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A Letter from Gary Shteyngart’s Dog

November 9, 2012 | by

The following letter was sent by Gary Shteyngart’s dog to the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

Dear BAM,

Last night, while my favorite human Gary Shteyngart was dripping gherkin juice and pickled cod balls onto his green polyester shirt, I noticed a tear trickling down his face. I peered over his slumped shoulder and saw on the interwebs that in a couple weeks, some famous people are gathering at BAM to make fun of him. Not only that, you monsters are actually selling tickets to the public for this public humiliation of my friend. BAM staffers, I say to you: this small, furry excuse of a human being already suffers terrible asthma, an overabundance of gnarled body hair, and bouts of midnight gas. He has trouble buttoning his own shirts, doesn’t own a comb, and bribes his own MFA students to write his books. His hardship started years ago, first as a young Russian émigré tortured at Hebrew School, when he arrived in America speaking no English with a mere two shirts and a bear coat, and then again at New York City’s Stuyvesant High School, when his fellow immigrant teens would sabotage his Bunsen burner to get ahead. He struggled to make money in his 20s by writing grants for programs like “Torah Tots,” attempting to secure foundation money for the important purpose of introducing 3-year-olds to the murders and rapes of the Old Testament. In short I say to you, hasn’t Gary suffered enough? Why must you persecute him more? And also will this be live streamed on the web, so I can watch from the comforts of my luxury dog crate?


Felix the Dachshund



  1. boh | November 12, 2012 at 11:19 am

    Dogs can’t write letters. You guys are silly.

  2. poppycock | November 12, 2012 at 11:45 am

  3. jk | November 14, 2012 at 9:41 am

    Dear Boh,
    Yes they can.

  4. Anna Immanuel | January 21, 2013 at 1:06 pm

    First of all, he should wear only 100% hemp cotton, your Gary. No polyesters. And forgive those who question your literacy. Respect for our noble species is assured among the cognoscenti, particularly in literature. I live on a distant continent among a bookish people. Angelic sisters found me.Their mother is a distracted writer.”Is it even house-broken? Jesus. This is all I need. I’m trying to figure out where my story is going and the absolute LAST THING – Quick!” Too late.
    Thereafter, I often sat beside her as she typed through the long nights. One day, I attended an evening class with the younger of the daughters, my mistress.”How’d he do?” “Great. He sat through four hours straight.” “No kidding? Was that the Bible class?” “No. Literature.” “Bialik still?” “No. Now we’re doing World Literature.”
    A looked up from her writing.”Who you doing?”
    “That Russian writer.”

    You have probably surmised that I am a lapdog. What you cannot have known is the name of A’s story: Channelling Chekhov. Tell Gary.

    The lady says remember about the 100% cotton.

    Best wishes,
    PS What’s with the crate?

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