Carll gave me one of those looks the other day while he was eating something yummy and I wasn’t. “I know, baby,” he cooed, “it’s not fair.”

                  Naturally I inquired into the signification of this common human formulation. We dogs don’t know from “fair”.

                  Don’t be fooled: “fair,” meaning just, has nothing to do with “fair,” meaning gathering. I make a point of checking etymologies to be sure I’m sniffing a squirrel, not a skunk. These two words are, if you’re groping for their descriptor (as Carll was), homographs, which are not homosexual porn but two words spelled the same with different meanings. The fair, as in village fair, traces its heritage to Latin feria, meaning religious festival, and the fair meaning just, to Germanic fagar, which itself may (or may not) owe ancestry to the Latin pax. You might think with all their letters and sounds, humans would assign words one meaning each, but that would be to attribute sense to the species, which is a common mistake.

                  Fair meaning just came from fair meaning lovely, which I get every time I pass a mirror. “Just,” though, presumes a common code of values established by some authority to direct conduct – a right and wrong way to be, which one ought not to violate, only everybody does. “I know, baby, it’s not fair” indicates awareness of injustice with no inclination to avoid its commission. Carll gobbles that morsel without sharing, seeming (this is the weirdest part) to enjoy my privation, though he says the opposite. Can a creature enjoy feeling sorry?

                  Fair here seems to suggest an equitable distribution of the things of earth. I mean, really! Haven’t they read Darwin? It’s been almost two hundred years since he observed that nature’s a scrum among the species, nothing fair about it. Eat or be eaten, adapt or perish, dog-eat-dog (sic!). Fairness is a myth imposed on actuality, thus a mythtake (my neologism – like it?). Humans feign wanting to be fair, meanwhile grabbing all the goodies they can, even to the detriment of all. If it’s noble to be fair, Sir Carll, why not try it instead of expressing your patently insincere regret? 

                  The fair amount for me to get of what I want is as much as I can. I make no bones about it (ahh, bones). Shameless and relentless in pursuit of my interest, I leave no trick untried, and it works out fine. Is my big-eyed supplicative gaze at Carll when he’s in a good food-mood sincerely affectionate? You bet, if it works. Dogs are incapable of fraud.

                  I’ve touched on this mystery before, but it gets my so-called goat. Why can’t humans be straight with one another? Why must they delude, evade, disguise? Why must they dress up and drop bombs and lie? Other creatures deceive – but for a good reason – to mate, eat, avoid being eaten. Humans use their luxuriant lexicon to prevaricate while protesting they’re attempting truth. What are good manners but an elaborate lie?

                  If Carll were seriously sorry about swallowing that whole delectable mouthful, he’d share a shred. It’d do him good, given his heft, heart history, etc. But he’s lying – to make me feel better, I guess, only the result’s the opposite. I resent being bullshitted (why bulls deserve that honor beats me, because they don’t). Say what you mean, can’t you! It’d save so much tsuris and time.

                  Carll protests he tries to tell the truth, my accusation’s unjust. Adorably I cock my cockapoo head as if to say, “I know, baby, it’s not fair.”