“How can you be lonely? You’ve got thousands of friends.”

Among the delights of dogdom is watching humans stumped. Stumped is a human condition, as is loneliness. Dogs may pause perplexed, pine for absent playmates, but not for long. It’s like that old Frank Sinatra song:

 I spend oodles of time alone, but do I grump about it? Carll seeks solitude, slams his door, then sighs at his isolation. Go figure.

Why isn’t humanity’s obvious oddity more discussed, you might be wondering. That’s because they’re boss on this planet and the perfection of bosses is presumed. “Truth to power” is more slogan than experience. Bosses who urge honest evaluations never mean it. Tell me how I rate – as long as it’s tops.

Dogs are bred to be pleasant. Tail-wags and licks get us fondled and fed with minimal effort on our part so why not? Why bother with the heavy lifting of living if you can get others to do it for you?

 Humans graduate from gladness to grouchiness, gloom even. Born happy, they teach themselves to feel crappy, then boast how smart they are. If that’s smart, I’ll stick with stupid.

 I’d never dis humans if Carll hadn’t begged me to fill in here, he’s feeling so low. In words, candor is required, even of canines.  Lies induce vomiting. Having elected a liar leader, most Americans are barfing their guts out. Serves them right.

When Carll sighs he’s lonely, it’s because, I surmise, he’s seeking an impossible intimacy, then ruing its absence. Longing to be known – get this – for “who he really is”, he keeps quoting Hamlet:

as if he were some big whoops and nobody was doffing their cap. We dogs have nothing within which passeth show, what you see is what you get, and if you don’t like it, that’s your lookout, have a nice day. Dogs manage our expectations to achieve jollity – smart, right? Humans exaggerate their expectations and achieve despair.

The good news about Carll’s alleged loneliness is it keeps him busy scribbling in his endless attempt to expose “that within.” If he weren’t scribbling, heaven knows how he’d spend his hours. He lives to write, he reiterates (ceaselessly), and writes to live. I like Carll – well enough – as one does one’s habits – and would hate to see him go loony-tunes, so write away, cher maître, so long as you keep me fed.

Essential to the amiability (and serenity) of my species is our acceptance of things as they are. We don’t want more or better provided we have enough. We do not envy, resent, writhe from misprized worth. Death for us is no never-mind, come when it may. We do not erect monuments to ourselves, which will only crumble. Dogs are never dogged, etymology notwithstanding. We’re OK as is and thus, by and large, nice to be with – and heartening to humans, who’ve thought themselves into a funk.

The superiority of dogs to humans is too evident to gainsay – which doesn’t stop humans from trying. Humanity’s vanity is their insanity – but mum’s the word.