Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

cremation. In the left-hand corner, on the line marked MEMO, she’d written, “Pet Burning.” I had it coming.
    When my mother died and was cremated herself, we worried that, acting on instinct, our father might run out and immediately replace her. Returning from the funeral, my brother, sisters, and I half expected to find some vaguely familiar Sharon Two standing at the kitchen counter and working the puzzle in TV Guide. “Sharon One would have gotten five across,” our father would have scolded. “Come on, baby, get with it.”
    With my mother gone, my father and Melina had each other all to themselves. Though she now occupied the side of the bed left vacant by her former mistress, the dog knew she could never pass as a viable replacement. Her love was too fierce and simple, and she had no talent for argument. Yet she and my father honored their pledge to adore and protect each other. They celebrated anniversaries, regularly renewed their vows, and growled when challenged by outside forces.
    “You want me to go where?” When invited to visit one of his children, my father would beg off, saying, “But I can’t leave town. Who’d take care of Melina?” Mention a kennel, and he’d laugh. “You’ve got to be out of your mind. A kennel, ha! Hey, did you hear that, Melina? They want me to put you in prison.”
    Due to their size, Great Danes generally don’t live very long. There are cheeses with a longer shelf life. At the age of twelve, gray bearded and teetering, Melina was a wonder of science. My father massaged her arthritic legs, carried her up the stairs, and lifted her in and out of bed. He treated her the way that men in movies treat their ailing wives, the way he might have treated my mother had she allowed such naked displays of helplessness and affection. Melina’s era spanned the final dozen years of his married life. The dog had ridden in the family’s last station wagon, attended my father’s retirement party, and celebrated the elections of two Republican presidents. She grew weaker and lost her appetite, but against all advice, my father simply could not bear to let her go.
    The youth in Asia begged him to end her life.
    “I can’t,” he said. “This is too hard for me.”
    “Oh, but you must do it,” said Komatsu. “It is required.”
    A month after Melina was put to sleep, my father returned to the breeder and came home with another Great Dane. A female like Melina, gray spots like Melina, only this one is named Sophie. He tries to love her but readily admits that he may have made a mistake. She’s a nice enough dog, but the timing is off.
    When walking Sophie through the neighborhood, my father feels not unlike the newly married senior stumbling behind his capricous young bride. The puppy’s stamina embarrasses him, as does her blatant interest in young men. Passing drivers slow to a stop and roll down their windows. “Hey,” they yell, “are you walking her, or is it the other way ’round?” Their words remind him of a more gracious era, of gentler forces straining against the well-worn leash. He still gets the attention, but now, in response, he just lifts his shovel and continues on his way.
    The Learning Curve
    A YEAR AFTER MY GRADUATION from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, a terrible mistake was made and I was offered a position teaching a writing workshop. I had never gone to graduate school, and although several of my stories had been Xeroxed and stapled, none of them had ever been published in the traditional sense of the word.
    Like branding steers or embalming the dead, teaching was a profession I had never seriously considered. I was clearly unqualified, yet I accepted the job without hesitation, as it would allow me to wear a tie and go by the name of Mr. Sedaris. My father went by the same name, and though he lived a thousand miles away, I liked to imagine someone getting the two of us confused. “Wait a minute,” this someone might say, “are you