Hunter Bunter


Dear Puppy Dog,
The last message we received from you was about your upcoming graduation.
I sure hope nothing went wrong.
Maybe you are just real busy with all the welcome parties and such.
Perhaps it is harder to send notes from heaven than Furgatory.
Anyway, I wanted to let you know that one year after you left us here in the black hole just outside Harmony Grove, your dad and I spread your ashes.

Your remains are now scattered between that puddle in the middle of the path in the woods that ranged anywhere from a dried up nothing patch of grass to me having to cut another trail around it, and every size in between.
The Pretty Pond.
The place I would say, "Just take a drink puppy dog. You don't have to. Never mind." Because you always plunked down right in the middle of the thing while Tuna and I watched you from the bank.
The rest of your ashes are in the murky pond behind the house. Although it is not yucky right now. But do not worry, it will get scummy again come summer.
We were not able stand on the pier to do the scattering since the first section floated away, as well as one of the posts between the the second and third sections.
Those darn Cleavers.
I tell ya.
They have two babies now.
Did you know they call baby beavers, puppies?
I know!
I have only seem them once so far.
They are adorable.
But I think the parents told them not to swim toward the driveway side of the pond because of the traffic. And Mr. Cleaver probably does not want them hanging around his job site.
Otherwise there is not much else new around here.
Except I am now a chauffeur.
Your dad had a couple dizzy spells and has started taking a new medication to keep him from turning into a full on fainting goat. I will continue driving Mr. Daisy until his doctor gives him the thumbs up.
So, keep your fingers crossed, because.
The other day he was telling me how to work my own windshield wipers because I was turning them on and off instead of setting them at the lowest speed.
And I was like, "Why don't you mind your own bees wax."
Anyway, I take him to town for his coffee. We go through the drive through together. We shop at the Pig. And like all good car pooling moms, I drop him off at the golf course to play with his friends and go back later to pick him up.
Fortunately, the weather has been mostly pure bullshit, because I believe that this one driver between two old folks who have forever gone their own ways until suppertime, will become more dicey as summer approaches.
A man and his truck should not be separated for too long.
And a woman and her kayak should not be tampered with at all.
But it is what it is.
And will be what it will be.
Tuna and Grandma are still fighting like cats and cats. Even Judge Judy could not fix them.
We sure do miss you Hunter Bunter.
The other night Tuna was standing by the kitchen door taking turns staring our way with his giant googly eyes, waiting for one of us to get up and let him out. Next thing, he was looking in the window from the outside, wanting to come back in. Then he was sitting right in front of your dad, looking up at him without blinking, until your dad got up to see what it was that he wanted and it turned out he wanted treats and to go back out the door. And then he was hanging on the screen wanting to come back in. And then he wanted some cat nip. And then he wanted to go back outside. And then he wanted to come back in. But wait. He did not want to come back in. He was just spying on us to make sure Grandma Meow Moses wasn't upstairs visiting.
Which she was.
But I had her hidden under my blanket.
I said, "Boy Sven, I sure do miss Hunter Bunter. Don't you?"
And he said, "Well, at least it is nice and quiet around here."
What he was trying to say was, "Yes."
You know how he is.
We however, did acknowledge that we had you guys in the right order. It would have been more difficult to go from the passive aggressive, silent manipulation we get from Tuna, to your opera styled voice commands with your old peak barking hours from four until eight pm every evening, than vice versa.
That is all I have for now.
I hope you figure out a way to squeeze out a note from behind those pearly gates.
My plan is to crinkle this letter up and throw it into the pretty pond where we now stop to say good morning on our coffee walks.
Love you lots Puppy Dog.

Miss you,


"Sven! I am writing a letter to Hunter. Is there anything you want me to tell him?"
Dad says don't bark too much or they will kick you out of heaven.
You know how he is.
That is his way of saying that he misses you.


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