Every year I write a letter to my dog Deefer on his birthday. This year he turns four years old.
Dear Deefer,
Nico Alary (co-owner of the restaurant Holybelly) wrote an article about crying babies and their asshole parents.
He said that when a baby cries in the restaurant:
“Worst thing you [the parent] can do is simply seat [sic] there, screaming baby in your arms or in the stroller, lazily rocking it side to side, hoping it goes away. It never does.”
In other words, Mr. Alary is very clear: If your baby breaks a glass, hurls a plate of bolognese at the floor, or screams at the top of her lungs, it’s not the baby’s fault. It’s the parents’ fault.
Maybe you’re wondering what crying babies and their inattentive parents have to do with you on this day of your birth. I will tell you:
This was the year I realized that you, my sweet, gentle pup, who loves long lie-ins and morning cuddles… can be a real asshole sometimes.
Not all the time. Just on occasion.
Like that morning in Astoria. You know the one. When your parents grasped for your leash and came up empty, you bolted out of the apartment to chase a five-year-old school boy and bark at him. You scared him so badly he literally jumped into his father’s arms.
Or during Thanksgiving, when seven-year-old Ethan was feeling nervous around you, so he hid behind his mom’s skirt. You decided to take matters into your own paws by nipping his heels whenever he ran past.
Coincidentally, Mr. Alary wrote another equally poignant line about his own son:
“…even when he commits the most smelly, disgusting acts a person his age is prone to commit, I see rainbows and flowers. I’m a dad all the way…”
That prompted another realization, which brings me to my point: unconditional love.
Contrary to the lede, you are the best, sweetest dog in the world. You are the pup pup prince, the number one son. And, no matter the sin, you are the greatest thing since the Valencia filter.
So in the vein of remembering how wonderful you are, as I try to do every(day) year, here are four moments that stood out this year:
1) You started out this year with the habit of curling up beneath our bed to sleep. But in October of 2017, for reasons unknown, you decided you were over that and jumped back into our bed to sleep. We may or may not have been completely delighted.
2) In February, I took you to see your vet. He said you were still four pounds overweight and suggested I cut your caloric intake in half. While I didn’t disagree with his diagnosis (the scale doesn’t lie), I did not like how he spoke to you. So we fired him, and you never went back.
3) We spent Christmas in Ireland while your grandparents watched you in Albany. Your mom and I spent a considerable amount of time on Christmas day browsing three years’ worth of Google photos of you. Then we watched videos of you playing with the toy reindeer we bought you.
4) The first time you met your brother.
I’ll close this year’s letter with this: sometimes the best part of my day is taking you back home from your walk. You sit down, I take off your harness and pick you up. We sit on the couch together and you lie backwards on me like you’re sunbathing. I wipe down each paw with a baby wipe.
Afterwards, you gently lick my hands as if to say:
“Dad, sometimes you’re a real asshole. But I love you.”
And it feels like unconditional love.
Happy birthday.
Love,
Your Dad
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