I’m a wiz (no h) at hellos. I leap, twirl, yip, flip, lick to express delight. Carll attests – within my hearing – watch what you’re saying in my hearing because I’m listening – no creature has ever been this happy to see him – not his mom in the maternity ward – though he was a boy, finally, after three girls – not even Jane – whose bounding joy, albeit deep (he hopes!), isn’t boundless. My exhibition -- undiluted by reservations, untamed by manners, unabashed by absurdity – is uncontaminated by consideration. To hell with how I look helloing, I’m every bit this happy and then some. It may take me a minute to quiet – what is a minute, anyway – my exuberance may be succeeded by disagreement – over the advisability of decorum, say – unexpected objects may distract (a squirrel, for example) – but at the instant of recognition, when his familiar form bursts into sight – I’m – what’s the expression? – “beside myself” – pure feeling – “a hundred and ten percent.”

Henry here – and happy to see you – though not that happy – words ensnare sentiment – as Shakespeare noted – who noted everything –

(That’s Much Ado about Nothing, Act two, Scene one, but you probably knew that. Why any human would opt for Danielle Steele over Shakespeare beats me – but the numbers don’t lie.)

Why, you might wonder, are dogs so much greater greeters than their supposedly smarter masters? Isn’t the persuasive expression of affection an essential mammalian trait? What better use of one’s earthly hours than gladdening a loved one’s heart?

Though no scholar, scientist, or credentialed authority (I’ve a pedigree but no degree), I lack standing, as lawyers say, to weigh in on this debate. Among humans, it’s not what’s being said that counts but who’s doing the saying. A bark isn’t a bark if the barker’s a no-name. Here, in our cozy coterie, we may listen with our own ears, but not out there.

The human deficiency, I hazard, is you overthink. Your feelings may do you credit, but you override them with preposterous thought. You feel, “I love,” then think, “No, I don’t, because I shouldn’t.” You feel, “the golden rule is obviously right,” then think, “uh-oh, strictly observed, that rule might cost me a Tesla!” You feel, “lying is wrong,” then think, “well, maybe not, as means to an end…” Over and over, your glib brains outargue your stuttering hearts. You know what’s right, then do what’s wrong, and seek absolution. We’ve no confessionals in our dog-temples. Why would we?

In his Dickens retrospective, Carll’s revisiting Hard Times. My need for tiring walks makes this retrospective possible. Dickens, Carll tells me, makes perfect perambulatory company, vivid, vigorous, exciting, but not too dense, better even, for this purpose, than Shakespeare or Jane Austen, whose syntax is more concise.

Hard Times centers on a school kept by Thomas Gradgrind, whose inflexible fealty is to “facts,” never fancies, never – Heaven forbid! – sentiment. His utilitarian fanaticism predictably warps his pupils’ personalities. Dickens’ satire is both hilarious and hair-raising: how too much thinking can sicken the sweetest soul. Carll’s and my conversation about this unjustly neglected masterpiece must have gusted this morning’s thoughts in this direction.

Humans can never recover the perfection of canine ebullience. They are doomed to think. Neither is the cure for their disability to stop thinking, for with the deadly devices at their disposal, that would endanger earth. The cure is humility: be a part of earth’s community not apart: love as you would be loved.

I’m not holding my breath.