2/25/17
Dear Lincoln,
Unfortunately yesterday was a shit day for everyone in our family, but you know that already because this letter is being read to you by a volunteer at the animal shelter where you are being held for a 10-day quarantine. You might have forgotten this already, but yesterday you bit our mailman in the ass while we were out on a walk with Sawyer. Yes, I understand that the mailman walked closely by the stroller and you felt the need to look after Sawyer by swiftly moving around the front side of the stroller to bite the mailman just as a warning that he got too close. However, not only did your nibble of the mailman get you (and us) into trouble, your leash also had wrapped around the stroller and pulled it over into the cement wall...with your baby brother in it. This was why I couldn't stop you from biting the mailman and preventing this whole fiasco from occurring. Don't worry, Sawyer is ok. The stroller protected him when you and I failed to, and your bite on the mailman isn't too bad either. No stitches, nor a new pair of pants are needed. You pretty much just bruised his ass. (Just in case you were worried, I took a picture of his ass cheek to show you...and in case we need it as evidence in court.) Because of your poor reaction, this is why you are in doggie jail.
Let me restart this letter to you by letting you know that we miss you terribly. The house is just not the same without your furry, four-legged, loving and barking presence. Every time I walk by the couch, I look for you. Every time Sawyer drops food all over him, his high chair, and the floor, I look for you (by the way, our floors and your baby brother currently have a shit ton of food all over them, and you've only been gone for 24 hours!). Every time I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I expect you to follow me out of the bedroom and whine in the kitchen for your breakfast. I was up three times last night between Sawyer's coughing and my bladder, and I looked for you each time to be on my heels. Hmmm...perhaps I should make an appointment with a urologist. We miss you terribly! You are our oldest child, and we can't stand not having you here.
Last night, after two margaritas, two glasses of wine, and a double espresso, I was able to come up with a plan for how we are going to break you out of doggie jail. Yes, you did something wrong, but let's face it, you won't remember what you did wrong three hours after the incident, and since you're up to date on your rabies vaccination, and the mailman DID walk on the other side of the stroller too close (I still hold him a bit responsible), I understand that you felt that you were protecting Sawyer while he was in the stroller, and so I want to protect you from the emotional hell you are going through right now. Besides, my own therapy is expensive, so I can only dream of how expensive therapy for you would be. That's just something we can't afford right now, so ask Grandpa for money at Christmas to put towards your therapy.
Okay, moving on to the plan...
Yesterday I sent one of your blankets and two of your suckies (owl and pig) with you to provide comfort, but later this afternoon we are going to bring you one of your doggie beds. I will be hiding in this doggie bed, i.e., your doggie bed will be a Trojan horse. Come to think of it...this might be the first horse ever in doggie jail...hmmm. After I am snuck into your indoor-outdoor jail cell (which I hear is larger than our house), at midnight tonight I will break you and every dog out of the doggie jail, and we will run north along the river trail, through downtown, and eventually end up in Yountville to hide out in the outdoor eating space at Ad Hoc. No one will see us there because we will easily blend in with the out-of-towers who are there on a daily basis praising Thomas Keller's geniusness and food. It's a brilliant plan, and we'll all eat well while we are hiding out.
If this plan fails, it will be on me. You're already in jail and can not be held accountable for tonight's jail break. We could always blame your baby brother. After all, he's not even a year yet, so as a minor he can get away with anything right now.
We miss you, and I hope to see you in a few hours. Get your rest now, because we'll be running tonight to Yountville.
Love,
Your Crazy Mother
P.S. Let's do our best to not nibble any more postal workers or ANYONE for that matter unless we are being physically attacked by someone. Then you can go hog wild on their ass, and you'll get all the bacon you want afterwards.
