Grumpy Carll asked me what I planned to write about. He’s seldom grumpy with me, except when I won’t quit barking. There’s a reason I won’t – duh – it’s not for my amusement. Remember Arthur Miller’s play, “Death of a Salesman”? “ATTENTION MUST BE PAID!” Jesus made a similar point in his famous sermon: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (I quote the King James translation, with its antiquated “ye’s” and “unto’s,” less to flaunt my erudition – though that’s something – than to flatter your inner ear. When euphony vies with accuracy, set me down for euphony every time.)

I know Carll’s grumpy because grumpiness smells. Everything smells. It’s not body odor precisely but a sharpness, like vinegar or ammonia, as if sweetness huddled in its room, refusing to say hi. Like milk at the iffy edge of sour: not rancid yet, drinkable in a pinch, only you don’t want to.

I don’t ask why he’s grumpy because I don’t care. Besides, that’s not my job. Let someone dump their grumpiness unto you and you get grumpy too. Phrases like heart-to-heart, talk things through, clear the air, iron things out, arise from a profound misunderstanding of living beings, humans included. Emit stink into the atmosphere and sooner or later everybody’s crinkling their nose or politely swaddling their proboscises with snot-rags. Don’t take my word for it, conduct an experiment. Amidst an amiable colloquy, let rip a sour fart, a real doozy, and observe the response. No more chummy chortling, but a blushing embarrassment and furtive glancing for exits. Joy has fled. Groans, grumbles, rants are the lexical equivalent of farts.

I do not complain. I observe, contemn, condescend, how can I not, but nix on whining. Nothing’s to be gained by it and much lost. This Nameless One Carll keeps yammering about – so what? Close your eyes and he goes away.

Which brings me to the theme of this morning’s homily: Joy is not a result but a responsibility. You owe your loved ones your delight. Grin, even when grim. Rage is an imposition, a cheap trick to attract attention, as any tot soon discerns. Feeling miffed or dissed? Stage a tantrum and spoil the party for the rest! Carll tells me that’s the Nameless One’s m.o. – grump, growl, grimace, fulminate, vituperate, vow revenge, so it’s hard to look away one’s so dazed with disbelief and paralyzed by disgust. Rabid dogs are, I suppose, a canine version, but they’re sick. Maybe this guy too.

This theme is not much preached. Lamentation has been a performance art at least since Jeremiah lent his name to the screed. How eloquently can you lament without listing into the ludicrous (as in the foregoing absurdly alliterative tour de farce)? Carll revels in reviling now and then, I sense, but he insists not.

Love and laughter are my role on earth, not lugubriosity (yes, it’s a word). Joy is why God made dogs. He may have had other uses in mind, but in these we’ve been superseded by machines. “Nothing is more beautiful than cheerfulness in an old face,” sighed the German Romantic, Jean Paul – one of my favorite aphorisms. At my age, with my looks, I need no spiffing up, but Carll could use some help. A smile may be the only beauty accessory that forestalls his dissolution into a blob. And he can do it! “Turn that frown upside down,” I leap and lick! And behold, the edges of his lips bend upward, like a flower toward the sun.