Author’s Note: I’m the proud mom of Walter, a big, beautiful German Shepherd mix. For all 60 pounds of his dogged loyalty though, he is a big ol’ scaredy-cat. If you ask Walter, without him, I would very obviously be dead, or at least seriously injured by: a parked motorcycle, a potted fern, a pile of trash, and/or an abandoned skateboard. Of all the perceived dangers in Walter’s everyday life, however, the most ridiculous (yet patriotic) is this statue of Abraham Lincoln around the corner from our house.
Walter asked me to write this letter to our 16th President, partly because he lacks the opposable thumbs necessary to write, but mostly because he really wants a new friend.
Dear Mr… Lincoln, is it?
Stay. Where. You. Are. I’m serious. If I hadn’t gone on Salmon Street already, I’d be losing my poop right now. Literally. All over the place.
You don’t seem to move that much. You just stand there, and that in itself is weird. There are squirrels EVERYWHERE. Why aren’t you chasing them?! And aren’t you ever hungry or need a nap? You seem to be a really big version of my mom. She eats and sleeps all the time, just like me. It’s why I love her so much.
It’s kind of hurtful that you don’t come over and say hi. Most people have the common courtesy to tell me how adorable I am. But you just stand there silently, like a menace. So I’m keeping an eye on you… and the length of one dog park between us.
Honestly, I’m just trying to protect my mom. Even if she does laugh at me every time I bark at you. It’s like she doesn’t understand how creepy you are. No one else does, either, apparently, because they all stare at us — as if me barking my head off at you is weird? I don’t get it.
I have to guard my mom. She’s a tiny lady, especially compared to you, and she has a nice face! Do you even have a face? Or is it empty? Not to beat a dead horse (there’s also a big unmoving horse a few blocks back, by the way), but can you eat? I don’t care if you’re the nicest guy in the world — if you don’t like food, I don’t trust you.
My mom insists that you’re a great guy. It sounds like you might be pals with Mr. Washington, the name of my sixth-favorite park. And do you know a man named Alexander Hamilton? Because my mom’s been singing about him a lot, and trying to get tickets to a show he’s apparently doing? If he’s anything like you, though, it’s probably really boring.
Despite all my questions, concerns, and, okay, fear, I just want to be your friend. I can understand why you haven’t climbed down off your pedestal to say hello to me. I guess I wouldn’t like if it strangers came into my home and barked in my face. (Although I’m still not sure if you have an actual face.) But I think we could be pals. Besides, my mom seems to like you and truthfully, she could use a new boyfriend. (I didn’t like her old one — and he ate and slept a lot and definitely had a face.)
We don’t live too far away. Maybe you could come over and introduce yourself one of these days. I promise I won’t bark too much or ask any more questions about your face. I’ve been told that both are very rude.
Your move, Mr. Lincoln.
Your new friend (I hope),
This has been another BarkPost Stink Piece, updated every week!