Food, sleep, comfort, and exertion are my soul’s demands. (Security and companionship I include under comfort.) I do not doubt, speculate, invent, compare, explore beyond my practical need to know. Nothing signifies. Meaning is a boondoggle to ensnare susceptible intellects. God is a crock. Whoever labels this worldview materialism misses the point. Dogs don’t know from isms. Any ism is a doomed attempt to explain the inexplicable. I exist for no good reason. This worries me only if I let it, which I don’t.

Human bewilderment would be funny were it not so sad. Because they have words, humans think they’re smart. Their words stupefy! Why is quick-mud, a question which only seems to have an answer. (Curious that whys and wise, while homonyms, are antonyms.)

I’ve propounded this point before and will again because, one might argue, it’s the only point worth propounding. Veer from evidence into speculation, fact into theory, and good luck to you. I have no theories – who needs theories? What is is and what isn’t isn’t worth a rat’s ass (editor, please double-check). Poor Carll sweats words as if he were heading somewhere. Here’s the only place that is – and it’s fine – why stir?

Jane and Carll debate my diet. I know, I’ve heard them. While they never argue – not in my hearing – on this topic they differ. Jane wants me to eat healthy, Carll tasty. Healthy means the balanced nutrition of kibble, for which I’ve scant affection. This kibble (the theory goes) will cause me to live longer, feel better, and (here’s the howler) look better. A chunky dog, it seems, indicts its overseer. Responsible dog-owners do not permit their charges to chub.

Carll focuses more on mirth than girth. It pains him to see me sniff my kibble with distaste. When Jane’s not looking, he lards my dish with treats which, like human treats, abound with sugar and hydrogenated fat, inviting cardiac impairment. “How would you like it if I served you crap you hated because it was good for you?” Carll growls to Jane. (Carll does the cooking in our household; if he didn’t, we might all starve.) Carll likens provender to prose. Who’d read him if he served up kibble’s lexical equivalent!

I as the saying goes have no dog in this fight. Jane is correct: if I get hungry enough, I’ll lick my kibble dish clean. I’m no fool: survival’s nothing to scoff at even if it ain’t Escoffier. But here’s the thing: this problem self-corrects. Wait till Jane’s absent, then gaze relentlessly, even hypnotically, upward with my big brown pleading eyes, tracking Carll’s progress around the kitchen like one of those wide-eyed waifs of Victorian reform literature, implicitly suggesting that his gluttony’s occasioning my starvation, and presto-magico, Carll sneaks me the dainties I favor. He’d much rather concur with Jane’s more responsible regimen, in theory he agrees with her, but in practice he melts at my pathetic importunity. He’s the same way with these missives, succumbing to honey-drenched diction if he can eke a grin. And he calls me a “love-sponge”!

Now I put it to you, in the example cited above, who’s the victor: sappy Carll, rigorous but rueful Jane (“Sorry, baby – this hurts me more than it does you,” etc.), or yours truly, who gets what he wants without lifting a paw? If I really were starving, Jane and Carll would know about it, believe me. Chairs, carpets and books, while unpalatable, are edible in a pinch, even if their consumption might cost me a whupping. Better that than emaciation, inanition, death.