Do you have on and off days?

Carll thuds onto his work-bed like a medicine ball, announcing, “I think I’ll take the day off,” as if I get what he’s saying. Lights and cars turn on and off, but days?

I’m Henry, as you’ve no doubt deduced. How many other non-human scribblers do you follow? I’m leading a dog’s life, only it’s not, if the idiom denotes difficult, dreary, unhappy. Only humans lead dogs’ lives. Dogs, even lame, weary, disease-ridden, wag our tails, all but a grumpy few, but you get those in every species. Pissed-off dogs don’t form political parties, wear silly hats, or run for President.

Neither do we take days off – or leave them on. Our every day is special so none is. Happy or hurting, perky or drowsy, we understand, but these are facts not ascriptions. Humans’ on and off days don’t differ in temperature, humidity, duration or any measurable attribute. Indeed, one person’s on can be another’s off. Sometimes Carll grumbles to Jane, “I’m having a shitty day,” and Jane smiles back, trying to look sympathetic, thinking… but that’s her lookout. Sometimes Carll’s shitty day turns dandy on a dime – after typing something, say – and nothing’s changed. I mean, really.

By “day off,” Carll’s declaring he won’t be doing what he thinks he should. Should is another human quagmire. Must, I get – do it or else. But should? Says who? Who’s yanking your leash or cuffing you or withholding treats? Such inducements are unmistakable. Should posits an invisible overseer issuing customized and often contradictory commands, cracking an imaginary whip. Carll proclaims he should get a haircut, take out the garbage, write a missive (these last two are not identical). Or else what? – I respond in my irresistibly adorable way, with a little head-cock. Carll sighs histrionically: You wouldn’t understand.

The human affliction – true, I’m extrapolating from a small sample, but I’m pretty sure this hypothesis is correct – arises from a multiplicity of masters. They’re always wanting to be somewhere else, robbing Peter to pay Paul, whoever they were, feeling bad about feeling good and vice versa. Here and now aren’t there and then, damn them, enough’s never enough, or maybe it’s too much. This multiplicity is a structural defect, like a club foot, preventing easy locomotion; it makes humans malcontents from the get-go. To grow up human means to grow up sad.

Dogs are fine where we are. Could be better – or worse – or elsewhere – never crosses our minds. The other day Carll and Jane left me in my crate for six hours. I hated it, I was lonely, bored out of my gourd. Then they return home all apologetic, hugging, lavishing extra treats. I liked that fine, but their whining grated. “We’re so so sorry,” they kept repeating. Sorry for what? Whatever they did was what they had to, q.e.d. What is is and that’s that, no use bellyaching.

Carll’s day off means he won’t write. So what if he doesn’t – poor world, bereft of his six hundred words! It’s not as if he’s paid to do this -- or you’d die if he didn’t feed you. He writes for his jollies, face it, not to fulfill some sacred trust. The world won’t end if he doesn’t.

But his world might. For Carll – like other humans, I’m guessing – needs meaning as we dogs do our dinner. His exertions prove a preposterous improbability: that he’s been sent (yes, sent) here for a reason. Not writing makes him sad.

So I help him out pinch-hitting, why not, no sweat off my back.