I sometimes suspect dogs understand life better than we do. Not everything. My dog has, on occasion, barked furiously at a plastic bag. So I am not proposing canine governance. But dogs seem to have solved several problems humans continue making unnecessarily complicated. For example: They are excellent at joy. Completely shameless about it. If something is wonderful, a dog does not attempt to appear sophisticated. There is no cool detachment. No, “Yes, the beach is nice, but I actually preferred the Amalfi Coast.” The beach! THE BEACH! WE ARE AT THE BEACH! This seems healthy. I envy it.
Adults become very practiced at moderating enthusiasm. We don’t want to look impressed. We don’t want to seem naive. We don’t want anyone to think this is our first time in a beautiful hotel or a wonderful restaurant or a city we’ve always wanted to see. Why? Why not be delighted? If something is beautiful, I would like to be the person who notices. Dogs notice. They also understand presence. This is a cliché because it is true. A dog is not lying beside you thinking about a mistake from 2014. He is not worrying about whether his investment allocation is optimal. He is not wondering whether some person who didn’t invite him to dinner secretly dislikes him. He is lying in a patch of sunlight. The sunlight is warm. This is apparently enough. I have spent years trying to learn skills my dog arrived with factory-installed.
Dogs also have a fascinating relationship with time. We humans live mostly in visual reality. We see what is here now. Dogs smell what was here. To them, a sidewalk is probably layered with history. Who walked by. What animal passed through. Which neighbor was there hours ago. I walk down the street seeing buildings. My dog seems to be reading the morning edition. This delights me. We occupy the same physical space and apparently live in different universes. It makes me wonder how much reality every species misses. Probably most of it. Humans are very impressed with our senses because they are the only senses we have. Meanwhile birds see wavelengths we can’t see. Bats navigate with sound. Dogs experience an olfactory world so rich that mine probably seems almost entirely blank. And somewhere in all this, humans concluded that our version is reality. Typical. Maybe what I love about animals is that they remind us our perspective is not the whole story. This is also useful with people. Every person you meet is experiencing a version of the world you cannot fully access. Their memories. Their associations. Their fears. Their private jokes. The smell of something that reminds them of childhood. The song that makes them suddenly sad. We are all walking around in overlapping realities. Perhaps empathy is simply remembering that.
Dogs are also brilliant about affection. If they love you, they make it fairly obvious. No strategic delay. No withholding attention to increase perceived value. No wondering whether replying in twelve minutes will look desperate. You return after being gone for twenty minutes and receive a reception usually reserved for astronauts returning from space. Imagine dating like that. Actually, no. That might become exhausting. But perhaps we could borrow ten percent. Dogs forgive quickly too. Sometimes suspiciously quickly. You accidentally step on a paw. There is betrayal. Horror. A look suggesting the relationship may never recover. Then you produce cheese. Diplomatic relations resume. Again, perhaps not a perfect model for human conflict resolution. But there is something to be said for not building an identity around every grievance. I’ve known people who carry arguments for years. Dogs carry sticks. The dogs may be onto something.
And then there is aging. This one gets me. Dogs live such short lives compared with ours. One day they’re chaotic little creatures eating things that are not food. Then somehow they become calm. Their faces turn gray. They sleep more. They still want the walk. Still want your hand on them. Still want to be included. There is something unbearably pure about how they move through time. They don’t resent aging. They don’t know to. They simply become the dog they are today. I wish humans could do that a little better. We compare ourselves constantly to earlier versions. Older photographs. Old energy. Old bodies. Old careers. Old relationships. Dogs don’t stand in front of the mirror thinking, My muzzle used to be darker. They wake up and look for breakfast. Again: possibly wiser. I don’t want to romanticize animals too much. My dog has attempted to eat things on Manhattan sidewalks that would destroy the reputation of this entire essay. But living with an animal does keep pulling you back toward basic truths. Walk outside. Eat when you’re hungry. Sleep when you’re tired. Be excited when someone you love comes home. Investigate interesting smells. Avoid vacuum cleaners. Do not waste the good patch of sunlight. Maybe happiness is not as intellectually complex as we make it. Maybe some of it is simply noticing what is already happening. There is food. There is warmth. There is someone nearby you trust. The door opens. You get to go outside. Honestly? Not a bad life.