Those erect ears were the thing, well, maybe it was the quizzical tilt of that massive head attached to them, but no, they were inseparable: the ears that were now taking in and calculating this sensorial ambush, together with the eyes and the nose—that long, long nose which, just before its terminus, sloped downward ever so slightly—each part working independently but all of them in communion, to understand this human person. Let me tilt my head to understand you better: yes, I must tilt my head. Because I must ascertain what it is you need, and then do it. Come over here and jump up next to me, you urge, patting the sofa. (That compliance is so commendable.) Linger here with me for a while, before we retire. There: is that the spot? Yes, I believe so, or you would not so willingly have stretched your slightly smelly foot into my face. And look here, now that foot is pumping, pumping, in upside-down motion. I believe I’ve found the spot. Are you aware of those loose tufts of hair on your rump? Here, let me just get these little clumps of hair for you. Your sable hair. Remember the woman behind the counter who looked at us over her glasses when we called your hair sable? And how you rolled your eyes at me? People are helpless and silly, I know, but dogs are smart and useful. And you, miraculous creature who’s proved your worth to me so many times, are love. What am I to do without you?