Dear Bernie,

It’s been over a month since Mom called on a Sunday and her voice broke when she spoke and I could tell she had been crying and I first thought Grandmama had died.  As my ear pressed on the phone my stomach rotated, shrank, dropped, became aware of itself, and registered feelings in my head.  Finally, Mom said you had passed away earlier that afternoon.  All I could do was lean my head against a doorframe.  Tears did what tears usually do and leaked out over my face.  I was left to deal with the mess.  I can’t remember exactly what Mom talked about for the rest of the phone conversation.  I think we both said, “Bernie was such a good dog,” over and over.  We touched on all the normal points of conversation one has in these situations.  She told me how you had been laboring for most of the weekend and how in your last moments both her and Dad held you and pet your head.  She said, “Then Bernie simply stopped breathing,” and you were gone.

In the month since you’ve passed I’ve failed to write a letter to you.  I began writing to you shortly after Dad called at the beginning of the year and said you had suffered a stroke.  They were fun exercises, but since you’ve passed I’ve struggled writing that final farewell.  Every time I sit down to try I end up breaking down, closing the word document, and going to do something else. 

I remember going to work in the days after Mom called that Sunday.  Anytime I thought of you I had to duck behind my desk and hide my tears.  Luckily, my desk is in the corner, tucked away from everyone else.  Some days I would open a word document at work, type ‘dear Bernie’ into the blank space, start to cry, close the word document, and have to go to the bathroom to blow my nose.  Tears seemed to want to leak out of every hole in my face.

As the days passed things got better.  I stopped crying at work.  I went on with life.  Sometimes I would open a word document and think of the spot where my Dad said he buried you in the front yard and I’d have to close the word document.  Weeks started to disappear.  My mom would call and say she was feeling better.  She’d tell me how her coworkers would sometimes try and console her by saying, “You’ll find another dumb dog to love before you know it.”  I think my mother wanted to punch these people in the face.  Maybe the gut.  I don’t know.  She never said, “These comments make me want to bury my fist into human flesh.”  Instead, she would say, “Owning a dog is a lot of commitment.  I don’t think many dogs are worth that commitment.  Bernie was.  We miss him.  I wish he never left.  Now your father and I go on bike rides after work.  Sometimes we don’t come home right after work.  The freedom is nice.  I still miss Bernie.”

On the Monday after you passed I rode the bus to work and cried.  I read an email on my phone from Mom about how it felt weird with you not around the house anymore.  I was afraid to look at the other bus passengers.  I wanted to reassure them I wasn’t crazy and that I wasn’t about to blow up the bus.  Instead, I held my bag tighter and didn’t reassure anyone.  I remember wishing I had a paper bag to put over my head.  I cried Tuesday.  Wednesday was a little better.  Thursday felt okay.  I tried writing to you on that Friday when I got to work.  Instead, I spent most of my time in the bathroom blowing my nose.

Nothing I’ve written since you passed feels right.  In previous letters before you passed I would just ramble.  There didn’t need to be a point.  It didn’t really matter if the letters were good or not.  With you gone, I’ve felt a need to write the perfect sendoff.  In my mind I need this letter to shoulder the weight of your passing.  I need it to be the one piece of evidence proving beyond any doubt that you were better than any other dog that ever lived.  Of course, this letter isn’t any of those things.  In many ways the letter shouldn’t matter.  And when you think about it, the letter doesn’t matter because technically it’s addressed to an illiterate deceased life form who never had the opportunity to learn to read because most people figured this life form didn’t possess the capacity in their tiny head to comprehend the idea of words.  This is not meant to be a knock against you Bernie.  You were what you were.  I would argue you were better than anything any person could ever consciously create if given the opportunity to construct the perfect companion which is funny because I doubt most people, if asked, would want their best friend to be illiterate.

Who knows?  Maybe it wasn’t your fault you couldn’t read.  I remember one time when Grampy and I were playing catch in the back yard.  He tried to throw a knuckleball and it slipped out his hand and hit you in the head.  Maybe you had the capacity to read before Grampy knocked it out of you.  As much as I wanted to punch my grandfather in the face when it happened I doubt your life was altered significantly by this moment.  At best it probably taught you not to run around being a lunatic when people are throwing hardballs back and forth, but judging from later sessions of catch with my father, the knuckleball upside the head taught you very little.

Still, this isn’t supposed to be about you being an idiot.  It’s supposed to be about your passing and how much you’ll be missed, but considering that you were a simpleton I can’t help but share another moment from your glorious history.  It was early summer/late spring and I was outside with you lying on the front lawn at home.  All of a sudden you started barking at the grass and trying to bite it.  I didn’t understand at first, but when I got closer I saw there was a fly on the grass and for whatever reason it couldn’t fly.  You were going crazy over this fly, but it wasn’t a vicious lunacy.  It was a half excited insanity that you seemed to be embarrassed by, almost like you were asking yourself, “What am I doing?” as you barked at the fly.  You barked like this for two or three moments, ever so often, looking up at me with eyes that said, “Why am I barking?  Please help me stop.”

Your passing has hit my parents real hard.  A big part of their life is empty now.  I don’t mean to put you at blame in anyway.  It’s more a tribute to you.  Since leaving for college and then moving out and living on my own you became their child.  I’m sure in some ways this annoyed you, but it wasn’t like they dressed you up in my old clothes and signed you up for Little League.  Though, I kind of wish they had even if your baseball skills are equivalent to Tony Pena Jr.  Good glove with no offensive skills.  I bet if you could be trained to sit in the batter’s box and not chase the ball when it was thrown back to the pitcher you would have posted a decent On Base Percentage against the erratic arms littering Little League programs nowadays.  Anyway, the point is I never felt guilty leaving.  You were the sibling who would always live with mom and dad.  The positive was you were functional for the most part and though you never had a job you didn’t come across like one of those lowlifes that drains off their parents for years just because they’re too lazy to get a job. 

You were their life in many ways after I left.  It allowed them, I think, not to notice I was gone.  I feel bad now with you gone.  The house is much emptier.  When food is dropped on the floor they actually have to bend over and pick it up instead of waiting for you to clean it up. 

I don’t really know what else to say.  I wish there was some way to put all my thoughts in order.  I wish there was something I could say that put everything in perspective and made me feel better, but to be honest I think I will always be a little sad when I think of your last moments, with Mom and Dad petting you, and knowing I wasn’t there.

You were a great dog and as corny as it sounds you were my best friend.

Love,

Mark

Dear Bernie,
I called G'mama today. It was good to talk to her. I feel bad. I don't call her as much as I should. She told me that my cousins all missed me at Easter. I don't think this is true. I think she just said that to make me feel better. I think my cousins were glad I wasn't there. I'm always saying stupid things at the dinner table that make the rest of the family feel awkward. Then some of my aunts feel sorry for me and give me extra mashed potatoes. Speaking of mashed potatoes, I just took a bite of a bagel with cream cheese. It didn't taste good. I will finish it only because I know you'd be disappointed if I threw it out. I don't know if you know this or not, but mashed potatoes aren't related to cream cheese bagels. I tricked you. I just said it to say it. You know how it is. Sometimes you find a toy whistle in the cereal box and sometimes you find stale frosted flakes. Anyway, I think G'mama is doing well. She said she is going to New York because someone she knows is turning seventy. She also said that someone else in New York fell on their head and had to retire. I don't know all the details because I started to zone out at that point. When I tuned back in G'mama was telling me about the time she fell off a ladder in the garage and broke her wrist which has something to do with baseball cards. I don't know if you remember or not, but Grandpa Joe did some accounting work for a guy back in the early nineties and the guy didn't have any money so he gave my Grandpa Joe all his baseball cards.
Grandpa Joe is dead now and all the baseball cards are above G'mama's garage. I think she is afraid to look at them because she thinks they will make her fall off the ladder again. She wants me and my cousin to come over and split them up. There is something like twenty-four boxes of baseball cards. Unfortunately, the whole lot of them is probably worth three dollars because card companies massed produced cards in the early nineties and the market was flooded. Which isn't necessarily a good thing for G'mama because I'm in no hurry to go pick up a dozen cases of worthless baseball cards. It's strange really. I remember a time when the only thing that mattered in my life was baseball cards and playing football at recess. I remember I told mom I wanted my cards buried in my casket with me when I died. I think the thought of my funeral made my mother cry. Anyway, baseball cards lost their charm somewhere along the way and I think my body began changing so I was sweating more which made me less hesitant to spend recess running around for fear I'd be the kid with B.O. that no one wanted to sit next to after lunch. I'm not sure, but I think that distinction might have gone to Benny Ryan. Maybe not. I do know he liked to pick his nose and wipe it on the comfortable chair that everyone wanted to sit in until Benny started to wipe his snots all over it. Hey, Benny Ryan, if you find this site after googling your name no hard feelings huh? That chair move was well played sir.
I kind of forget what else G'mama talked about. It doesn't matter. One of these days I'll go over and get the cards. You can have them for all I care. Until then she'll just keep living in fear of the baseball cards in her garage breaking her wrist.
I really am an awful grandchild. Grandpa Joe would probably punch me in the stomach if he was still alive. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would find the guy who stuck him with all the worthless baseball cards. Who knows? Oh well.
-Mark
PS I finished the bagel.
PSS You look like a retard in that picture.

Dear Bernie,
I am making a movie trailer. The movie is about a guy who rides his bike a lot. He has a neighbor who sings through the walls. I think he eats at Subway every day. A man wearing aviators looks at him on the bus. Maybe not. I don't know. The movie hasn't been made yet. I prefer to make movie trailers first. Then if people like the trailer a movie can be made. I don't think I will make this movie. I will let one of the big names direct it. Maybe the guy who directed Finding Nemo can make it. You probably have no idea what I'm talking about. Finding Nemo was about fish. Do you know what a fish is? I am pretty sure who will die not knowing what fish are.
God, I love you. I'm very jealous you don't grasp the concept of fish. I think I would pay a man to hit me in the head with an aluminum bat if he could guarantee my brain wouldn't be harmed too much and that I wouldn't remember what ‘fish' are. I don't know why this idea appeals to me so much. I think I just like the idea of being ignorant and then one day I would be walking by a pond and a fish would jump on shore and I'd be like, "What the fuck?" Then I'd pick up the fish and I would know and it'd be a great moment of my life.
Anyway, the trailer is 90 percent done. Here is the storyboard for it. All I have left to do is find locations and film all the scenes and then edit it together. My goal is for these tasks to take less time than it took me to draw the storyboard. I drew the storyboard at work. It took me eight minutes. -Mark

Dear Bernie,
Web traffic has been piling up at an increasing rate lately. Even though you can't count you should check out the graph below.

I bet you want credit for the big boost in numbers. To be honest, I don't think anyone but mom and dad read these letters. Sorry, but I'm afraid you're not famous. Sometimes I wonder how many people you actually think exist. I bet the number barely breaks one-hundred. I don't think you've met anyone new in three years. It must be nice to go to bed at night and think you know everyone in the world. I'm actually quite jealous. I'm guessing you would probably get a 32 on the math portion of the SATs. I don't know why I said that. I'm just saying. You don't have any worries. ‘32' is not a very good score. You should not be proud of this number. Getting a 32 on the SATs is the equivalent of chewing on the leg of a chair in biology and asking the teacher to give you a c-minus. It still kind of makes me angry that Mrs. Cook was going to give you a c-minus until I pointed out you were a dog. Still, Mrs. Cook was better looking than the average teacher so I didn't get too upset. I wonder what happened to her. I think the principal was mad she let a dog in class. It was nice having you sit next to me and laugh at my jokes. I can't remember why you were allowed to come to school with me. I'm pretty sure I wasn't blind and you weren't blind either so that wasn't the reason. I actually don't think you were allowed to come to school. I don't remember you ever coming to school with me. Weird. I wonder why Mrs. Cook left then. Anyway, I think the reason for all the traffic is a pretty lady named India de Beaufort. I once wrote about interviewing her. She's on a new television show and there has been a lot of google searching the internet for her. If you knew what a search engine was I bet you would look up pie and then lick the computer monitor until your tongue got sore.

Dear Bernie,

I got accepted to a university. You probably don't know what that means. I'm not going to tell you. Ignorance is a good life. I envy you. Last night I had a dream where I was already at the university and all these writers were talking about themselves and asking each other if they had written the review that was due. James Franco kind of showed up and said, "Spiderman killed my dad," and all the other writers thought he was a genius and then James Franco said, 'I'm not writing that review, but if I do then I do." And I think he did. I was the only one who didn't write anything, but it was okay because the classes were at the beach and weren’t that great. Then the beach drifted out to sea and I woke up. James Franco was not in my bed. Do you remember that time James Franco came to your birthday party? I bet you're shaking your head ‘yes.’ You’re kind of an idiot. You don't even know who James Franco is. You probably think he’s the cookies you knocked off the table and ate a few years ago at the family Christmas. To be honest, we’ve never had a birthday party for you which is why you’ve never met James Franco. You’re probably shaking your head ‘no,’ and thinking, ‘I had a birthday yesterday.’ I love your retarded brain. A birthday is not something you eat out of a bowl every morning when you wake up. I think you are confusing birthdays with breakfast. I feel kind of bad that we’ve never thrown you a birthday party. Let’s blame Dad for that one. I think Mom tried to throw you a birthday party once, but Dad said, “We don’t even know when Bernie was born,” and that was that. Our family has been pretty awful to you. You might want to think about suing dad. I’ll help you pick out a lawyer if you give me half your settlement. Actually, you probably shouldn’t sue Dad. Dad knows how to use the internet. I am not sure if Mom knows. If I still lived at home then maybe we could sue Dad. I know how to use the internet. There should be at least one person in the house who knows how to use the internet. When you had your stroke Dad used the internet to make you better. If it had been up to Mom she probably would have brought you to a taxidermist and had you stuffed. You’d be in the living room on wheels right now if it wasn’t for Dad. Don’t sue Dad.

-Mark

Dear Bernie,

I've noticed over the years you don't watch many movies. I'm curious why you don’t. I've sometimes wondered if you even know what a movie is. When video stores still existed and I used to bring home video cassettes you probably thought I was bringing home food. I think you still think the VCR is some kind of food machine. I bet if I put the VCR are the ground you would try and eat it. That is why the VCR is kept on the top shelf of the entertainment system. The only reason I bring this up is because I saw this movie last night I think you may have liked. Val Kilmer was in it. He was probably twenty-eight. His best friend in the movie was fifteen. They lived in the same room and made lasers. I think their relationship was very similar to yours and mine. You're like Val Kilmer and I’m like the fifteen year old boy. Except you're older than 28. You’re almost ninety or something. If you ever figure out what a VCR is and video stores make a comeback you should rent this movie. I believe there are some dogs in the movie that will make you laugh and say, “Why did they do that?” Another thing I've also been watching lately is 30 Rock. You remind me of the girl in the show, Liz Lemon (played by Tina Fey). She is always worried that her ovaries are dying and that she will die a lonely single hag with no children. I feel sometimes you worry about these things. Then again, maybe you’re more like Allen Baldwin. There was this one episode where Allen Baldwin is eating a lot and putting sandwiches in his pockets. I feel if you had sandwiches you would put sandwiches in your pockets.

-Mark

Dear Bernie,

I found some old photographs recently. They’re from the Christmas card photo shoot a few years ago when you decided you were too cool to wear reindeer antlers and smile nicely next to your loving family. The same loving family who have never once thought about giving you away despite the fact that on more than one occasion each of us have returned to the living room to find an empty plate and you in the corner trying to choke down the reheated leftovers. Now, I’m not saying we don’t all have our faults, but really? You couldn’t have faked wearing antlers for two seconds? Did you think mother would rather send out Christmas cards with you eating the antlers? Or did you think our friends and family would rather get a Christmas card of father throwing snow shovels at you while screaming on the front lawn while mother tried to hide her tears? I know you can’t help yourself most times, but these old photographs have gotten me a little riled up. I’ll write again when I calm down a little.

-Mark

Dear Bernie,

Mother came to visit last week. She said you didn't want to come. I understand you were busy and probably had television programs to watch, but I thought you could at least ask Dad to show you how to use the VCR. Who knows, maybe you did. I remember I once asked Dad how to use the VCR and he broke the kitchen table. Or maybe I asked for calzones and he broke the kitchen table rolling the dough. I can't remember. I just know he broke the kitchen table. It wasn't his fault. Calzones are very tough to make if you're making them from scratch. I believe he was rolling the dough when he broke the kitchen. I can’t quite remember. I was either watching television or eating cereal. Maybe both. Anyway, I probably shouldn't talk about these things to you. I know you get kind of loony when it comes to food. Please don't bite Dad's leg because you’re upset he never broke the kitchen table trying to make you calzones. If you were a little pickier when it came to food then maybe he would break the kitchen table trying to make you a calzone. To be honest, it doesn’t bode well that you eat out of the compost. Why would anyone make you calzones when you’re willing to digest rotten lettuce heads and egg shells? I don’t know? It’s your life. Live it however you want. Still, it would have been nice to see you, but I understand. Hope all is well otherwise.

-Mark

02/05/09

Dear Bernie,

Mom called today and said you’ve been feeling better, but she also said you threw up a few days earlier. It must be really disappointing when you throw up because you seem to like food a lot. I bet if no one cleaned up your vomit you’d try to re-eat it. Sometimes I like to think you’re civilized, but then I remember you ate cat shit when you were younger. Sorry, that was unfair. I know, I already mentioned that last week in the previous letter. You’re probably tired of hearing about it. It’s okay. I’ll stop bringing it up, but you should know everyone has embarrassing moments and it’s good to laugh at them when you get older. For example, I once asked out this girl named ‘Heidi’ in sixth grade and she said, “I’ll write you a note,” but she never did and it kind of stopped me from ever asking out another girl until I was a junior in high school because I guess I was subconsciously waiting for her note. What made things worse was I didn’t ask out this really pretty girl named ‘Amanda’ my freshmen year of high school even though she told this kid name Matt that she wanted me to ask her out and Matt told me, but all I could do was say, “Oh cool,” and continue getting ready for gym class, and Matt went and told Amanda that I said she was weird and she stopped liking me and to be honest ‘Heidi’ was kind of cruel for never giving me the note she promised, but it worked out okay for her. She was valedictorian which maybe explains things. Ha ha? Actually it doesn’t explain anything. I’m pissed off and kind of want to call her right now and tell her, but I don’t have her number which is probably better, but still it’s not really the note I’m upset about. It’s that she killed my goldfish. Well, technically, she didn’t have anything to do with my goldfish dying. His name was Barney. I got him when I was two. I didn’t know ‘Heidi’ until I was twelve. Barney lived in a fishbowl. He was your first brother. You never got a chance to meet him. He died a long time before you were born. You were negative ten years old or something. I don’t remember much about Barney. He liked water a lot more than you. I don’t think he was afraid of puddles like you are and he wouldn’t have gotten seizures like you did that time you fell in our aunt’s pool and I had to jump in and get you. Anyway, all I really remember about Barney is that he died and we flushed him down the toilet. Don’t worry. If you die we’re not going to flush you down the toilet. I’m not sure what we’re going to do. Mom said she wants to stuff you and put wheels on your feet and keep you in the living room, but that seems insane.

-Mark

01/30/08

Dear Bernie,

I heard you’ve been sick. I’m sorry. I hope you get better. You shouldn’t have eaten all that cat poop when you were younger or that cake this summer at the barbeque when no one was looking. Still, it’s no fun being sick. I imagine you didn’t know quite was happening when you kept falling over and the left side of your face was paralyzed and food fell out of your mouth when you tried to eat it because you couldn’t feel half your mouth. I’m glad you’re doing better. Dad said he takes you outside and does exercises with you every morning which is good, but I hope he doesn’t just sit there giving you orders. Nothing against the old man, but I’m sure he could use the exercise as well. He did say you’re not falling down as much and that you can climb up stairs again. If you weren’t ill I’d laugh at the thought of you falling down the stairs, sitting at the bottom, all confused, asking yourself, “That wasn’t right, was it?” I’m sorry. I just chuckled a little bit. You reminded me of this movie I watched recently where this guy got a spell put on him and his ears and fingers starting falling off and people started calling him ‘dropsy’. At least you got your ears right, even if you are half deaf. But honestly, you really shouldn’t be embarrassed about having to be carried up and down the stairs. You have it pretty good. Many American Presidents haven’t had it as good as you. Did you know ten American presidents have had strokes? Woodrow Wilson’s wife didn’t even take care of him when he had his. Instead, she said, “Feminism bitches,” and tried running the country herself. And don’t worry about dying. Most of the ones who died were unhealthy. One of them, Chester Arthur, was fat and had kidney problems and of course Franklin Delano Roosevelt smoked, didn’t really have legs, and had to deal with Truman breathing down his neck pressuring him to drop some bombs on Japan. You should be fortunate that you don’t smoke, have functional kidneys, aren’t fat, have four legs, and don’t know what ‘Japan’ is. I don’t think you would like Japan. I’m pretty sure they like kitties more than doggies. I don’t know though. Maybe you would like it. In the back of my head I don’t picture them having stairs and instead have escalators, but I’m probably wrong. Anyway, I hope you’re doing well. I’m going to make it a point to try and write you a couple times each week. Take it easy dropsy.

-Mark