dear everyone in hawthorne …

Dear Everyone in the Hawthorne District in Portland,

Will you marry me? I mean it, I’ll buy a ring. And you can stay home and watch Cake Boss, and I’ll pay the bills. I’ll take the garbage out, too, and buy you presents. I love you, I really do. Do you wonder why, the rest of you not in Hawthorne? Well, I’ll tell you. It started Wednesday. No, no, it started in August, before the beach. There was a week we went to the beach (it was cold, we saw a shark) and before then I got a house. A sublet. I’ve always wanted a sublet, I got one, I’m happy. It’s Andy and Sharon’s place, they’re in a band (which makes me cool) and they’re on the road and they’re subletting to me. We listen to records and drink lemonade out of mason jars. We’re thrilled. But this is about Scruffy. If I had a crush on Hawthorne from the mason jars (and I did), then the Scruffy thing knocked me off my feet.

It’s not a huge deal, I guess. You know Scruffy, he runs away. He runs away and comes back, it normally doesn’t concern us. Last Wednesday we had a meeting to go to and we left. We left Scruffy in the fenced backyard, we left him there with Shadow. (Shadow is a dog, too, he’s Andy and Sharon’s). Shadow is great, he stays in the fenced yard. Scruffy is bad, he finds gaps. Wednesday night we came home late and Scruffy was gone and I said, “enough.” Actually, I screamed it dramatically, and capitalized it, and threw my hands up in the air toward the skies. Or maybe I didn’t, who cares. The point is, I’d had it with Scruffy. New neighborhood, a city, busy streets, I gave up. I bid our sweet Scruffy, adieu.

Then A. stepped in (yes, A. you remember him, perhaps, we were married once.) A. made fliers, he printed them up, he drove here and put a flyer in every shop … and then came the calls.

I’m just saying, Hawthorne … you guys are really cool. The calls, the concern, the sightings, the casual way you all called Scruffy “Scruffy.” Hawthorne, you are my soul mate.

We got Scruffy back because Wendy from Laurelhurst chased him for dozens of blocks, made him safe and contained him. Before that, though, Amy called, and then an 831 number whose name I didn’t catch, and Lisa who had spotted him and hoped he’d been found.

He’s here, he’s grounded, we’re taking Shadow for a walk now while Scruffy sleeps. We’re walking to Red Box to rent “The Perfect Game,” so the kids can review it for my side job (I’m tired of working).

Meanwhile, I feel like Scruffy’s rescue is a perfect nod to 9-11. Thank you, Hawthorne, thank you heroes, thank you America for coming together like that. Thank you, even, to A.

(In three days I’ll be at Mr. Olympia Las Vegas, follow me at @muscleclamp or @powerboynatural on Twitter! I hope I win.)