W. Bruce Cameron

Dear Puppy,

I am leaving you this note as I depart this morning for a meeting, hoping that you'll read it instead of barking frantically, as the neighbors report you always do. There are a number of what I will charitably call "misconceptions" on your part that I think I can clear up for you, leading to a more pleasurable pet experience for both of us.

You have been alive for nine months now - in human age, that makes you more than five years-old. Now, when I was five years-old, I already had a paper route, was reading at a college level and was pretty much regarded by everyone in the neighborhood as the greatest kid ever. (That's how I remember it. My mother, however, remembers that I crammed tomatoes into the dryer vent, turned on the hose and flooded my father's Buick, and stuffed my baby sister into a wagon and tried to shove her out into traffic. Funny how when you're a little kid, your parents remember things so incorrectly.)

At any rate, you're not a puppy anymore, you're a dog now, with dog responsibilities. Certain dog truths should be apparent to you. For example, I got up at 5:00 a.m. one time. One time does not make a routine that you need to ensure I follow every morning! Stop barking at me! And then once I'm up, groaning, protesting and shushing you, you act as if your job is done and settle down to go back to sleep. No! If I'm up to greet the dawn, I want you, my loyal dog, there by my side.

Speaking of things dawning, surely by now it has dawned on you that you cannot catch birds. When you lunge at the end of your leash to try to get a mouthful of sparrow, all you do is dislocate my shoulder. My right arm is now three inches longer than the left. Birds fly -- that's what the whole wing situation is about. Dogs do not fly. You can look it up. (I realize penguins are birds and don't fly. If we're ever on a walk and we see a penguin, I promise I will let you off the leash.)

Also, I have invested a considerable amount of money in buying you some pretty disgusting-looking chew toys. Apparently the parts of the cow so revolting that people can't eat them can be dried, shipped to my house, and given to you so that you can wait for a party and then walk up and spit them into people's laps.

I invested in these body parts not so that my friends will conclude that I'm a serial killer with bodies you've dug up from the basement, but because I don't want you chewing on my stuff. If it looks more like, say, a stereo speaker than a cow trachea, don't chew it! The same goes for my cell phone. Cell phones are not made from cows -- you can look it up. Neither are my shoes, my books or my couch.

When I'm in the bathroom, I really like to be alone -- is that so much to ask? I realize I don't give you privacy, but you aren't required by law to follow me around with a plastic bag. It's pretty disconcerting for you to bang the door open like the SWAT team calling on a drug lord and then stand there staring at me when I'm in that position. There is nothing I am doing that can be improved upon with the addition of a dog to the situation. I am not holding the magazine because I want to play tug-on-a-magazine!

And there are certain times I would like you to stop barking, such as, always. If you see a squirrel out the window, stop barking. If I brush my teeth, stop barking. And when I leave you at home for a little while, surrounded by chew toys and with plenty of food and water, stop barking! I always come back, don't I? I never leave you alone for more than an hour, do I? Don't be so anxious.

I would never abandon you, you know.
You're my puppy.