Hello human amiables: Bless you, my heart is full!

That’s a translation – from Dog into English.  In Dog, we convey the sentiment gesturally, with presto con fuoco tail wags, bright eyes, and a grin. A yip of impatience or purr of satisfaction (yes, dogs purr) may be added for emphasis, like the exclamation point above, but this is supererogatory, a flourish. I questioned Carll about his choice of words: who on earth says “Bless you” or “My heart is full”? Maybe some rickety spinster who urges as “refreshment” a “cup of tea.” Or maybe one of J.D. Vance’s “cat ladies” who prefer pets to bairn? (And why not? And why cats?) The whole phrasing, frankly, gives me the heebie-jeebies, as if I were a quaint holdover from a gentler hour. “Good enough,” Carll harrumphs, “I don’t have all day.”  To which my adorably cocked head responds (wordlessly): “If it’s worth doing, isn’t it worth doing well?”

“Happy as a clam” isn’t quite right either, though it’s closer. I, for one, don’t account mollusks emotion-capable, but I take the point: that bliss is mindlessness – acquiescence to the is – to hell with what might be.

Almost your first word, greeting Carll, is “How’s Henry?” Since God contrived dogs without irony, I’ve no reason to question the sincerity of your inquiry. Killjoys might claim these interlocutors were buttering Carll up by mentioning his pet instead of traffic, weather, or the aforementioned J.D. Vance, slily implying dedication to his daily missives. A pox on such skeptics! Why must humans degrade the affirmative with distrust? Why not take well-wishers at their word? Why introduce frets where none’s prescribed? Why not (to coin a phrase) let sleeping dogs lie?

Henry’s dandy, thanks – and grateful beyond words (or tail-wags) to be recalled. Carll says we live to be loved – I think that’s right. Why exist except to cheer others? Does any earthly compensation equal a tousle or a grin? Humans have this stuff called money, which taunts and haunts them: a form of exchange, I’m told, though it tastes like dirt. What does money buy (other than superior treats, which is not nothing)? “Give all for love!” is my motto as it was ever-quotable Emerson’s. And what is love but attention to another’s whereabouts and wellbeing, confirmation that one’s existence matters and is not a waste of kibble?

It’s been a year and two months, Carll tells me, since, aged sixty days, I joined Carll and Jane as constant companion and co-proprietor of their pleasant premises. I’m amply fed, professionally groomed (every six weeks), pricked and poked periodically by the vet (whom I really like). No complaints, even if I knew how. Whether I’m better or worse off than fellow canines is beyond my scope and seems to me a recipe for discouragement. If you’re better off than some, you’re worse off than others, which introduces remorse into paradise. Carll’s grumpy he’s not Shakespeare – or even Emerson. I mean, really! That’s what comes of concepts like better and worse.

My only beef (these animal analogies – why beef?) is lethargy. Carll and Jane are active “for their age,” in brochure-ese, but face it, their age isn’t all that active. No running, jumping, chasing, bounding, like when the grandkids visit. They mostly sit – that’s where “sedentary” comes from – the Latin sedere, meaning sit. Carll sits staring into an inedible screen. He’s doing it now while I dictate. (Carll calls me his “dictator from day one” and thinks it’s funny.) Inactivity’s somniferous. I yawn my little yawn with my little pink tongue. Bless you for thinking of me. Six hundred words is plenty.