Tag Archives: Open letter to a puppy

Open Letter to a Puppy: The Gash


My girl,

You have served as nursemaid for months now. Today, you are the nursed. 

You went to bed last night scratching behind your ear as if your brain itched. But it couldn’t be fleas: I check your thick auburn coat like a hungry chimp weekly, and you and Charlie both  down or spritz NexGard regularly, as prescribed.

But when we woke today and I gave you the morning ear rub, my hand came back wet. You had scratched a bald spot behind your left ear, and I could see the laceration, nearly two inches long and covered in red bumps and puss.

I called your vet’s office, which said the wait would be 2-4 hours. Your walker suggested another clinic, and off we went — with Charlie in tow. He’d rather panic in company than solitude. Who wouldn’t?

After a 45-minute wait, the doctor confirmed an infection from punctured skin. Perhaps you played too hard and were bit. Maybe scratched. Whatever the cause, you never made a sound.

That is, until the doctor saw you. You wrenched and whimpered so much the vet, who was at least 200 pounds, had to sedate you to examine you. 

Seeing you in fear or pain is hard to describe. It chokes me up, even in memory. Especially in memory.

You have always made eye contact with me. When I’m wincing from the busted back, I usually look up to see you staring, sympathetic and silent and still.

Today you gave that gaze, this time for suggestion. How I wish I spoke dog. How I wish I could explain that you are going to be fine save for pills, antibiotic spray and a cone you must wear for two weeks.

How I wish I could tell you that you won’t be able to go to the park for 14 days — or 3 ½ months in human time. I forget that your life speeds at seven times the speed of mine. Maybe that’s why you live in the moment so.

Now it’s my time to be here, immediately. The mat you slept next to, you will sleep on. We will take meds on the same  timetable. We will recover jointly. 

And Chuck, you were a champ. You are officially a support dog, government licenses be damned. I’ll help Jadie learn the geometry of conical living. You point out the Snausages. 

And when that cone comes off, younglings, we will storm the park like fucking Vikings with a score to settle.

So have a seat, baby. Or a bed. It’s my turn to fetch.

Open Letter to A Puppy: Name Change

From the archives but never here:

July 29, 2020

From: The Dept. of Canine Renaming and Redundancy Dept.

To: JayDee Barkinger Bowles

Dear Ms. Bowles,

Your application for a spell-change to your first name has been approved to Jadie.

However, your application to drop your last name has been denied, as has your application for the personalized plate Dane Jadie Clench. And please tell your brother there’s no such thing as a “Disservice Dog.”

Open Letter to a Puppy: Robo-Chicken versus Santa Claus


Dear Calvin & Hobbes (and you know who’s who),

Man, was Christmas a bust. You didn’t lose a minute of sleep, got up at the regular hour and weren’t shocked by a thing.

Not that you didn’t get a shit ton of toys, every one of which you seemed to like. It’s just that you tear through every one of them. In minutes.

Jadie, I’ve seen you skin and quarter a tennis ball in the time it takes to shower. Charlie, I’ve seen you fray wicker.

So when a soft, white, fluffy, squeaky chicken decked in a flowered bandana showed up this month among the embarrassment of holiday riches (and i know who’s me), I didn’t give it much thought when I tossed it to you destroyers — beyond maybe ‘I wonder who’ll behead this?’ and ‘I wonder which turds will contain these dainty chicken feet?’

But, somehow, Robo-Chicken endures, undecapitated and undismembered. Feet, wings, even the flower bandana. Undeterred, the squeaky belly still works.

It’s the damndest thing. Jadie, you now use it as your dinner bell. Charlie, you love it so much you fetch it into the tub. You two will plant and wrench, one will hold the chicken by the head, the other by the feet, Robo-Chicken squeak-squawking the whole time.

Maybe that’s what you love. I know it’s what I do. Now, Robo-Chicken has become a bit of a family mascot — and stuffed Resolution for ‘23: To disregard disregard.

Not that I hold much of a hope for R.C.’s future. I wouldn’t be surprised if the undoing seam is loose already.

But aren’t they all? Your grandfather used to lament how quickly the kids got bored with Christmas gifts that took so much time to get just right. I see now what he meant.

Which makes your reaction to gesture, however small, that welcome. Who wouldn’t want to give a gift that’s played with til’ it breaks?

You know what? Christmas rocked. I hope your New Year’s is just as present.

So off with their heads! On the rack and have them drawn and quatered!

But do you have to leave it on my pillow?