Category Archives: Open Letter

Open Letter to a Puppy, Chapter XIV: Dog Dad Afternoon


My better halves,

I forget sometimes how new you are. We’ve learned each other’s’ rhythms so well that it feels like we’ve been together for years. But we’ve been a trio for only nine months, and this is our first summer.

So I didn’t think much of the invitation, Jadie, to try out your webbed paws (which all Labs have) at a friend’s pool. I had a pool at my previous house, and your ancestors, Teddy and Esme, LOVED it. We spent an entire summer at that flat chlorine altar, and your dad had quite the tan.

But this was the first time either of you had seen a pool deeper than six inches. And you turned THAT into a plastic rawhide. I still don’t know if that was a sign of love or repulsion.

Regardless, you were as curious as Yogi at a picnic basket when we arrived at the crystal blue wonder. You both sniffed the edges, peered your reflections, smelled Dodger’s ass. But you never went in.

As you surveyed, I ducked into the bathroom and stripped to a suit. Then I walked to the edge, asked Jaime if he was filming, and feigned falling into the water. That’s how Teddy learned to swim, and I’d seen footage of new mothers chucking their infants in pools to teach them aquatics. 

I promise you: I will never feign mishap again. What could be more terrifying for a youngling than to see their oldling in peril? At least the babies can think, ‘Oh well, guess mom didn’t want me. Was nicer back there, anyway.’

I will never know what you thought, but I will never forget how you responded. Jadie, I’ve watched that video like the Zapruder tape, and you were in within three Mississippis of splashdown.

And baby, I’ll be honest: You ain’t Michael Phelps. You swim as much vertically as horizontally, which has gotta be scary, especially when you can’t see the exit. But once you learned the terrain, you wouldn’t stay out, so maybe we’ll do that again.

And Charlie. Bud, you were heroism incarnate. When I “fell” and Jadie dove, you and Dodger sensed something was amiss. And while Dodger began what his dad would later call “rescue barks,” you began what I call rescue action.

You came to the edge of the pool where we submerged. When Jadie’s panicked paddling sent her to the other side of the pool, you and Dodger ran there. Then you dove headfirst into the deep end. And you don’t even like baths.

What were you thinking, I wonder. That you could save us both? That, ‘If dad and sis are going down, I’m going with them’? 

You took a literal leap of faith. I don’t know if I’ve ever jumped without knowing the depth. What is that? Innate courage? Instinctive love?

By the end of lunch, you were running through the place like an off-leash park, playing keepaway with mini float noodles and blatantly violating Mrs. Rovero’s no-poolside-running policy.

And I have to admit: I was a initially a little nervous for you both. I guess that’s to be expected: Somehow, it feels more important this time around.

What I didn’t expect was that you would be nervous for me. And then I realized what you were getting at: It matters every time around.

It’s about enough to keep a soul afloat.

Open Letter to a Puppy, Chapter XII: An American Rescue



Dear Dodger, 

This is Scott, from the dog park. You may know me as Jadie and Charlie’s poop scooper. But, according to YOUR poop scooper, I’m now your uncle, too.

You see, recently, your dad called and said he’d entered you in The American Rescue Dog Show, a Disney program. Think the Westminster Kennel Club for strays.

Your dad said that, if you were picked for the show, he couldn’t attend because he was not vaccinated. He asked if I could take his place as your “wrangler” and walk you before judges. He wanted to place you in the “Best in Ears” category.

I immediately said yes. I’ve known you for months, and the cause is unimpeachable: Each pup and human to win their made-up category — Best in Belly Rubs, Best in Snoring, Best in Wiggling, etc. — would earn a $10,000 contribution to the shelter of their choice. And every pup to even make it onto the show would score a $500 rescue donation.

But that’s only half the reason I agreed. The other half was that I didn’t think you’d make it onto the show.

Don’t get me wrong, Dodge. You are a year-old miracle, 70 pounds of Shepherd-mix exuberance that matched Jadie’s at six minths. And your ears make Prince Charles look like he had his pruned. But this was a national show; I figured you would be ignored like most Tinseltown dreamers.

Wrong.

The producers called in early April. You were in! Oh, and the show would tape in 10 days.

So we began our “wrangling.” If you were wondering why we walked through an off-leash dog park on-leash, that’s why. If you were wondering why you practiced jumping into a creamsicle Fiat, that’s why. If you were wondering why I spent a week and a half cooing “Ear of the tiger, eye of the puppy” while I massaged your fur lobes, that’s why.

As you hopefully don’t recall, you were terrified the day of the show. You had never been out of dad’s charge. The doggie green room on the Warner Bros. lot was a spacious kennel, with plenty of room for both of us: a bed and water for you and a folding chair for me. Nonetheless, you were petrified.

When they closed the gate of our pen and we sat, you tucked your head between my knees. And when you get scared, bud, your ears become AERODYNAMIC. I could barely see them. I guess even a deluxe kennel is still a cage, and that was probably the last thing you wanted to see.

So we moved down to the cot, and I swear this is true: We locked eyes for a full second, maybe a second and a half. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we came to a meeting of the minds. I think we realized: ‘We’re in this crate. The humans want a show. They want to see second chances lived right. That fortune can follow fortitude. That you regret NOT taking a chance more than the chance itself. So let’s do this goddamn thing.’

And we wrestled and fetched and asked Hoozagoodboy? and answered I Am! in our cage for 30 minutes. You waited for me to go to hair and wardrobe, then we wrangled another half hour. You dandered the jacket and slobbered the makeup and neither of us cared. By the time producers fetched us, you were on your back, grinning, paws asplay. You could have entered the belly rub race.

And we were off. The set was another strange first for you: crowds, lights, celebrity vets in sequins, a live pig (it was Disney) — and a half-dozen pups with wild observatory flappers.

But you were long done being scared. By the time cameras rolled, you were cloud busting: yipping, twirling, trying to make time with the cute pit rescue Bunny next to us. Halfway into the show, you two belly scooched toward each other until you touched pads. The crowd loved it.

I hope you did too.

As you saw last night, another pup nipped the top prize. But you were a champion true. You overcame a terrifying fear, trusted a new human, resisted eating live bacon — and scored $500 for Sunny Day Acres, the shelter that took you in. You even nabbed an emerald-green medal I hear your dad plans to frame.

You were courage incarnate. And that’s not just an uncle’s pride talking. Dodger dog: Best in Valliance.

Of course, titles come with trappings. Namely, this one: Show us how.

Open Letter to a Puppy, Chapter XI: Sit, Uber, sit.


I have it on good source that, pretty soon, you may be able to call an Uber for Fido.

That source is my multiverse self. Which apparently lives somewhere in London.

I discovered this Brit doppelgänger more than a year ago. His name is also S. Bowles. But Sam. He must have thought putting a period after the ”s” but before the ”b” gave him a unique gmail address, or even a working one.

It does not, Sam. It comes to me.

Don’t feel bad; I hear at least once a week from companies with urgent sbowles notices for Seth or Stephanie or Sarah. I had one ”Sami,” though that may have been a typo. And Steven Bowles, you asshole, at least use an original pseudonym on your conservative slackwit sites.

But Sam, you sound legit. And I get a frightening amount of personal information in mis-sent emails. Like your penchant for McDonald’s late at night. Or that time you moved. I feel a little creepy looking. But it’s tough not to read an email with a receipt not only attached, but printed in the body of the text. Just sayin,’ it pays to copy edit. Where was I?

Taxis for terriers! That picture above arrived in my email last week, and I nearly had a carpet wee wee. This would be a godsend to stranded pet owners — and pets. And I know a half-dozen people who would leap, LEAP! at the chance to be a canine cabbie. My heart sank a little when I discovered it’s an England-only kennel club.

But that may mean it’s headed here. We love our grandparents’ stuff: the war medals, the shouty politics, Monty Python. And your love of pups. Bless your filthy Western European hearts, you’ll let Sir Barksdale lick his balls and off your warm cafe plate, in that order.

But share a ride with fur and slobber? I think I have that comfort spread covered.

So too, would America, I suspect. Our numbers are too large to ignore — particularly as domestic pets crutch us through a still-bubbling pandemic.

And as Uber has proven: If there’s profit in it, there’s motivation for it.

So bring on the dandered cavalry. Sam, I hope you have a pup — and a valid email. And Chuck & Jadie, tell you what: If and when it gets here, not only is the first ride on me, you can have both window seats.