Dear Beauregard,
Our relationship is about to change substantially. You are moving in. We are adopting you.
Until now, ours has been a casual friendship. For that, I am grateful. I am writing to you today because, on the eve of this new stage of our lives, I want us to maintain — and even grow — the best parts of our relationship. And I want my mother to refer her friends to this document whenever she needs to explain your absence in her home.
Pardon me for putting this all in writing, but I think it best for us to communicate clearly. And I think most clearly in writing. (You think my writing is pedantic? Try talking to me, my friend.)
Roadmap To Peace
Here are some basic tenets which might guide you as tenant:
- We are not brothers. You have been living with my mother, the woman who gave birth to me, but she did not give birth to you. (Your mother was really a bitch. You are spawned of mater canine.) Though my mother (who is not really a bitch) has persisted in reminding you that she is your "mother," she is not your mother and I am not your "brother," though my mother does suggest that every time we are together. (We all know of my mother's history of delusion in these matters.)
- I will win all our arguments. You do not know the world. Do you even know that we live in Franklin County? All you know is The Lesser Back Yard Territories. (Upon your arrival, we shall review a map of the larger area of Franklin County. Perhaps, we will make a walking and driving tour of our shared habitat.)
- Don't lick. My mother, long before you brought her down, told you to stop licking. That's what she meant (I think) by shouting "No lickie! No lickie!" in the fiercest tone she could muster. No, I do not know why she always shouted "No jumpie!" and "No barkie!" during the happiest moments of your life. (Those two behavioral attributes are doggie style, so in my home, you will be rewarded for jumping and barking.) But licking is gross. You may lick the pink vinyl bean bag chair. You seem to like that even though it is clearly disgusting.
- If you run away, you're on your own. Don't ever sprint away from me, unleashed, as if you are winning your freedom. Be careful what you wish for. I recall when my childhood dog, Charlie, headed for the hills only to find out just how flat Franklin County is. My father was not one to give chase. (That's doggie style. My father was a confirmed and unabashed Homo sapiens.) He said: "If that dog doesn't want our food, shelter, and all other hospitality, let him go." Charlie returned with his tail between his legs, if you catch my drift. Like my father, I shall not run after you.
- Don't be smug. This is not an upgrade. This move to our home does not represent a reward. You tried to kill my mother and now you are coming to the Big House. Though it is decidedly a littler house.
- Stay in position. Don't get underfoot, Mr. Excitement. Do not lose your mind just because you are startled by the jangle of the leash. My return from travels in Greater Franklin County do not entitle you to run amok at my feet. That is what brought down my mother for what seemed to you like a moment of bonding, but was — for her — "tripping over the damn dog." That's what she told me. (If she was truly your mother, she would have put it more lovingly, damn dog.) Don't worry about being man's best friend. Just be predictable.
- Your name is my choice. Our art teacher in college had a young teaching assistant, the second most beautiful teacher ever, who changed the name of her dog every day. (The young men in the class thought that was a small price to pay for living with her.) Your name has been Beauregard, or "Bo." It shall be temporarily changed to "Bone." Then it will be permanently changed, perhaps to something Chinese, because you are a Shih Tzu. You will be lucky not to be called "Shit Zoo." (Your breed has a name with as little dignity as people who come from Norfolk, but pronounce "ol" as "uc.") I know that you think in ESL with a Mandarin accent.
- You are the dog in this house. Living in my home is no treat, you shall soon find. I've never thought it a kindness (to either of us) to have you here for more than a week or so, when "our mother" is out of town. I'm not cruel. I will feed you before I feed myself. But I know the difference between my children and you. And I shall discriminate in their favor. I have long been the dog in this house. Now you are on the bottom of the food chain.
- No reparations will be paid for the confiscation of your balls. I am sorry about your balls. (Not the tennis balls. Those are not a source of sorrow. They will be a source of comfort and play for us.) I'm sorry about the balls you brought into this world, the ones that were so untimely snatched from your underworld. My uncle (your "mother's" brother) arranged that little number. He did it because he was presumably A Dog Lover. Frankly, if that's what he did to those he loved, I'm glad he apparently never loved me so.
- I will walk you more than anyone else. That's my bet. Everyone loves you, but I am Mr. Bladder Relief. Please don't develop a Pavlovian response to my appearance. (Mrs. Mop 'n' Bucket will not be amused.) When we go outside, make sure you do all your business. But first make sure we are outside. Gotta go? Ask yourself, "Am I standing on grass?" If yes, have at it. If no, lick something. (Why? Because you can. You lucky dog.)
- A fence will be installed. Don't get excited. The landscaping here is primitive. Don't eat the summer squash. That's for me.
- Your bath shall be drawn. Plan for baths in a tub. The days are over of being shampooed, cut and blown dry in a mobile Dog Salon on the driveway. Welcome to Green Acres.
- You might get table scraps. During your entire life, you have lived on expensive pellets. Prepare to die happy.
- We are one. If you play your cards right, I will grow that beard again so we look like brothers. But hair does not brothers make.
Please signify your acceptance of this framework for our new situation by barking and jumping and licking.
Thank you.