Dear Teddy,

This is my first letter to you, but I trust it will find you. I know it will. 

You’ve been on my mind. That’s probably because I recently visited and met with a mini-you. Eight weeks and female, just as you were to be when I heard about you a decade and a half ago.

But you were the last to leave the litter, and when the choice came to get my money back or get you, well, you know what I chose. And I’d do it a million times over.

You were my first puppy in reconstruction. And flipping through memories, I can see it in various stages through recollections of my Golden.

Here is you in that tiny studio above a commercial garage in Westwood. Here is you, at the dog park. Here is you, diving into the pool in Encino. Here is you, trying to keep a squeak toy from Esme by spinning her clockwise, then counterclockwise.

Here is you, holding Esme’s entire head in your mouth. Here is you, offering a ball to Aunt Lessie. Here is you, getting a kiss from Dad.

Here is you.

I tear up when I think about you. And then the right song will hit, and I am a wreck.

Jadie and Charlie worry when I look sad. I wish I could let them know it’s the most beautiful sadness there is; filled, tip to toe, in love.

Because you will always be more than my reconstruction pup. You will always be my second chance, my hand up, my bootstrap incarnate.

Thank you for the rescue. 

Now, if you’re wondering how I know this letter will reach you, it’s because I know exactly where you live, young man:

Theodore Ruxpin Bowles, ℅ my ❤️.

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.