over vertical stripes. Cameramen in full gear. Reporters REALLY hoping to not step in something; not in these shoes. 

Don’t worry. None of them are vets. 

No, the humans are here for politics. Politics is what we do we’re not focused on more important things, i.e., you.

The people in helmets are surveilling how much of the park can be cut and how long it can be closed. See, the Summer Olympics are coming here in 2028, and the city wants to look its spiffiest. 

Which means more bike paths. And I hate to tell you guys: They want land from your park. Our petitions didn’t dissuade. Our pressure could not prevent. 

That’s why you see all the cameras and tasty shoes. Reporters want to know what your parents think of that — along with our thoughts on a new Los Angeles ordinance banning backyard breeding (shelters are 210% over capacity).

We’re all pretty united on both fronts: You can bike the street, but a dog already has a scarcity of choices. And Charlie would like a moment in private with his former backyard bait dog owner.

So be extra patient with the unaccompanied majors you see tromping your backyard. They’ve got a job to do, even if it is to pave paradise. Some might even have pups of their own.

But Charlie, feel free to jack a leg on one of those trucks. And, for this time only, any nice shoes dropped on the ground are fair game.