Category Archives: Open Letter

Open Letter to A Puppy: Lulu

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.

Open Letter to An Organ Donor: Samuel Flegel (8/31/78-1/11/00)


“it is a serious thing,
just to be alive,
on this fresh morning,
in this broken world.”
— Mary Oliver, ‘Invitation’


My god, Samuel, we are here.

We had to tiptoe hell’s half-acre the past couple days, but by god we made it: A QUARTER CENTURY together! Twenty-five years, with you literally at the hips the whole ride.

Or was it I riding shotgun? After two-and-a-half decades, the lines begin to blur, the sutures blend, the scars become creases. We’ve been together longer than apart, keeping time in a rhythm that was never mine to claim.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve done together. The day we met, you taught: Life is brief as a whisper, and twice as faint.

And when we walked from the hospital that frigid Minnesota morning, I knew there was no turning round. I was through writing about crime, even if it meant quitting an occupation I loved. I was done asking the mothers of dead kids how they felt.

I knew how they felt. I was alive because of how they felt.

So we moved out West. And somehow got assigned to cover the movies, even appeared in one! We sat in Jack Nicholson’s living room!

And we rode our bikes for miles in the California sun.

My god, Samuel, what we’ve seen. We have lost fathers and father figures. We have buried some who should have long outlived us, including Sis. And Michael. And Richard. And Kevin. Ad infinitum.

But for nearly every of our 9,131 days together, you have represented life. We became ordained to officiate a magical wedding of a magical couple. We discovered the love of dogs, and they have loved us back seven-fold. We have taken up poetry.

My god Samuel, what you have taught me. Since you, I know that science is a faith; that time ticks up, not down; that hope resides not in grand gestures, but quiet choices.

Since you, my job has been simple: See tomorrow, sing your praises. So I do. Every. Single. Day. I’m as obnoxious about drivers licenses as a bouncer in a dank bar. But HAVUSGNDURLCNS2DAY? won’t fit on a vanity plate. Thus I harangue dog park passersby during the day.

At night, I think of immeasurables. How do you thank a man for curing your diabetes? What cost, ideal blood sugar? How do you make square the debt to a stranger who offers a kidney? Words could never capture your last morning becoming my first sunrise.

My god Samuel.

You are my second birthday, my courage incarnate, my love embodied. It took only a childhood of books and 25 years of your wisdom, but I finally get Seuss: Sam I am, and Guy am I. And I may be wrong, but I could swear I see a six and a zero in the not too far off. But you taught me to never assume health or time, and I will do neither.

So stand up, stretch your legs, admire the stratosphere. You’ve turned off the seat belt light; now chat up the first-class cabin about your unmatched flying skills.

And think of what you would like to see next. With you in the co-pilot seat, anywhere feels possible.


Open Letter to The National Weather Service


Dear National Weather Service,

As you may know, our city is on fire.

It smells like god left the flue closed, which, I guess, it did.

Anyway, with the fires burning to the north, west, and east of me, I thought I would pass along a couple suggestions for future alerts.

In fact, I received one just a few minutes ago about the Kenneth fire that thoroughly confused me and inspired this column.

Los Angeles County is one of the nation’s largest counties with 4,084 square miles, an area some 800 square miles larger than the combined area of the states of Delaware and Rhode Island. Los Angeles County includes the islands of San Clemente and Santa Catalina.

I have two suggestions for your weather alerts:

Knoxville     1.    Explain the air quality warnings for pets.

What sort of animals are threatened? What exercises should, say, dogs and cats avoid? Are certain breeds more at risk? They’re the first things many of us grab.

Include the innocents in your alerts. They have no option for a mask

purchase Lurasidone online     2.    When naming fires, include the zip codes of affected areas.

If you tell me a fire’s name, that doesn’t tell me if it’s near me.

Who the fuck is Kenneth, and why does he wear the scarlet letter? Am I near Kenneth? Is it safe, Kenneth?

Your maps are great. Your predictions are spot on.

But we need even keeled heads-ups, not Chicken Little cackling. Especially when we must keep guard for more pressing alerts: The one in our lungs.

Let’s make those alerts crystal clear, and maybe give fang and claw a heads-up too. After all, they’re not the dumbasses starting the mess.

And zip codes so we know exactly where the trouble is.

Thanks for keeping us informed, even if we’re the ones causing the mess.

Sincerely,

Scott