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An Open Letter Of Gratitude To All Dawgs Everywhere
Man’s best friend
Damn, twenty-something years is a long time, for anything.
To do anything, be something, somewhere, with someone — during something. Through anything. And everything. In and out, up or down.
To hear it, see it, and be it, with one another. To try to be in the moment.
To experience strength, love, and hope, near one another on the good days and bad nights. Through whatever. That’s what a dawg is and does. No matter the spelling.
Regardless of the context, there’s no other like them, no contest.
To protect them from packs of bigger dawgs, I’d lie twice, to be honest.
Cry twice on Sunday, leave you or something you love on the cover of Monday’s digest. They’re so gosh darn lovable, I just wish they died less.
Ha, and they got the nerve to wonder why as a child I was stressed.
Never mind, I digress and dilute five truths with lies as white as uptight tube socks, or the white rude cops who choose to abuse positions and spit on the two pacs, who grew up without fathers and whose mothers do rock.
A hundred and ninety-four words, three hundred and sixty-five days, and six hundred and a dozen murders later, they patiently wait on words, verbs, and curses from this cursor, so I purposely defer to paper.
