It’s my birthday I’m told, three hundred and sixty-six days since my emergence from dark to light – or ejection from ease to onus – take your pick: in human-speak, a year. (And, yes, this is one of those they label leap.) Bully for me, tanti auguri, you don’t look a day older, let’s stipulate all those sighing or sniggering endearments in the greeting card rack of your pharmacy, as if such gooey gummies were a drug, which I suppose they are, a sort of anodyne. Who invented greeting cards anyway? The ancient Chinese, Wiki says, but those were hand-done, still the sort of importation, like Tik Tok, intended to infantilize the intellect, transforming the populace into dashboard bobble-heads.
Dogs – I’m Henry, if you hadn’t guessed – are immune to such inanity. Our endearments – tail-wagging, head-cocking, bounding, licking – are simple, eloquent, and universally legible, requiring no apology for their fatuity. You know in a nanosecond if a dog is glad to see you and we mostly are, unless we’ve been warped into wolfishness by wary wardens. (I pawed the alliteration option of my CAI – Canine Artificial Intelligence – device just to see what happens.)
No doubt you’ve been wondering what to get me for my birthday. While anniversary offerings aren’t standard pooch practice, when in Rome do as the Romans, especially when the result of such Romanizing might be supplemental dainties peddled to sentimental saps. (No, I didn’t mean you – it’s the device on overdrive.) Of all store-bought comestibles, none’s more marked up than so-called dog treats. That’s because a) humans don’t sample them, so can envision them the equivalent of caviar or camembert, and b) the pricier the better, to prove proprietors’ fidelity notwithstanding their prolonged absences.
My favorite – have a pen handy? – is the Stella and Chewy brand of freeze-dried mammal and poultry body parts. They’re exceptionally scrumptious, I can’t explain why. They’ve got Lord knows how many varieties – Meal Mixers, Jerky Nuggets, Dental Delights, Crav’n Bacon, Wild Weenies – be still my heart! – presented in perky red pouches priced at – hold your hat – more than fifteen bucks per. That’s about a buck a bite, filet of sole rates (fresh, not frozen), and what are the ingredients? Chopped or ground offal instantly desiccated to a crunchy crisp by some new-fangled gizmo, no human intervention required, just push a button. I mean, really! Was it Shakespeare said, “Oh what fools these mortals be!”? – only from the mocking mouth of a non-human character, Puck, whose condescension to the species couldn’t be resented. (Maybe that’s where Carll got the idea.)
Come to think of it, this whole human habit of celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, saints’ days, etc., gives one pause with a u. As if survival were a laudatory achievement! Extol victories, discoveries, advances, sure, evidence of effort, but mere being? Reward me with treats – lavishly, if you like – when I’ve done something creditable – pooped, sur commande, or fetched, or importuned irresistibly with my liquid brown eyes and cute little head-cock – yes, in such performances I take pride. But merely to have passed three hundred and sixty-six days under the sun? Any motley mutt can do that!
On balance, I can report I’m happy here – in this corner of earth, with these two supervisors – maybe exceptionally, hard to say. We dogs are happy by nature, unless embittered, which explains our enduring appeal. Humans seem to need what we supply – that is, joy, which they somehow lost the knack of. Carll, I’ve noticed, while often happy, is often not, troubling deaf heaven with his bootless cries. Pharmacies should stock us in in the pain-killer aisle and lose the greeting cards.