“How’s Henry?” Carll’s asked by fellow humans. “Is he having a good time?”

I welcome the attention – I’m a glutton for it – as much as any talk show host. I’m as hungry for attention as treats. But truly, the question makes no sense. How I am connotes comparisons – how, compared to what? A “good time” implies the existence of better or worse,

Dogs don’t think this way. We live in one time – now – so don’t compare. We’ve preferences, sure – I prefer romping, cuddling, eating to their absence – ignored, I can get listless or grumpy – but I do not pine for some happier past or prospective Shangri-La. Now is dandy because it’s the only time we have, neither better nor worse, make the best of it.

Humans, you may have noticed, are crazed by time. They’re always going somewhere, as if there was anywhere to go. They torment themselves with notions of progress, better or worse, sooner or later, distance to the finish line. From such considerations arise their zaniest notion – significance! Ask “How’s Carll?” or “Is he having a good time?” and expect an earful, fair warning. The topic preoccupies my poor dear palooka, afflicting him with introspection, speculation, and other crippling complaints.

I don’t know from time. Patterns I get – sun-up, sun-down; sleep or play; wet or dry. I can predict Jane’s and Carll’s routines better than they. Such input helps me anticipate, plan.  But I am not restless where I am, thrashing around for my whereabouts in my moment, history, eternity. When Pascal said, “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone,” this is what he was talking about. Set Carll alone in a room – with me, natch – and all of a sudden he’s a thousand miles away, grinning or groaning, scribbling like a nut-case. I, meanwhile, am a champ at sitting quietly in a room alone, waiting for writhing Carll to get real.

It's been argued that this time-awareness has been a blessing to humans, not a curse. It made them artists, inventors, scientists. What would life be without Shakespeare, airplanes, the smart phone!

I concede, human ingenuity has produced some neat stuff. My personal favorite are these chemically engineered puppy treats, which probably give you cancer, but, man, are they delish. My forebears had to gnaw carcasses, a barbarity I abhor. There are more dogfood choices in an American supermarket than the whole inventory of a third world bodega. Go, humans!

But has this superabundance – superfluity, some say – made humans happy? Weirdly, the opposite’s occurring: prosperity breeds dismay. Carll scrolls the headlines aghast – “Can you believe this – or this!” he expostulates to his only available listener. (Jane is asleep, wisely.) They’ve got this guy running for President… but don’t get me started. Even I’m alarmed. From the way Carll tells it, they may start eating dogs – or repurpose us as throws for plutocrats!

Dogs, by and large (the phrase comes from sailing – Moby Dick-style – who knew?), are happy; humans not. So who’s smarter? Does thinking one’s way into a funk evince success?

I’m not being competitive here – or snarky. (Know where snarky hails from? Happy hunting – it’s fun.) I’m just saying – if happiness isn’t the goal of being, what is? And if humans, for all their stuff, are suffering, what might they learn from us dogs? Not all dogs are happy – some bite – but we do not kill ourselves or spread lies or start wars. Henry’s OK, thanks, couldn’t be better, having the time of his life, because it’s the only life he has.

Doesn’t that make sense?