Roughhousing with Carll I fell off his and Jane’s bed. It was a nasty fall, all the wrong way, thud and ouch. Carll went skim-milk pale, “Are you OK, baby?” Baby he calls me when he’s feeling bad. Baby translates to puppy in Dog. Why an injury should infantilize us is anybody’s guess. I’d have thought the opposite – bruises age us – the older we get the brittler, slower to heal.

Since then Carll’s been watching me like a hawk, as the saying goes, to see if I’m gimpy, so he’ll have to tell Jane. Jane was out of the room at the time so doesn’t know yet. Carll tells Jane everything – almost – but if he’s hurt something they both love he’s reticent. Not that she won’t forgive him – she’s good at that – but if she never knows, well, where’s the harm.

Carll’s been sneaking me more treats than usual he feels so bad about what he did. Guilt is a human thing. Likewise, remorse, regret, recriminations, revile, rebuke, re- words which convey revisitation. Dogs don’t re- – I speak confidently for the whole species here – because we don’t remember. This moment is the only one we’ve got, so we might as well make the best of it. “Comparisons,” said Shakespeare (who seems to have said everything), “are odorous.”

Carll’s welcome if overstated compunction for my mishap opens a window onto human conduct (if you’re a dog at least). Humans react to ideas as if they were real. An idea pops into their heads – that Jesus went to heaven, say, or they’ve been gypped, or a loved one’s ailing – and they go bonkers, though nothing’s actually changed. Hypothetical horrors hurt worse than actual. You read Carll’s missives evidently – me too, though I’ve no choice: you’d think existence teetered on the verge of extinction. Apocalyptic, millenarian, chiliastic, Chicken Little – they’ve got a bunch of words for the same condition, hard to keep straight. Why spoil a fine day with a vile idea?

I am not indifferent to risk, as you’d know if we’ve met. They abound in every direction – and alarm me to yapping. I’ve been called timid (I prefer prudent) – even a wimp. Granted, I may overdo my apprehension – a bobbing leaf or Amazon delivery guy pose no plausible threat – but the dangers I apprehend aren’t fantasized. Jesus died almost two thousand years ago – how can we still be sad?

Do not mistake these observations as an assertion of canine superiority to our overlords. Of course dogs are smarter, but that’s not my point. The very notion – of superiority – is another of those concepts on which humans shipwreck. “No bitterer curse,” said the poet, “than better and worse.” My object today is more curative than critical, a lick not a lash. I’d like to rinse Carll’s brain of all these fears and regrets that keep him up at night – and his missives cranking. So what if I hurt myself roughhousing? So what if I broke my neck? You didn’t mean it, pal, and even if you did, so what? Shit happens – move on! Regret will not repair the past or fret fix the future. Live now! Celebrate this sunrise, this chance, limp or no limp, because – guess what? – they’re all we’ve got.

Carll knows this. A dog’s age ago (though why a dog’s?), Carll wrote in a poem:

He knows. But he forgot.