Dear Goodboy,
Well, here we are—that time of year again. Have to start doing things you won’t like, namely getting up extra early to take you on the first walk of the day, and I know you know what that means: shortly after we’ve traipsed through your choice grass patches and past your favorite smelling bushes, I’ll start cleaning sleep off my body and cooking breakfast and making tea and arranging the apartment so that the things I don’t want you reaching are unreachable. And you know what that means.
Yes, my boy, I’ll be leaving for a few hours. I know, I know. Why, you’re asking. You don’t get it. What’s the point of leaving, aside from walking through the neighborhood and sniffing things and peeing on them? What else is there? And look at everything in here? Food. Water. Comforts. Pillows. Blankets. Artificially controlled environment. Remember how hot it was last week? You really want to venture out into that?
I know, and you’re right. It sucks. If there’s anything I know for sure in this giant chaos of an existence, it’s that things are better with you. Life these last months has been perfect. Wake, walk, make breakfast and coffee for mater, see her off to work, then it’s back to bed for a few hours of sleeping (for you, sometimes me) and writing (sometimes me) and reading (often me) and watching reruns of TV from my youth that you’re fairly indifferent to, though you never judge, do you? And when the writing goes poorly, you’re don’t have any critical feedback, just kind words: Chill—it’s fine. Just try again tomorrow. Take a nap with me.
Yeah, working is better with you nearby. Everything is. So why do I plan to leave tomorrow—and the day after that and the day after that—for so many hours? Why? Well, boy, I have a job, and that job affords me a nice stretch of time over the summer to stay home and be with you, but eventually they expect me back at work. Knowing that many people leave their dogs at home every day year-round hardly offers consolation, I know, but try to remember that were it not for my job, we’d not have had all these weeks of relaxing together. I’m trying to keep that in mind as I gear up for another sixteen weeks of standing in front of young people and saying things and facilitating discussion and whatever else I do all day long. (I won’t bore you with the details, boy.) Unlike most people, I don’t make claims that my job is any more important than it is, though I do know that there are worse things a person could do for money, and that, at its best, my job is noble or at least well-meaning in intent and sometimes in execution. But yeah, hardly offers much solace.
And I also know that you’ll sleep through most of the hours I’m away, but that hardly helps because I also know that you sleep better on my lap. Right? Yeah. I knew it.
How to explain money to you. I mentioned it earlier, but I saw the way you looked at me. Confusion. No idea what it means, right? I could try, list all the things you need and enjoy. Food, especially. You like it, right? Not just an imperative—you enjoy eating. Sadly, that costs money. No one is giving us food without expecting something in return. What’s that? Oh, yeah. Right. You eat things off the ground. I know you think that if you walk long enough and sniff everything, edible material will present itself. And you’re not wrong, but a lot of that stuff is bad for your belly, boy. You don’t know that. I do. And I’ll tell you, it sucks to know that, to have to pull you away from that half-eaten chicken wing some asshole thoughtlessly discarded on the sidewalk. Anyway—back to your food, the kind you have to eat, the good kind, not the trash on the sidewalk: it costs money, so I have to go back to work tomorrow and earn that money. Otherwise, we’re out on the street, boy, where there’s only scraps of garbage to eat and no shelter from the elements, and no thick blankets to hide under when it thunders and no end of worries. So yeah, food and shelter are necessities. So it’s off to work I go.
But know this: I’m coming home. In a few hours. And when I do, we’ll immediately go for a walk. And I’ll feed you. And we’ll snuggle. And play. And we can get back to bed and reading and sleeping and you can scratch at the blanket when you get cold and I’ll let you under and we can sleep like that for hours before tomorrow when I’ll have to leave you. And again the day after. But I’ll come home tomorrow. And the day after as well. And no diversions between work and home—no stops at the bar or unnecessary delays. I prefer the food at home. And the company. Nothing is as good out there as it is in here with you. I’ll leave, sure, but I’ll spend the day trying to get back home. And when I do, I know how happy you’ll be to see me. Which always feels nice, but the nice is nothing compared to the lousy of leaving you.