All the president’s men
MY new job is dog-sitting for my grand-dog Merlin, a 14-month-old wire-haired vizsla who has the bone structure of a kangaroo. His parents can’t WFH, so Merlin spends his days with us. The resident Old Dog practices labradorial transcendental meditation in the presence of the charismatic Young Dog.
Providing day care for Merlin has activated feelings long overdue. When I moved to Paris in my twenties, I deposited most of my worldly goods in my parents’ basement, including all my chattels with US voltage —typewriter, stereo, coffee grinder—and boxes of photographs, old letters, diplomas, books, worn copies of the anti-war
