Henry is two today. This means nothing to him, since he’s forgotten being born. He does not measure, judge, compare, contrast, pine for elsewhere. He neither marks anniversaries nor dreads their cessation. One cannot say he is happy in his impregnable present, because happiness is a comparative metric, which derives its sense from its absence. Henry has activities he prefers – exploring, playing, cuddling, eating – he squirms with joy in their enjoyment – urges them urgently – but if they’re not what’s doing, heigh-ho, whatever is is.

Jane and I marvel at the difference Henry has made in our life. It’s not a surprise – we both had loved dogs (and Jane, unaccountably, cats) – we’d anticipated this fervor – but joy invariably astonishes, no matter how predictable. Love is a gift, not a given, wondrous with each recurrence. I’m convinced it’s the most beneficial force in creation. I feel sorry for those who’ve never felt it or entrusted themselves to its might.

Dog love differs from human varieties. This causes confusion. We may wonder why we can’t love a human as we love our dog. Human love demands consideration of an Other’s particularities. I would never tousle and nuzzle Jane as I do Henry: she’d gasp with horror – what had gotten into me! I treat Jane with the respect she deserves (I hope). I’m curious about the immensity inside her skull, what she’s thinking, what she wants. Otherness is integral to human passion: we are one yet two, together yet alone. Henry’s as much part of me as a limb or memory. While he seeks attention, he does not demand respect – for respect, too, is a comparative reaction.

Our word canophilia – or cynophilia, its exact synonym – the one derived from Latin, the other from Greek – appeared mid-twentieth century, first sighted in a crazy play by W.H. Auden and Christopher Isherwood called The Dog Beneath the Skin, which I must have read back in the day but now mean to revisit for it contains these lines:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedO how I cried when Alice diedThe day we were to have wed!We never had our Roasted DuckAnd now she’s a Loaf of Bread.

(The foregoing sentence got a little long – sorry.) In the twentieth century Science began affixing clunky names to familiar affections. Since dogs were first domesticated by humans fourteen thousand years ago, it’s reasonable to assume canophilia is not a recent phenomenon, but now, lucky us, it has a name. This naming mania arises from Science’s hubris, which disputes the actuality of what it has not specified.

Since Henry is part of me, I can love him as I might myself if absurdity didn’t intervene. Often I’ve yearned to hug myself or sob into my shoulder, but the mechanics are awkward – and hazardous, as Narcissus discovered. Henry’s big brown eyes I can gaze into to his very depths, for it’s I who’ve furnished his interior. I would not presume to gaze into Jane’s depths, for those are her precious private precincts. (I caution you not to encroach on mine.)

We can love dogs absolutely, innocently, because their devotion permits it. Love, even when it aches, feels fine, feels (weird as this sounds) like a sufficient reason to be. I love, therefore I am. My companionship with Henry, the reliability of his greeting, his utter dependence help define my role in the human theater. Forlorn and ignored, my soul may pout, “Why bother?” Henry’s cocked head and imploring gaze at breakfast time answers this daunting query. He needs me – to nourish his body – as I need him – to nourish my soul.

Happy birthday, pal.