Open letter to an enigma.

Dear Bruiser,

Just about an hour ago, I came home from a meeting with Dr. Write, wherein we worked on the curriculum for a new course, perused Amazon for possible books, and also discussed the political future of our great nation. As you know, before I left home for that meeting, I took you for a brisk walk. You may recall that you nearly spun me off my feet when you expressed vigorous interest in a cat crossing our paths. I was a little unnerved by this. Perhaps I spoke a little too hastily, possibly even harshly, at that moment. I apologize.

But that's not the subject of this letter, Bruiser. It's about the bag of bread I found in our bed. I had to leave in a bit of a hurry this morning, so I didn't get to make the bed before I left, but I came home prepared to rectify the situation, and there, on my pillow, was a quarter of a loaf of bread, tied fast with its little twisty tie. I'm sure you know it is good bread. Very good bread. But you hadn't eaten any of it, not even a crumb.

I am 98% certain that you conveyed the bread to our bed. Because, while I may occasionally eat a little popcorn on or near the bed, and maybe sometimes I bring a slice of toast into the bedroom, in general, neither the historian nor I bring food with all its packaging into the bed, for purposes of consumption or for any purpose, really. We just don't. And there's no one else but the cat, who, to her credit, has never taken the slightest interest in human food. Except for butter, and the less said about that, the better.

So Bruiser, that leaves you. And I am curious as to what you mean by this. What are you trying to communicate to me with the bread-in-the-bed message? Is it proverbial, such as "Cast thy bread upon the bed and it shall return unto thee twofold"? Are you, too, trying to tell me, by means of an ancient metaphor, that I should return to the study of the word of God? Or, more colloquially, do you think you deserve an allowance, to be spent upon dog toys and bacon? Perhaps you feel it's time I took up my long-planned sourdough bread baking project. I am flummoxed.

As I write this, you lie upon the bed, now made, where once you planted this little possibly metaphorical communication of bread in a bag. I shall continue to contemplate it. And perhaps that is your purpose, for you are nothing if not zen-like.

Thank you, Bruiser, for the koan: what is the sound of sliced bread sleeping?

Sincerely your friend, compatriot, and comrade,

&c. & c.