I’ve been pondering my inordinate appeal.

It’s perplexing, no? Humans swoon over each other infrequently. Babies are oohed and ogled, stroked and hugged, extolled notwithstanding their evident incapacity, but beyond toddlerdom what? Eyes roll, sighs are fetched, twitches diagnosed, cures prescribed (for what? ADHD? Lactose intolerance? Bipedalism? I mean, really!), expenses are bewailed (start saving for college!), employment prospects dreaded… Parents praising their progeny are a phenomenon unusual enough to remark upon, as rare as the reappearance of the Hale-Bopp comet (oh, AI!). Romantic ardor is practically the only topic humans dramatize for their entertainment, as if wooers were wonders. The translation of Romeo and Juliet into Dog didn’t repay its printing costs. All guy dogs are Romeos, even those who, like your correspondent, have been ruthlessly repaired for their proprietors’ convenience (the “procedure” – that’s what they call it – obviates the risk of testicular cancer, we’re told – yeh, right – so does decapitation eliminate any chance of headache). Notwithstanding the futility of my attempts, I happily hump Carll’s leather jacket or Jane’s or Carll’s intoxicating socks (be still, my groin!).

My evidence is anecdotal, granted, but even cursory inspection suggests humans dislike humans in the main, whereas their devotion to their canine companions (a.k.a., “pets”) veers toward mania. What fortunes they lavish on us! What pains they take (albeit at their pleasure)! How they mourn our passing! I’m all for it, don’t get me wrong, even though the snuggling can get too-too; like the priciest courtesans of yore, I exult in being “kept.”

Personal beauty can’t explain our appeal. In my case, maybe – I mean, facts are facts, no use pussy-footing – but some of my co-religionists are, well, repulsive, with their patchy pelts, acrid breath, digestive woes, and decrepit extremities. The lengths humans go to prop us past our off-shelf date can be ghoulish. Haven’t they read Ecclesiastes? (“A time to be born, a time to die,” etc.).

Neither do sense of humor or innate grace justify the emotions we inspire. Again, in my case, maybe – as my cocky cocker mom used to coo, “If you got it, lovey, flaunt it”. But plenty of canonized canines yap, yip, irk past the verge of yuk. While unappealing per se, they (like the Nameless One Carll keeps grumbling about) continue to be fondled. Any theory why?

I’ve one. (After four hundred words, these six-hundred-word daily “missives” are expected to bend toward home.) Hope – simple as that. Dogs have it, humans don’t. I delight in each dawn, no matter’s who’s President. Sure, I’ve got aches, frets – resistant poop, say, or Jane and Carll have their suitcases open, an ominous sign. Can’t be Christmas every day. But most days yes, even rainy ones. I exuberate as reliably as dawn breaks. What mightn’t today have in store – what tastes, smells, sports! Is everything perfect or (as my feline cousins say, purrfect)? Of course not. But why focus on the negative? Is my water-bowl half-empty or half-full?

Carll can’t stop grinning while I bound into the field, ears flapping, in pursuit of imaginary deer (it is so if you think so). Why, he wonders, can’t he be so glad? Is desolation the cost of intellect? If so, is thinking worth it? Isn’t celebration preferable to cerebration? Are humans the most or least fortunate of God’s experiments?

By the time I’m home from my jolly jaunt, Carll’s nether lip is quivering. I worry he might weep (you can smell tears). Cheer up, I lick him, today’s the first day of the rest of your life, finish your cookie and coffee, come play!

Wherein my inordinate appeal.