My tadpoles,

At the suggestion of your grandmother, and the demand of Mother Nature, we broke out the kiddie pool today. 

You remember the kiddie pool. That $10 glorified frisbee you have treated like one, chewing the entire circumference like a bully stick. And Chuck, no need to mention what I’ve seen you do on the side of that poor thing.

But 110 degree temperatures will lead a man to do strange things. Like order breakfast in. Like work on some morning poetry. Like skip the dogpark.

Ok, ok, you caught me: I tried to sneak that last one in. And I understand: It’s a treasonable offense; perhaps lynchable.

But hear me out. First we broke out the cheap inflatable fountain we bought for Jadie in puppyhood.

You both loved it, pouncing on and off the tiny nozzles. Until I noticed the gusher flowing from the side seam of the “fountain.”

So out came the kp. After a quick scrub, it fit nicely in the fountain’s rubber chalk line. And fired up the hose.

Jadie, you became a puppy again. When I set down the pool, you sat squarely in it and watched as I cranked the spigot.

Do you remember those days? Are you telling me you do?

When I began filling it, you stuck your maw in the way, blocking the blast and stealing a sip. On the way to the other side of the pool, I’d nail you at the base of your tail. You’d whirlpool to the other edge, blocking that blast before getting doused and spun again. 

Charlie, my apologies. I forget how electrified Jadie gets by hoses. She chased you like you were an impala on the Serengeti. Though given how much you loved to be hunted — and were a roadrunner to Jadie’s Wile E. — maybe apologies aren’t necessary.

At least for the unexpected water park day. I will formally ask for human forgiveness for calling these the dog days just because of a little heat.

They clearly need a kiddie pool.

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.