My little ones,

I have some hard news. Richard Harris, Trouble’s dad, the mayor of the dog park and the first regular you ever met there, died in his sleep last night. He was 58.

He died after doing his second-favorite thing: cooking for friends. He made dinner in his new pizza oven, dined, laughed, shared his love, said good night and was gone by 4 a.m.

His favorite thing was Trouble, his 12-year-old rescue that taught him to love dogs. He used not to, but said that when he met Trouble, he knew he was in it, because he was head over heels.

From that moment, he became the smiling face of the Sepulveda Basin Off-Leash dog park. He walked dogs there for 20 years under the business name Sitters O’ Critters, and seemed to remember the name of every person and pup he ever met.

If you were a regular at the park, you knew Richard, along with his daily query: “Whatchu doin for lunch? I want something delicious.” A park regular called him “the Great Connector” of people at the park, who became a community — bound by his love of dogs, the park, and the palpable chemistry of that combination.

Born in Hawaii but raised in Pittsburgh, Richard was an eight-year military veteran and served in the Gulf War before civilian life. He could have lived a cubicle existence, and knew how to invest.

But he would say he could never give up a life with dogs, dog people, and the California sun. 

Every day, he’d show up in a crapped out Scooby Doo van with at least a dozen of his charges, each of which got their own crate for safe passage. You two would greet him daily, barking hellos to his squadron of fur and fang.

I can’t tell you what the park will feel like tomorrow. Surely empty. Some of your friends may not be back. I know one of mine won’t.

But Richard would never forgive us if we didn’t show up, didn’t love on the fur babies, didn’t marvel at the Cali weather and canine frenzy that brought us together in the first place.

So let’s try keep it together tomorrow. Better than dad did today. 

Afterwards, we’ll get something delicious.

My interrobangs,

Today you are both somehow four, which means you are getting too old, too quickly. So please stop.

More astounding — we’ve been a family for three years now. With roles that seem decades in the practice.

Jadie, you are the beauty of the clan. Your maroon Chocolate face  and those sunset eyes still catch me off guard when I see you seeing me, which feels like every time I need it. I remember you in palms.

Charlie, you are the ultimate co-pilot. You take the next-to pillow each night, stay put until I rise. You are my yes-yes-yes, my what-took-you-so-long, my after-all. Like all rescues, you know.

And now so do I. Breakfast comes after the park. Green beans help  feign a feast. Salmon oil on anything is like bacon dip.

We’ve created a rhythm of bone, beat and breath. You spot our electric clown car before I do, and you’ve become rolling ambassadors at local hamburger joints. People ask if you’re okay if they notice you’re not hatchbacked.

Perhaps that is why you always are. Because I know I am okay if we are rolling as a pack.

Four winters have passed like a breath. You found your way here along different paths, but both were forged by paws pressing time into corners of a house now yours. Twin souls in different coats, you’ve taught me that love multiplies rather than divides.

Today you are four — just another day to you. But to me, a milestone of miracles: Two creatures that share my days; two stories braided with mine; two reasons to believe that the best things in life come in pairs.

Happy Fourth, little ones.

With love and salmon oil,

pops