Long before dogs started blogging, Vern was scribbling his memoirs on the back of half-eaten Frisbees. Don’t get me started. He was, God rest his soul, the smartest dog in the neighborhood. He was also the oldest. Back then, when it came to spending the weekend with Sparky and I, our neighbor was always welcome. Mrs. Baxter loved Vern and Vern loved Mrs. Baxter. It was a relationship built on mutual respect. Mrs. Baxter was organized, which Vern cherished, and Vern was disciplined, which Mrs. Baxter figured (Lord willing and the creek don’t rise) might encourage Sparky to “aspire towards something greater.” News flash puppies: we are who we are. Don’t get me started. For all of his eccentricities””the same quirks local veterinarians called “obvious signs of clinical canine depression”””Vern knew a lot about everything, including history. “Good housekeeping and a punctual breakfast,” he used to say, “is the difference between us and them.” By them, of course, he meant wolves. And it was on that particular weekend that he explained, to Sparky and I, that all dogs were, by his calculations, ten, or less, missed feedings away from resorting back to our most primitive state. Sparky, fascinated with the prospect of becoming a wolf, immediately began fasting. Which reminds me of the time Sparky’s low blood sugar caused a power outage.

Signed,

Morty