Gratitude is another of those human words for which there’s no equivalent in dog.

Such lexical conundrums are a pain. I wouldn’t fuss with them only Carll pleads his missives might grow monotonous without my contributions. I ask him how he managed those nine years preceding me. His audience was smaller, he explains, then there was Rome. And he hadn’t said so much. After more than three thousand outings, he dreads repeating himself. He doesn’t think that’s happening, but as the two old-guy candidates for President were showcasing till the elder mercifully withdrew, self-assessment, no less than our sinews, degrades with age. Seventy-three isn’t seventy-eight or eighty-one, but it’s sailing perilously close to the shores of gaga. You’re not that busy, Carll notes. Would it be too much to lend a paw?

In no position to say no, I say yes, but not without histrionics to underscore the nobility of my acquiescence. Would any other cockapoo do as much? We are not bred to toil, but to adorn. “Beauty,” said Emerson, “is its own excuse for being.” If Carll and Jane were looking for a wage-earner to assist the family enterprise, they should have shopped elsewhere.

So say I. But what I do, like any self-respecting sycophant, is bend to the boss’s will, wagging my tail, grinning “Yassuh, whatevuh you say suh,” like a Pullman porter in one of those screwball comedies from the forties. If fawning yields treats – why not? No sweat off my back (dogs don’t sweat).

Which returns us to “gratitude,” that concept strange to dogs.

The OED defines gratitude as “the quality or condition of being grateful; a warm sense of appreciation of kindness received, involving a feeling of goodwill towards the benefactor and a desire to do something in return.” “Grateful,” to close the loop, means thankful, and derives from an ancient root, lost in the mists.

Gratitude, while it resembles gladness, differs from it. Gratitude suggests the giver gave more than requisite, and for that the recipient should feel warm and gooey and inclined to return the favor. Hogwash, if I may borrow from my porcine kin. Dogs know – and humans should – that nobody does more than they mean to. Actions suit intentions. Whatever we do, man or dog, is what we had in mind, to attain our objective. If Carll feeds me an extra-nice supper, it’s to make himself feel better, to preen his goodness, say, or exonerate some shame. If I treat Carll or Jane extra nice, it’s because I want something, food most likely, or affection. Sure, I’m glad to be fed or petted, but not grateful, running up an emotional tab I must satisfy or to hell with me.

It’s notions like gratitude that give humans the heebie-jeebies. No one likes feeling in arrears. Nor is it any fun caviling if one considers oneself underpaid. It’s that squirrely subjunctive causing trouble again. Humans see double – what is and what might or ought to be. Comparing the two riles them. Humans are never square. They’ve not been thanked enough or, almost worse, more than they can reciprocate – either way, they’re screwed.

Dogs don’t mess with such emotional double-entry bookkeeping. What is is all. If it makes us glad, we’re glad; if sad, sad, no second thoughts. If Carll or Jane don’t feed me, I’ll go foraging elsewhere. If they pamper me, fine and dandy, that’s their choice.

Gratitude is a boondoggle. Do Carll and Jane make me glad? You bet, I’m used to them. Am I grateful to them? Not a whit. My presence rewards them handsomely. Who could ask for more?