Category Archives: Open Letter

Open Letter to an Organ Donor (Samuel Flegel 8/31/78-1/11/2000)


My dearest Samuel,

This marks the first anniversary letter I’ve written to you with an ounce of hesitance. Not for any bad news, though there was some. 

I pause because my mother raised me to fear the jinx. But I believe in you more than any superstition, so to hell with it. 

You see, we met 24! years ago today. Which puts us within a calendar year of a QUARTER-CENTURY together. And, parenthetically, me within spitting distance (five months) of 60 effing years old.

Neither milestone seemed feasible when we began our odyssey in 2000. There were only two hospitals in the nation that even attempted pancreatic transplants, and docs said that the organ lifespan averaged seven years, given successful surgery. Throw in the required kidney transplant, and all forecasts or expectations should go out the window, docs said. 

So out they went. It wasn’t hard; when I caught diabetes at 13, the notion of seeing 60 seemed as far-fetched as me dunking. That’s old age. Granny’s sixty, right, from the black and white pictures?

But then we crossed paths, and suddenly I’m touching rim. 

I know it’s you, lifting me during a layup so lil’ slugger can soar. But air is air. Even when it’s getting thin.

And it’s been thin this year. We lost sis, whose last stop came three nights before Halloween. You would have loved her fire; not so much her rain.

And you know about the back/rib break. Sorry for rattling the windows. This house is creaky as get out. 

But here we are, on the 26th of 25 moonlit miles. The home stretch.

I am being melodramatic. Should I reject tomorrow, today would be no less remarkable, if only for all the ground we have broken so far.

Twenty-four years of not being diabetic. Twenty-four years of standing our ground. Twenty-four years of thinking about you Every. Single. Day.

And I ain’t one for final stops. Gimme late charges all day, anyday. 

So let’s sprint the finish, Sam. And leave the gym door open. We’ll run the mystic marathon as long as these heels still kick dust. 

Open Letter to a Puppy: The Don’t Claw


My little one,

It’s rare that I write to only one of you; I know you share everything anyway. 

But I want to praise you solely.

Last week, you emerged from a friendly frenzy at the dog park limping more than usual. As you neared the bench, pant-grinning the whole time, I could see blood trailing down your left leg, the dew claw dangling. 

The park regulars watched Jadie as I sped you to the vet, which saw us in 20 minutes. It’s the first time I’ve heard you whimper. Let’s just agree to not do that anymore, okay?

After much anesthesia, sedative and whittling, you emerged stoned on painkillers and sporting a cast of bandage and adhesive, walking as if you’d had one too many. Maybe you had.

I asked Alexa what a dew claw does. Apparently, it allows you to climb trees or better handle whatever it is you’re chewing. So there’s that. 

I don’t know if it will grow back, or remain a stub. Regardless, I don’t want to see you do anything but hike a leg around trees. And do you have to play so hard EVERY DAY?

Of course you do. I knew it when you sniffed your cast like a bloodhound and licked it like it were a summer snow cone. I’m surprised it lasted four minutes in public before it became a floppy, cumbersome sock.

Which brings me to the praise. I see how you handle infirmity and can’t help but ponder deep pain. Is it momentary, kept throbbing by memory? Do I choose what scars? Can I release whatever gave way in yesterday’s dew?

How does one chuck, Chuck? I know you have a clue.

So I’ll bribe you with cheese to get the antibiotics down, and spray the paw whenever it holds still. Which is never.

I guess that’s your point. I’ll try to make it mine.

Oh, and your uncle Spencer says we all need, like, a serious bath. I’m inclined to agree. Don’t tell anyone I said anything.

Open Letter to a Puppy: Bottoms Up (for Sis, with Love and Squalor)



My better two-thirds,

Today you are both three years old. Happy birthday! Drinking age!

I must keep that pace in mind. We fancy our “birthday months” on this end of the mammalian spectrum. You are toasting three years in one day on this planet. So let us raise a paw high:

Jadie, my mocha heart. You once cast those golden eyes for assurance and attention. Now you gaze them when I need either. Or both. Or all.

Charlie, you are the surprise co-pilot. A rescue pit/beagle (peagle?) once suspicious of men, now you fight the temptation to jump into laps. You are up for any ride, down for any walk. Or either. Or both. Or all.

You two have seen me back to my feet, and made good your pledge to retake the park. Though, you still whimper on every approach there, as if we would somehow forget it. Every visit is Just. That. Crucial.

In the spirit of Harold and Maude, I didn’t get you anything. We all know where it would wind up, anyway. Instead, let me tell you how much you matter.

In our three years, you have taught me maths beyond time’s relativity. You have shared your Work-Life Theorem, the 7-Second Anger Rule, and the upside of any tennis ball. You have taught me the Canine Equation: that every dog deserves a human, though the formula does not always work in reverse. Yet I’ll be damned if I can find any bitterness.

What do you give a gift? How do you celebrate a celebration?

Beats me, but belly up to the bar, young adults. This wine-dipped rawhide is on the house. And have I got some great stories to tell you about your aunt Caroline.