Dear Thelma Lou,
Right now I am five hundred miles away from you in Mississippi, out of town for work. And right now you’re probably in the backyard, trying to dismember a squirrel carcass. Or maybe you’re howling at the neighbors. Perhaps you’re digging a hole to Beijing, chewing our porch, or eating cat poop. There are so many options.
I miss you. Please mind your aunt Michelle while we are away. I have given her complete authority to spank you.
You might not remember the day we brought you home, but I do. Your loose skin hung over your eyes. You were chubby, with oversized paws, and a cute hindsection that wobbled when you walked. Your ears hung to the floor so that you tripped over them. You were all bloodhound.
For your first year, whenever you’d fall asleep on me you would pee. Every single time. One moment, I’d be reading a book, and you’d be cradled on my chest. The next minute, warm liquid would be soaking my shirt. I would scream,
“THELMA LOU!” But you wouldn’t even bother waking up.
So I’d carry you out of the bedroom, careful not to disturb your sleep. Because even though I was covered in puppy urine, I liked to watch you sleep. I still love to watch you sleep, even though you aren’t a puppy anymore.
And believe me, you’re DEFINITELY not a puppy anymore. For crying out loud, the scale over at Pet We-Take-All-Your-Money Mart said that you weighed almost ninety pounds. Ninety. That’s heavy enough to be one of the Budweiser Clydesdales.
But you’ll always be a puppy to me. You came into our lives when we were a mess. We had just lost a thirteen-year-old dog named Ellie Mae. I wish you could have known her. You would have liked Ellie Mae. Everyone did.
When she left us, I was out of town for work, sort…