Jerry Rubin Hurricane Carter

Dear Rubin,

You’ve been a lot of places; you’ve seen a lot of faces. When people meet you they refer to you as “Ruby Tuesday”, “Rubin Studdard” and “Reuben Sandwich”, but we both know that your name is much more complicated than that. You are the product of a hippie love story, your name referencing a political rebel, a poet and an inspirational middleweight. I’ll never forget the day I met you. Weighing in at only five pounds, I would argue that you might have been the cutest thing I had ever seen. A pure bread dachsie with a crooked tail. Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t pick you because you were a discount dog. I picked you because you were cute and loving, with added “character” – just like me. You may not be perfect. You may bark at strangers (and friends). You may have mistaken my bamboo floors for a toilet on a few occasions. You may have annihilated a plot of carpeting at our Mt Baker vacation rental. You may not be perfect, but you’re mine. I appreciate your sloppy kisses, your superior snuggling skills, and your willingness to join me everywhere I go, whether that be in the car, on the trail, in the sky, on the water or near the stage. I’m not an easy person to keep up with, but you’ve done a damn good job!