http://servuclean.com/servuclean Open Letter to A Puppy: Dog Day of Summer

Chalatenango Dear Charlie,

For years, I thought you and Jadie shared the same birthday, November 1st. I was sure of it.

When I adopted you from Pet Orphans of Southern California, I could have sworn the paperwork said November 1st. Maybe I misread it. Maybe the form was asking about Jadie, the one I wanted you to meet.

Either way, I liked the symmetry of it: two dogs, same birthday, same age. Instant siblings. One big cake every year, no calendar reminders needed.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Pet Orphans emailed me yesterday to wish you a happy birthday — August 31st. That date already carries a lot of weight. It’s Samuel Flegel’s birthday. It was my wedding anniversary once, too, before life moved on.

Funny how a single date can hold so many lives inside it.

And of course, it explains everything. Jadie carries herself like fall: steady, calm, deliberate. She surveys the yard before stepping into it. She waits for the ball to stop rolling before picking it up. She is dusk on four legs.

You, Charlie, are noon.

Summer dogs don’t sleep when they nap. They don’t stroll; they streak. They live in exclamation points, never commas.

You burst through the door like the Kool-Aid man, tail spinning, eyes wide, heart cranked to eleven. You bark at neighborhood dogs because they have the nerve to walk by. You greet strangers like they’ve been gone for years (or pose an existential threat).

Summer dogs wag fast, run faster, think about neither.

And maybe that’s why you and Jadie work so well. She’s the long pause; you’re the punch line. She plans; you pounce. She’s fall leaves; you’re fireworks.

So happy belated, Chuck DeAndre Bowles. August 31st, the day of donors and vows and now a streak of fur blazing through the yard. You were made for heat waves and late sunsets and long, reckless afternoons.

So you’re not Jadie’s twin. But you are always her lighting bolt.

And mine.

My scofflaws,

Well, I hope you’re happy. 

Today, a friend and I disassembled the hefty wooden bed that’s been my nocturnal cabin for a decade and a half. The reason?

Your stumpy legs, Charlie. 

Don’t get me wrong; I love your low-rider suspension — in no small part because your six-inch legs don’t impair your hops at all. You can outleap Jadie.

But you bound so eagerly from the bed’s waist-high precipice, clatter so loudly on impact, I just know you’re gonna break a bone on a cold, old morning. Then again, perhaps your old man is taking about himself again.

Regardless, what’s done is done. The guest bedroom is gonna have a killer setup once I find a mattress, box spring, and sucker to drive us. You know anyone?

In the meantime, get used to fewer nighttime acrobatics. You’ll thank me in the long run. Besides, I’M the one sleeping on the floor. That’s your normal bed.

Anyway, like I said, I hope you’re happy. Honestly, I’m kinda am.

Open Letter to a Puppy: Lulu

My punctuation,

As you may have noticed, there’s an 8-pound visitor in our home. Say hello to Lulu.

She puts the toy in Toy Yorkshire Terrier. Jadie, I think she’s as heavy as your left paw. And twice as fragile.

Actually, make that at least seven times as fragile as that paw. And that was the revelation.

See, before taking her on, I thought: What’s another mouth to feed? Mochi’s spent the night plenty of times.

But when my dear friend told me what Lulu’s needs included — eye drops, special kibble, special treats — I realized I wasn’t just taking on a third mouth to feed. I was entrusted with guarding a life.

I guess I always knew that, but this time, I did the math: She wasn’t a 12-year-old Yorky. In our years, she was an 84-year-old lady. A little blind, a little deaf. I should be that spry when I’m 60.

Which I am.

Which got me thinking about math. Lulu is exactly one-fifth my age, yet nearly a quarter-century older. When I viewed her through that lens, everything changed.

She wasn’t sleeping over. She was checking in for a couple weeks — 2 ½ months for her — and deserved the over-protective care I’d give my mother, who is around her age and would demonstrate her spryness should I utter another number.

Every day, it seems, I discover I am drawn to dogs (to all living organisms, actually) as I was once draw to writing. It never was work: I’d clearly do this for free.

So it seems with pups. Long ago I lost any pretense about my house looking or smelling like dog. If it doesn’t, call the cops, delivery heroes.

It’s a funny obsession. You know how small a matter it is on the list of Earth’s concerns.

But you build that world regardless, and they with you, and you see how seismic the concern. If a life is measured by how one affects life, what the hell was I doing for forty years?

Which brings me to Lulu. I promise you: It’s not a permanent change, and is no reflection of your goodness, which has only grown in her sudden presence. I should be so accommodating with the prospect of newness.

I’d tell you scooch over a half-inch for a few days, but I don’t think she’d take up that much space. So let’s make this home as fit for royalty as dogness permits.

The math of love.