Carll’s mad at me. Well, let him be. So I peed on their bed – did I mean to? Do humans mean to vomit in the wrong place? It just happens, right? He knows I know better – it’s not as if I make a practice of it. It’s been months since I voided indoors from inattention. I get it about indoors and outdoors: I observe equivalent proprieties with my sleeping corners. Increasingly outdoors I favor the woods for pooping to spare Carll the chore of scooping the driveway. Has he thanked me for that? Has he noticed? I didn’t even know I was peeing when it happened. I was romping on the bed with Jane. Jane is more fun than Carll. We were having a fine time, then oops, I don’t know what happened. Relaxation? Inordinate fluid intake (whose fault is that!)? A bug of some sort? (Why are bugs called bugs?) And the counterpane pretty much contained the flow while Carll darted like a startled squirrel, whoosh, you’d be amazed how he can still accelerate when he has to. Sopping done, he grabs me by the ruff and lugs me downstairs to this crate I grew out of months ago and abandons me in the dark. I mean, really – who’s the grownup here? A polite scolding I get, but such a swivet? He was shaking he was so mad. I yelped and whimpered of course but that was pro-forma. I knew he wouldn’t forsake me in the dark (speaking of befouling one’s space). And he loves me, I’m sure, almost sure, he’s committed to me anyway, these missives are my ace in the hole. (The reference is to stud poker, which sounds fun. And what’s the difference between “bedspread” and “counterpane”, I meant to ask.) Having made such a big deal of me, how could Carll explain my disappearance? “How’s Henry doing?” “Oh, he died – in a crate – in the basement – of starvation.” How would that look?

We were talking feelings – rage, love. They’re a human thing. Dogs have moods – playful, sleepy, restless, snuggly – but those are different. Moods don’t mean anything, they’re reasonable responses to external stimuli. Naturally you want to romp having eaten well or sleep after a walk in the woods. But feelings, this human oddity, overwhelm and sometimes countermand the rule of reason. The day can be sunny and they’re sad. They pine for fulfillment though they’re amply fed. The poet Horace described a “black dog” trailing him, meaning his depression. (Black, OK, but a dog?) Humans, hold your horses, sometimes kill themselves, and not because they’re sick. They’ve just “had it and can’t take it anymore.” Come again?

These feelings – here’s my theory – arise from runaway thinking, thinking especially about time – past and future – and non-existent time that “might have been” or “yet might be.” They compare these invented times to the present, then repine or rejoice in the comparison. The lover exuberates over speculative embraces, the poet mourns songs never sung, they sigh for their forebears (not to be confused with four bears, which I did initially) and olden days. Carll rails at me for not being the dog I might have been, a dismal divergence from some impossible ideal. Why am I not this uncanny canine who knows better than to wet the bed! I do know better – as demonstrated – only sometimes – what’s their expression? – shit happens – or piss, in this case – so deal with it, Carll baby, shrug it off, take a walk – I am who I am, OK? – and even you admit that’s pretty fine (on a good day).