Greetings from eighteen months.

Nineteen, really, but that interval doesn’t resonate with humans, who round to the nearest cliché – terrible twos, sweet sixteen, dirty thirties, nifty fifties… We dogs don’t count time, which both saves time and disarms it, for time only counts if counted. Ignore time and it will ignore you or, in that pleasant adage, “let sleeping dogs lie.”

I wouldn’t be bothering you this way, barging into your idyllic idleness, only Carll asked and when your chef de cuisine asks, you salute, first things first. Seems readers have been inquiring after me, which is understandable, given my charm. Not to be competitive, but what human do you know who elicits grins and oohs the instant they enter a room, who by their mere presence makes the company more cordial? We canines function as social Alka Seltzer – “Feel Better Fast.” Folks unsusceptible to our allure are likely up to no good, so watch yourself. Cynophobia, misanthropy, and sadomasochism are most likely versions of the same pathology, the data’s not conclusive.

Why Carll summoned me from my luxurious lethargy I’m unsure – these missives are his thing – but I’m guessing he needed pep. He’s been down in the dumps recently – since the election, especially – and fears lachrymosity will cost him popularity. Enough already with the pouting and bellyaching, bring in the clowns! A friend recently suggested he “lighten up,” which of all human advice (Carll growled) may be the most worthless. Who can be happy sur commande? Either you are or you aren’t and to fake it is a violation of trust, yada yada…

That’s where I come in. I’m never sad. Grouchy, sure, at manifest injustice – the withholding of sustenance or prohibition of vocalization or being kept indoors while a squirrel hops across the lawn – you bet I get pissed – but my irritation passes with its cause. I don’t brood, coddle grievances, bemoan my lot, envision happier arrangements (which I somehow deserve), but rejoice in the sunshine of an eternal present, no regrets.

Carll is not a gloomy guy, you may be surprised to learn. In person he laughs, plays games, cracks jokes (which he alone considers funny), tousles your fur (if you’re a dog). It’s thinking that gets him down. Once he starts to muse, next thing you know he’s singing the blues. There’s death spooking him, and futility, and human insanity, and irresponsibility – the corruption of our habitat – absence of grace – the repugnant persistence of injustice… The more he thinks, the deeper his funk. He may even get churlish with me! (Churl and Carll are cognate, as you probably know.)

Now, if thinking made you morose, what would you do about it? You’d quit, right? –  take a walk (with your dog!), pour a drink, play backgammon, anything other than revisit the source of your distress. Not Carll. Having dug himself a hole he keeps digging till he damn near disappears beneath the dirt. And then he pops open his laptop to share his pain. I mean, really. Humans, we’re told, are the smartest creatures. Is courting misery smart?

At the end of his rope (ugly metaphor), Carll summons his rescue dog, only I’m a cockapoo, no Saint Bernard, and what I carry in my keg is spiritual comfort, not spirits per se. With my comic genius and innate tact, I redirect Carll’s attention from a pastel past or imperiled future to the bounteous present. The sun is shining, we’re alive, infinities radiate from us in all directions, bounce, bound, explore, who could not delight amidst such gifts!

Carll smiles wanly. “You make a point,” he grumbles.

(Happy Thanksgiving, by the by.)