I am handsome.
No two ways about it, everybody agrees, even if we’ve never met take it from me. But in what, we might wonder, does handsomeness consist?
No, I’m not Carll, as you’ve already concluded. Attaching “Carll” and “handsome” would be oxymoronic. Not that he’s Quasimodo or the Nameless One – a real yuk – it’s just that you’d never hire him to model underwear. As seventy-three-year-old white guys go, in the middle of the pack, I suppose, only that’s a pack whose ratings don’t count unless you’re George Clooney, who isn’t even seventy yet. Old may be many consoling adjectives but “cute” isn’t among them – and when oldsters aim for cute, using aesthetic (read, pathetic) surgery, they end up looking shrink-wrapped.
I’m Henry, Carll and Jane’s dog, a whole different kettle of fish. A cockapoo, that is, a pricey version of mutt, poodle plus cocker spaniel, milk-chocolate brown, or molasses, or caramel, gingerbread, cinnamon, mocha, maple syrup… (Hungry yet?) A real looker. And my looks are natural, I’ve had them since day one, no surgical interventions, only a monthly session at the dog salon, which I’ve described. (You missed it? For shame. Snooze and you looze!) I don’t really need coiffing to maximize my magnificence, but both Jane and Carll get a kick out of these regular refurbishments, so what the hell. And I love, no, in caps, LOVE, the ladies who bathe and clip me, because they love me. I’m easy that way.
Dogs, in general, are better looking than humans – so are most creatures, though maybe not pugs. Even among dogs, few would dispute cockapoos’ supremacy when it comes to cute. That’s why Carll insisted on me. His conscience argued for a rescue dog when they opted for a pup but his – label it what it is – vanity dispatched them to the tony breeder with her faux pedigrees. There is no social hierarchy in dogdom, no aristocracy or pecking order, but there sure is in people-dom, which is why dogs end up resembling their keepers (a.k.a., “masters”, only dogs are no more slaves than slaves were).
Why do strangers ooh and ahhh over me, even the Amazon delivery guy or dishwasher repairman, who’ve no stake in buttering up my keepers? Why do they want to frowzle me? (I made up that verb – like it?)
It’s not my color. My color is nice but there are plenty of things this color that aren’t. Neither is it my purrfect size, big enough to play with but not so large to alarm. (Great Danes may be stately, but don’t get on their wrong side – and what they cost to feed!) My shape is amiable, squeezable, my curly fur cuddleable (and hypoallergenic, I’m told, though that doesn’t sound so nice), my prance hilarious, and how my bushy tail oscillates like a metronome set to allegro – all of these contribute to my inordinate allure. But I speculate it’s my joy that seals the deal. My face faces the world quizzically – cautiously, of course (you can’t be too careful) – but sociably, convivially, no prejudice. If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you – and golly, do I want to jolly with you, if you’re up for it. Here’s a toy to toss so I can fetch it. Here’s a stick I won’t let you snatch, hard as you try. Here’s lick awake and a bouncy little dance on my back legs when it’s supper. Here’s an existence that’s AOK, tip-top, the cat’s pajamas (the thesaurus’ suggestion), if you’ll just quit fretting and moping and electing nut-jobs to rule. I am joy incarnate. Let’s boogie!