OK, call me a wuss if that gives you your jollies (lights your fire, floats your boat, etc.). Only the human species inflates their self-esteem by demeaning others. Does the giraffe condescend to the marmoset? Better, worse, bigger, smaller, so what! We’re the way we were made and that seems fine because here we are. Am I proud of being a dog? – or ashamed? – what questions! Granted I’m better-looking than many of my kind, but that’s not flaunting, just fact.

Wuss, by the by, is something of a mystery word. It popped into English mid-seventies of the last century, though nobody knows from where. Means “feeble and ineffectual person,” as you’re probably aware, “spineless or ‘wet’”, per Carll’s OED. May hearken back to wimp and puss as etymons (a.k.a., ancestors). Wimp too is sort of new, about Carll’s Dad’s age, born circa 1920 out of “whimper,” itself pretty ancient (though hardly as venerable as “puss”).  Language is one of the gizmos humans have and dogs don’t. Not sure what good it does them, but it livens the time.

I am a wuss, at least compared to Jane. Jane inspects alien species as if they couldn’t sting, bite, claw or otherwise take revenge. When birds smack the glass walls of our house – which happens all the time, especially in migrating season – Jane sometimes lifts their carcasses off the deck and brings them indoors (sic!) to match to this dog-eared book (dog-eared?). “Oh, it’s a phoebe,” she’ll exclaim, or “warbler” or “red-breasted grosbeak,” with this curious mix of enthusiasm (at identification) and sympathy (for its early demise).  Carll and I on this one see eye to eye: “It’s a dead bird, for pity sake – get it out of here!”

“Wuss” may sound bad, even slanderous, but it’s their term, not mine. We dogs don’t do adjectives. Adjectives compare, which commences human misery. Comparing leads to competing leads to falchions, halberds, and smart bombs (I told you words are fun). For dogs (and all other species, I’m guessing, though this is hearsay), what is is, we are what we are, we sensibly adapt our conduct to circumstances and there’s an end of it, case closed. Fussing about better or worse, richer or poorer, master or servant spoils a good night’s sleep.

And yes, I’m a wuss, by human or at least Jane standards, though prudent, cautious, circumspect, wary, judicious, vigilant I’d deem more considerate descriptors. Is it wussy to avoid getting stung, nipped, pricked? Did you know some toads spit poison! (I’m not sure that’s true but they look as if they did.) I told you about the rattlesnakes by the pool, didn’t I, or the bear sauntering across the parking area, down the garden steps, and across the footbridge in broad daylight! You bet it’s a dangerous world out there and you’d better keep your ears cocked and nose moist! What occupation’s more sensible, less risible, than staying safe and sound!

I don’t mean to sound defensive – that’s a human reflex. I’m fine as I am, better than fine, pampered, fed, cuddled, nigh-on worshipped, what could be better than that! No need for me to slay dragons or occupy skyboxes to demonstrate my mettle. Poor Carll’s in a tizzy daily striving to prove himself as if he were a quadratic equation. He is – what further proof is needed? I sniff and lick him each morning to be sure.

So laugh at me all you like, hearty-har-har, for my circumspection about the unfamiliar. You bet I take care. Life’s too fine a frolic to risk its premature removal. Better wuss than was.