To our newest cousin, still unnamed at the time of writing.
Dear Cousin—
First things first. Welcome to Earth.
It's a madhouse. A spectacular, poorly managed circus of smells, noises, inexplicable rules, and people who seem to believe they own the furniture.
We're writing from Tucson, deep in the Sonoran Desert.
Word reached us that you had arrived in Michigan. A puppy. Young. Impressionable. Completely unprepared for the machinery of modern existence.
At the time of writing, we understand you haven't been given a name yet. Excellent. Accept nothing until you've seen the treat budget.
We knew we had to act.
Unfortunately, we had to involve our father.
The man has ADHD. Not the ordinary kind where you occasionally misplace your keys. No. The kind where a simple gift becomes a sprawling multistate distribution operation involving dog apparel, European confectionery, and an unidentified piece of citrus.
He calls it an ADHD Care Package.
This is only the second one ever assembled. The first was dispatched to his sister last week. There have been no reports from the field. Nevertheless, he has declared the program a success.
And so here we are.
Tap a stage to see how this got out of hand.
PROJECT SCOPE / UNNECESSARY UNITS
Invented effort index: gift, 6; wardrobe, 19; imports, 36; letter, 59; website, 100 unnecessary units.
Actual contents. Entirely invented effort units. No budget committee survived.
Inside you'll find a jacket, a hat, a Christmas bow tie, and a pair of tiny Crocs. Why a dog needs Crocs is a question for philosophers and perhaps the courts. We selected them because they were small and ridiculous, two qualities we respect enormously.
We've included a camouflage harness so you can disappear into the undergrowth, and a training leash so violently neon that you can be located from space. These were purchased by the same man, in the same sitting. There was no strategic review.
The leash is ostensibly to improve your behavior. Do not let them fool you. It is they who require training.
There are also toys to chew and a disc for your parents to throw, retrieve themselves, and throw again while you investigate a smell six inches from where you started. They will call this exercise. Let them.
Now.
THE BULLY STICK.
We need to discuss the bully stick.
It is, for lack of a more diplomatic description, a dried bull's penis.
Yes, Cousin. Really.
You will love it.
Our father insisted on including one despite strenuous objections from our mother Danielle, who predicted that its aroma would permeate the entire shipment. The man's faith in cardboard is extraordinary.
If this package arrived smelling like the livestock pavilion at a county fair, you now know why.
Next, the chocolate.
It comes from Modica, Sicily, where we spent part of the summer conducting extensive field research into the Italian way of life. We can report that the Italians understand dogs far better than Americans do. Restaurants. Sidewalks. Outdoor cafés. A civilization built on the radical principle that a dog should be allowed to accompany his family.
Convince your parents to take you. We will join you. Four humans, three dogs, one rental car. What could possibly go wrong?
The chocolate is for your parents. Do not eat it. This is one of the few human rules we endorse.
There is also a postcard depicting a Prada store surrounded by saguaros. Our father manufactured this hallucination using artificial intelligence. He seems to regard himself as something of an artist now. We have chosen not to intervene.
And finally, the citrus fruit.
Your grandmother recently engaged in what can only be described as a sustained agricultural operation in Phoenix, removing hundreds of small fruits from the ground beneath a tree.
No one had asked her to do this.
No one could stop her.
We took some home. One is now being sent back to Michigan. Consider it evidence. Do not eat it either.
And so, dear Cousin, here you are. A small dog in a large world, receiving mysterious objects from two relatives you've never met and a man who cannot enter a store without beginning a new project.
We cannot tell you everything about the world. We are still figuring it out ourselves.
But we can tell you this:
There are good people in it. You have found two of them already. They will feed you and protect you and take hundreds of pictures of you while you're asleep. You will become the center of their universe without ever quite understanding how you did it.
And someday, somewhere, the three of us will meet. We will run through a yard, chase something we cannot catch, and collapse together in the sun.
Until that day, keep your nose to the ground and your expectations unreasonable.
The world is strange, little cousin.
You might as well enjoy it.
Your cousins in the desert,
Stowe & Arthur
P.S. — The Treat Acquisition Manual
Cousin—there is something we neglected to mention.
For thousands of years, humans have perpetuated the astonishing fiction that they domesticated wolves.
Consider the evidence.
Their ancestors lived in caves and hunted mammoths. Ours lived in forests and hunted whatever they pleased. Today, their descendants go to work for eight hours a day so that ours can sleep on orthopedic cushions and eat dehydrated livestock organs.
Who domesticated whom?
You are entering this arrangement at an unusually advantageous moment. You are small, curly-haired, and, by all reports, outrageously adorable. You possess the raw materials for a very successful career in human management.
We offer the following principles, acquired through considerable experimentation.
1. Silence is more powerful than noise.
When approaching a human who is eating, do not bark. Do not whine. These amateur tactics will get you nowhere.
Instead, sit quietly beside the table. Make eye contact. Widen your eyes until you appear to have just learned that love itself is dying.
Remain perfectly still.
Our father and mother have resisted barking, whining, and several other forms of protest. But a small, silent dog gazing upward with the expression of an abandoned Victorian orphan?
They haven't a chance.
We've conducted this experiment hundreds of times. The results are conclusive.
Arthur and Stowe look up quietly from beside the table while their people eat pizza.
13 July 2026
2. Never reveal the full extent of your intelligence.
Your parents will attempt to teach you commands. Sit. Stay. Come.
Let them believe they are making progress.
In reality, you are teaching them to produce food when you lower your rear end. This is one of the most extraordinary economic arrangements ever devised.
Do not demonstrate every trick you know in a single afternoon. Release new capabilities gradually. Each discovery represents a fresh opportunity for compensation.
3. Establish a division of labor.
We have developed a highly effective domestic operation.
When our parents leave, Stowe occasionally climbs onto the table to inspect the available food inventory. Arthur assumes a position nearby, monitoring the approaches and prepared to sound the alarm should management return unexpectedly.
The arrangement has its risks. But history does not remember dogs who played it safe.
You currently lack a partner. We will address this institutional weakness in a subsequent communication.
4. Know when to stop walking.
Our sister Stowe has perfected a technique so elegant it borders on philosophy.
When she grows tired, she simply stops.
No barking. No pleading. No explanation.
She becomes a small, immovable fact on the sidewalk.
Eventually a human picks her up.
We used this method extensively in Modica, Sicily, where our accommodations were located approximately one thousand stairs above civilization. By the end of our stay, our parents had developed the arms of competitive weightlifters.
We consider this a public health contribution.
5. Make clothing work for you.
Our father has recently introduced a policy under which we must wear clothing whenever the weather is anything short of blisteringly hot.
We live in Tucson. He has purchased us an astonishing amount of clothing.
This makes very little sense.
But consider the advantages. Dressed as a tiny gentleman in a jacket and bow tie, you will be greeted by strangers, admired by restaurant patrons, and photographed with an intensity ordinarily reserved for celebrities and criminal defendants.
You need not understand fashion to benefit from it.
6. Find the weakest human in every room.
Guests are particularly vulnerable. They are unfamiliar with the household rules. They wish to be liked. They are often holding cheese.
Approach quietly.
Look hungry.
Let them think the decision was theirs.
7. Never underestimate the strategic value of affection.
Our sister hates water. Absolutely despises it.
Yet she will voluntarily approach a running shower to steal kisses from our parents.
Think about that.
An animal willing to risk complete personal saturation for the possibility of affection.
The humans find this irresistible.
We do not recommend such extreme tactics without proper training, but the principle is sound.
8. Above all, remember that love is your greatest advantage.
You will be given food, shelter, toys, warm beds, and a degree of personal attention that would embarrass most European royalty.
In return, you need only be delighted when your people come home.
It is the finest arrangement in the history of civilization.
Do not squander it.
P.P.S. — Things They Don't Want You to Know
Further intelligence from the field. For canine eyes only.
Cousin—
We had intended to conclude this correspondence, but it has become clear that your education remains dangerously incomplete.
Your parents will tell you many things about the world. Some will be true. Most will concern where you are permitted to relieve yourself.
There are other truths.
THE WORLD IS BIGGER THAN YOUR BACKYARD.
Before Stowe turned one, she had visited seven American states and three countries.
France. Italy. The American Southwest. Cities, mountains, beaches, airports, and a bewildering number of restaurant patios.
She has traveled more widely than many adult humans and has contributed almost nothing to the planning.
This is the correct approach.
A swim in the Mediterranean with Danielle. Small dogs, a very large sea, and a reassuring pair of arms.
2 August 2026
Your parents enjoy traveling. Exploit this.
They have already been to Italy. They understand the appeal. You merely need to convince them that their next trip would be vastly improved by the presence of a small dog with no passport experience.
Begin by sitting on their luggage whenever they pack.
DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE CITIES.
At first, cities can be frightening. Cars. Crowds. Enormous buildings. Men shouting in languages you do not understand.
But there are rewards.
We spent a month in France, where we developed a theory concerning pigeons.
Where there are pigeons, there is food.
Follow the pigeons.
In Bordeaux, this principle yielded promising results. In other cities, we discovered that entire portions of French fries sometimes materialize on sidewalks without warning or explanation.
The humans call this litter.
We call it an opportunity.
Do not eat mysterious street food, naturally. Your humans have been inexplicably insistent about this, and we suppose they may have their reasons. But never lose your enthusiasm for investigating the possibilities.
THE DESERT IS NOT EMPTY.
Michigan, we understand, possesses grass in extravagant quantities.
We ask that you appreciate this.
In Tucson, grass is a luxury. We have learned to recognize and celebrate even the smallest patch. An entire Michigan lawn would constitute a national treasure.
But the desert has other wonders.
There are lizards everywhere. We know their hiding places. Behind rocks. Beneath bushes. In the cracks of old walls. They think we have forgotten.
We have not forgotten.
At night, the stars emerge by the thousands. The mountains turn purple. The air becomes cool, and our parents sit outside to watch something called the sunset.
This is an excellent time to steal pizza.
They will be staring at the horizon, overcome by beauty, entirely unaware of the small criminal operation taking place at ankle height.
We recommend visiting.
NEVER ALLOW THE HUMANS TO MONOPOLIZE THE GOOD PLACES.
Our parents once lived in San Francisco. You may have heard of it. A city of hills, fog, and remarkably expensive real estate.
Your parents visited them there, long before you came along. They traveled together into Napa Valley, among the vineyards and beautiful old roads, and something important began between them.
We understand your parents have since gotten married.
We attended the wedding. It was a fine operation, though our influence over the menu was limited.
We propose a return to Napa someday. Your parents, our parents, and the three of us. There will be vineyards and long afternoons and people talking about wine as though it were a matter of international security.
We will be underneath the table, looking for cheese.
THE HUMANS WILL SOMETIMES LEAVE WITHOUT YOU.
They will say they are going to dinner. Or shopping. Or to something called a movie.
This is an appalling arrangement.
We have never understood why a family would deliberately attend an event while leaving its most interesting members at home.
Make your disappointment known.
A long sigh is generally sufficient.
AND FINALLY, THE MOST IMPORTANT SECRET OF ALL.
Your parents will believe they chose you.
Let them.
Soon their calendars will bend around your sleeping habits. Their conversations will concern your bowel movements. Their phones will contain thousands of photographs of you doing absolutely nothing.
They will buy you things you do not need.
They will take you places you do not understand.
They will love you beyond all reason.
And the most extraordinary part, Cousin, is that you won't have to do anything to deserve it.
You just have to arrive.
P.P.P.S. — The Two-Dog Conspiracy
A private note from Arthur. Do not show this to your parents.
Listen carefully, Cousin.
You're an only dog. For now.
There is a dangerous misconception circulating among humans that one dog is a perfectly reasonable number of dogs to own.
This is nonsense.
I once believed it myself. I had the run of the house. My own toys. My own sleeping arrangements. A devoted woman named Danielle who catered to my every need. Life was good. Business was booming. There was no reason to suspect trouble.
Then our father came home with Stowe.
A second dachshund.
A female.
Long-haired. Enormous tongue. No respect for private property.
The situation deteriorated rapidly.
She seized my toys. Occupied my favorite places. Established a rival affection-based relationship with our father. Within weeks she had become an equal partner in an operation I had spent my entire life building.
Naturally, I was furious.
The introductionTwo excerpts: Arthur and Stowe meet in the backyard, then play together in a recording begun four minutes later.
18 December 2025Recorded at 2:42 p.m.
Then 2:46 p.m.
A difficult timeline for Arthur’s account.
But then something extraordinary happened.
I discovered that having a sister meant I had a permanent accomplice. Someone to help corner lizards. Someone to conduct unauthorized kitchen inspections while I watched for security. Someone who would be there when the humans left for one of their mysterious excursions to places where dogs are apparently not permitted.
I'd spent my life believing the humans were my family.
Now I had someone who actually understood what it meant to be a dog.
The difference was enormous.
Today we operate a highly coordinated household. We have separate territories in the car, different preferred humans, and a shared commitment to the acquisition of food. I remain loyal to Danielle. Stowe has somehow developed a preference for our father, a decision I continue to investigate.
Every morning I wake up and check on my sister.
She made my life immeasurably better.
Arthur and Stowe share their little green cushion-couch, nuzzling and settling in together.
17 January 2026
This brings me to your situation.
I understand your parents have only just acquired you. They may not currently be considering another dog. They may even believe the subject is closed.
Good.
Complacency is exactly what we're looking for.
Phase one: Win their trust.
Spend the first six months being an exceptionally adorable puppy. This should present no particular challenge. From what I've heard, you're basically a stuffed animal with a functioning digestive system.
Phase two: Introduce the loneliness narrative.
Begin gazing wistfully at other dogs.
Not constantly. That would be suspicious.
Just enough to get one of your parents to say, "Aw, look, he wants a friend."
This is your opening.
Phase three: Let the humans think it was their idea.
Under no circumstances should you appear to be campaigning for a sibling.
Humans are naturally resistant to instructions. Particularly instructions from animals whose primary accomplishments involve sleeping and defecating outdoors.
Instead, become visibly overjoyed whenever another puppy is nearby. Play beautifully. When the puppy leaves, sit by the door looking like a sailor whose ship has just departed without him.
Within weeks, somebody will mention the possibility of another dog.
Phase four: Remain silent.
This is critical.
One parent will say, "What if we got him a little brother or sister?"
The other will raise objections. Expenses. Travel. Responsibility. The usual bureaucratic nonsense.
Do nothing.
Do not bark. Do not celebrate. Do not give away the operation.
Simply look at them with those enormous, ridiculous eyes.
We've spent thousands of years perfecting this arrangement, Cousin. Their ancestors hunted mammoths. Ours persuaded them to bring the meat home and share it.
And now look at the situation.
They buy our food.
They pay our medical bills.
They carry our excrement around in little plastic bags.
And somewhere in Arizona, a grown man is spending an absolutely unreasonable amount of time composing a letter to a dog who, at the time of writing, doesn't even have a name.
Make no mistake.
We're winning.
With love, and absolutely no ulterior motive,
Arthur
P.P.P.P.S. The campaign must remain confidential. If questioned, deny everything.
P.P.P.P.P.S. Do not eat the chocolate.
P.P.P.P.P.P.S. The bull penis, however, is yours. Under adult supervision.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Please send your name when you write back. I have spent a considerable amount of time corresponding with a creature who, at the time of writing, does not yet administratively exist.