Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains. – Rousseau

I am learning to be a better slave.

Dogs, face it, are slaves. So are most humans. Violate your conditions of service and there’s hell to pay. Enslavement is unofficial, of course; Massah Carll fancies himself my benefactor. “Aren’t you a lucky dog!” he tousles me in a spirit of self-gratulation. I may be – lucky – dogs don’t torment themselves by comparing. I’m fed, housed, exercised, groomed, tousled, if that’s luck. I dislike my kibble, but that may be me.

So, no complaints – none I care to socialize. Folks who tell you they’ve “no complaints” are implying they do have a few, which they’re sparing you, they’re so swell. This interjection resembles another which is infecting English like a virus. In response to thank you, humans chirrup “No worries.” Makes my skin crawl. I wasn’t worried, you simpleton, I was just being polite!

Carll repeats – wearisomely, I fear – that we live our lives for the benefit of others. Even the grimmest experience can be made precious if recycled as learning or solace for our fellows. This strikes me as hooey: I live my life for me. Then again, I could use a topic for the missive my understandably devoted readers have come to expect. So here, from my two-plus (human) years of servitude, a few pointers for slaves, whether or not you acknowledge your subjection.

Kiss ass. Any slave worth their keep is a shameless flatterer. A peculiarity of the human animal is their credulity of praise. Lovers spew the most audacious nonsense in pursuit of their objective, and their prey nods. The Nameless One, bathed in preposterous accolades, nods. Praise Carll’s prose and he’ll rate you keen.

Fervent ass-kissers get promoted, while truth-tellers get the cold shoulder. (A cold shoulder sounds yummy in Dog but not in Human.) Beware those who insist they want to hear what you think. They don’t. They want to hear what they think. No eloquence rivals Echo’s.

Exaggerate affection. I’m a whiz at this. Dogs tend to be, after millennia of practice as domestic pets. Some dogs work for a living – pulling sleds, sniffing drugs – but mostly we’re emotional accessories, Zoloft in fur, to persuade our owners they’d be loved if only they were better known! Gaze deep into their eyes as if you could see into their soul, whatever that is, past the crud of their actuality into the nectar of their essence. Lick them, if you can bear it (they call licks kisses). Leap ecstatically at their reappearance. You can’t overdo endearments; you’ll never be blamed for insincerity.

Occasionally disobey. This sounds counterintuitive, but humans delight in a fillip of misbehavior they can correct. Instant abject obedience marks a master as a tyrannical brute. Humans like to believe in their slaves’ volition, that they rejoice in their entrapment. This is as true of corporations as it was of plantations. Now and then I’ll bark when forbidden or balk when commanded into Carll’s car. Such mini-rebellions persist till I hear irk escalating to threats, at which point I surrender, making my master feel both masterful and benign.

Laugh at their jokes. Carll is nowhere near as funny as he thinks he is. He’s forever tickling, lurching weirdly, and (in human company) propelling execrable puns (as punishment, ha-ha). He roughhouses when you don’t feel like it – what nowadays might be described as invading one’s personal space. His kids hated this when they were small but dared not object.

Let him. He’s harmless and his ego needs stroking. He’ll reward your acquiescence with extra treats.