Humans mean well.

They’re just spectacularly difficult to train.

Mine is named Jaron.

He’s eighty-four, which in dog years makes him approximately older than dirt.

I love him anyway.

Every morning, I begin with a complete medical examination.

The humans call it licking.

That’s adorable.

My tongue contains more than forty million years of evolutionary engineering.

His doctors have machines that beep.

I have saliva.

By seven o’clock this morning, I had already learned six things.

His blood sugar had drifted upward.

His left shoulder was sore.

He hadn’t slept particularly well.

He had drunk entirely too much coffee.

He was becoming worried about something he hadn’t yet admitted to himself.

And he had petted another dog yesterday.

I let that last one slide.

No relationship is perfect.

Naturally, I licked his wrist a second time.

He laughed.

“You’re always licking me.”

Yes.

Because you insist on leaking information through your skin.

It’s like living beside a radio station that never stops broadcasting.

Every molecule has a story.

Stress.

Hormones.

Diet.

Fear.

Hope.

The sandwich you ate four hours ago.

Whether you’ve been arguing with your wife.

Whether your neighbor owns a cat.

Whether it rained across town before the clouds reached our house.

You people practically glow with information.

You simply lack the equipment to read it.

Sometimes I feel sorry for doctors.

They spend twelve years learning medicine.

Dogs arrive already knowing the first chapter.

Unfortunately, evolution made one catastrophic mistake.

It forgot to let us explain ourselves.

So I lick.

He thinks it means affection.

Well…

It does.

But it’s also page two of the examination.

Yesterday, I became deeply concerned.

His heartbeat skipped twice.

Nothing dangerous.

Yet.

His stomach was irritated.

His stress hormones were climbing.

His joints were whispering unpleasant things.

This required intervention.

I barked.

He smiled.

“You want outside?”

Close enough.

Outside, beneath the old maple, grew exactly what I needed.

A little mint.

Some lemon balm.

A sprig of thyme.

Perfect.

I carried them inside and deposited them beside the stew.

He looked at me with the expression humans reserve for dogs who have obviously lost their minds.

Then he shrugged.

“Can’t hurt.”

Those may be the four greatest words in human history.

He washed the herbs and added them to the pot.

By bedtime, his stomach had settled.

His breathing slowed.

His shoulders relaxed.

He slept peacefully.

This morning, I examined him again.

His heartbeat was steady.

His stomach was calm.

His fear had retreated to wherever humans keep their fears when they aren’t actively feeding them.

He rubbed my ears.

“Good boy.”

I accepted the compliment.

One cannot expect too much from a species that still believes we lick them because they’re salty.