Henry and I say hello differently.

Henry’s greetings are instantaneous, effusive, uncritical; he’s delighted to see you, whoever you are, until alerted otherwise. Mine are reticent, wary; I may or may not be glad to meet, we’ll see.

This difference is fundamental, not incidental, reflecting different outlooks. Some humans are more like dogs, some dogs more like humans, but the species will ever be distinct – and difficult for each other to understand.

Why is this, you might wonder – might if you had a missive to compose and were fed up with trampling Trump.

Henry plunges into intimacy with perilous rapidity, sniffing regions humans frantically protect. Humans blush just to watch dogs saying hi. How pleasant to skip preliminaries, we might think, and get right to the point.

Humans are self-protective because they have selves to protect. Humans and dogs both keep our bodies from harm best we can; humans guard, in addition, an idea of ourselves, our identity, which no scope can detect. What is an identity anyhow? Where do they come from? How do they grow? Are they innate, inherited, or bred by our surroundings? Are they an advantage, an encumbrance, or both?

A dog’s outlook is tribal. Dog or human (humans to dogs are big dogs) we’re one, all in this together. Dogs may compete for sustenance or primacy, but they all sleep in the same bed, no pride, envy, distinctions. Humans take care whom they sleep with, please goodness. We establish borders around ourselves and limit admission to our inner precincts. I reveal more of myself than most yet keep most of me hidden, even from myself.

Henry’s only secret is where he’s hidden his bone.

Any acquaintance threatens my identity, so of course I’m cautious. Eager for intimacy, I’m wary of getting bruised or bored. If a relationship isn’t worth my while, to hell with it. Henry isn’t so picky. I scold him for being indiscriminate. He snorts I’m a snob.

Individuality is the source of human interest and anguish. Henry’s story isn’t interesting – he’s a dog like other dogs. My story I find fascinating: I’m so different from everybody else – and I don’t know the half of it. You and I are alike in many ways, and unlike in others. Our differences are instructive. Words build a bridge between us.

Henry greets instantly and wholeheartedly because he knows who he’s meeting without asking. He’s meeting a fellow dog, duh. Humans begin as strangers to each other. Friend or foe? Who’s on the other side of that face?

If humans thought tribally, as a species, we’d get along better: mi casa e su casa, all for one and one for all. Instead of competing, we’d collaborate coping with common concerns: our planet’s wellbeing, say. But we think selfishly, mi casa e mi casa, what’s best for me. We fragment our tribe into winners and losers, better or worse, and savage one another.

This individuality is not our fault, but our nature. All humans are selfish, more or less. Selfless is a word, not a fact. The existential question for our species is how to survive our separateness. The more of us there are, the more we compete for stature and stuff, the more rashly we behave. It’s not a dog eat dog world, but human eat human. Dogs, Henry harrumphs, are not that stupid.

How I envy Henry’s easy affability. What a gift to make acquaintances grin without uttering a word. Who am I to size you up or vice versa – we should just hug – because we’re human – and need one another to survive.

If only.