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I have two dogs, one named Howard and the other named Ralph. Howard’s a sort of yellow lab, looks just like one, except more fine-boned and narrow than blocky. He’s got the webbed feet, the prey drive and the super soft bite. Ralph’s a sort of pit bull, but he’s taller and less ripped than the pit bull locked in the American imagination. Last I checked, Ralph hasn’t suddenly eaten a toddler with no warning. I mean, in his dreams!

It’s their sweet basic life that brings me here. I get to tell you that Ralph seems to enjoy basketball, his googly eyes darting back and forth, back and forth. I’m happy to give him as much basketball as he wants. I get to tell you that Howard’s giant gunboat feet smell a little like corn chips. (He won’t get any actual corn chips until I can have actual corn chips.) I get to tell you — no, boast — that neither dog has eaten any poop in at least a month.

So that’s what we’ll do here. We’ll talk about things like my dogs and just take it easy. Or maybe say things we wouldn’t say out loud to a person, but spit out with no trouble to the unembodied world. Your parents aren’t reading this. We’ll be kind, we’ll be frustrated but most of all, we’ll have my dogs.