I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Retirement gives me time. You give me encouragement. I wouldn’t think as much if I weren’t preparing for our strolls. A thought’s almost an onus with nowhere to place it.

            There are many ways to think; mine’s the lazy way. I surrender to a current to see where it tugs. Scientists and scholars must think more rigorously; they’ve got problems to address, quandaries to unpack, careers to advance. Theologians and politicians may think, but not out of their lane lest they drift into apostasy. Readers and students think, to compass what they’re being told. Any professional or puzzler must think to proceed.

            I think for fun. To populate these paragraphs, sure, but that’s fun too. I’m allergic to any activity I deem a chore; ask Jane. Anything that looks like a chore I revise into entertainment, so I’ll enjoy it: my daily ablutions, say, or walking the dog. Back when I paid bills, I’d procrastinate till the brink of crisis to make the ordeal suspenseful (tanking my credit rating). Now Jane pays the bills and all is calm.

            I think about whatever sidles into my brain as thoughtworthy. Sometimes topics assert themselves. Trump for seven years has commandeered more thought than I dreamed possible. Other times, which I prefer, my curiosity perambulates here and there, poking at mysteries to see which beguiles. I seldom know what I’ll say until I’ve said it. Often my conclusions take me by surprise.

            My mind, like my body, resists subordination. I resent being told what to think or do. I trace this trait to my aborted rebellion against my dad, who died while my brain was warming up. His ghost loiters in my head bossing me around. “Gonna make me?” I jut my jaw.

            I believe thinking is useful but that’s not why I do it. I’m no benefactor or altruist. I think because it’s sensually satisfying. An unexpected insight makes me smile. I look forward to sharing it.

            Recently Henry has barged into my brain as a professor. This is not a literary conceit. Henry is a very different creature than I, one who seems, unlike me, to have figured everything out. His happiness proves his success at intellection. If happiness isn’t our earthly goal, what is?

            I cede him missive space to expound his thoughts. If I did not serve him as amanuensis, he’d remain mute, which would be a shame, since he has a lot to say. His knowledge of me is intimate – I and Jane are his world – while his assessment is independent and unsentimental. Henry isn’t capable of sentimentality. He lives amidst verifiable fact, never sighing for yesterday or panting for tomorrow.

            Translating dog into English is tricky. Henry necessarily sounds like me, if I were a dog, but not like me as I am. His timbre, humor, and syntax took me by surprise. Whereas I tend toward idealism and tragedy, Henry’s a pragmatist and humorist. Meaning doesn’t trouble him. He knows death exists but so what. His candor is defended by his species; he can say what he likes because who takes dogs seriously? His freedom to sport with language is likewise protected by the canine discount. Can a dog be pretentious? Abusive? Proud?

            I’ve always liked to think but now that physical agility forsakes me, thinking has become my recreation. I bat around notions as once I did tennis balls. I play eagerly, courteously, with an eye on my fellows’ enjoyment. If I mistake or foot-fault now and then, no harm, I hope, it was all in sport.