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Time,
history specifically,
has become the lens through which human beings measure.

What does this mean?
It means we determine value by time.
The ultimate value — our happiness — especially.

Happiness is the time we put into it,
our participation with it,
for time is what is most valuable to us.
It is non-renewable, for it is ever appearing and disappearing.
We are with it, or we are not,
which is why we value it so highly.

This has become fundamental:
We view not only value but all things through the prism of time.

And thus, time is unjustifiable by reason, by science.
Time transcends reason and science, even space, which endures without us.
It manifests its fundamental value by encountering what’s deepest within us —
our feelings and emotions.
The effects they have upon us: their beauty, unity, disunity, necessity,
that which makes us, us.

All this lies beyond the rational or the scientific.
My very being is at stake.
My being is precious.
I continue to exist or cease to exist.
If I ever want to be happy,
I must, at the very least, exist first.

Fuck rationality.
This is me.
I’m at stake.
I’m precious.
My happiness depends on it.
That is the most fundamental thing —
the foundation of foundations.

That is what value is, ultimately.
And this feeling of ultimacy — of what is most important —
is bound up with how we understand ourselves.
It’s the very core of me.
Beyond the guts of my insides or the caverns of my mind.
Deeper than that.
It’s the truth of who I am,
the understanding of myself,
my truth.

And I want to feel this preciousness all the time.
I don’t want to lose it.
I want it to continue.
I want to live and enjoy it.
I cannot be without it.

I will fight to protect it.
I will fight to preserve it.

Ultimately, I will lose.
For I am destined to die.

And this is why time is how we measure.
Time pulses through all things:
through phenomena, ideas, thoughts and feelings, impulses and drives,
through all movement, good and bad, all of it.

Human beings are rational animals,
and one of the primary proofs of our rationality is our ability to measure.
And so we measure our actions according to our lifelong battle with time.
We measure and judge the actions of others as well — which we call history.

Our lives are making history,
even if the relevance of that history is limited to ourselves.
Or we watch the making of history,
or recount past events as historical artifacts.

The lens of history is omnipresent, overpowering, ingrained
in the way we reflect on our lives and the lives of others.
It has become difficult to think outside of it — or from a different perspective.
Some have argued this is impossible.

The answer is long,
and would take many words to understand that statement,
and many more to answer it.
I will not answer it today.
But if you’ve paid attention, you already sense my position — and thus the truth.

Let’s look at one of the most important truths each of us carries within:
one closely tied to who we are and the extent to which we can be happy.

Love.

If you fall in love,
you recognize a change in yourself that is important, life-altering.
When exactly the moment was is usually unclear,
but the recognition of it is what matters.
The haziness is part of love’s mystique.

The longer you’re in love,
the longer this realization becomes part of you — and the love grows.
It often blossoms, from being in love to being grown in love.
Pure love at its most ideal:
love because you love,
not because of the moment that made you fall.

But that moment was decisive.
It was the trigger,
the point at which the arrow was drawn, shot, and struck you through the heart.

From this point, your love grows as you partake in it,
until being in love reaches its peak and transcends itself into its more ideal form: love itself.
Both are crucial and transformational.
You might view it as a goal; one that’s worth all the broken-heartedness you may have previously suffered and endured.

But, in fact, there is no point of heavenly apotheosis.
Instead you experience countless moments of interaction, bonding, argument, reconciliation, and all the rest,
which take place along the unending path of time.

Decisions are made continually,
because being in love felt wonderful,
but the hope of mutual growth feels even better.

At each step you decide that it is better to love than to stop —
to grow — rather than let it decay.
These moments remain decisive, more so or less so, every one of them.

They contribute to a relationship that inevitably ebbs and flows,
but always moves along — forward into the future, or halts.

Your love is understood within the framework of time.
Love’s history weighs upon you.
Its history keeps you loving,
keeps you attached,
keeps you from letting go,
keeps you hopeful for the future,
keeps you appreciating the time with your lover every day.

Whether the relationship persists or ceases, grows, or decays,
you’ve made these decisions.
You’ve likely even said to yourself,
We’ve been together now for such a long time.

History is time.
The scales of yes or of no.

This is how you have learned to see the world.
It holds true not only for love and happiness but every other value, too.

What does it mean?
What consequence, therefore, do we face?

It means that time has become the ultimate value,
the value of values,
the meta-value.

As such, we are forbidden evaluation of its worth.
Why? Because worth itself is based upon time,
making such an evaluation circular.

This holds true not only for your values,
but also for your fundamental feelings and passions, even your intuitions.

All of these are revealed now as empty, hollow.
Meaningless.
Those qualities that make you, you, are nothing.
You are nothing.
That is the consequence.

The philosophers spent thousands of years fighting the body,
on the observation that bodies begin from nothing,
come to be and pass back into nothingness.
They longed to grasp what is eternal.
Unable to grasp it, they turned their crosshairs on feeling, emotion, mind —
and ultimately replaced God with time.

But time is without meaning or actual substance.
We’ve imposed it onto reality.
An invented measure, a constructed metric,
a tool of those in power to control the lives of others.
It is the very thing those philosophers deposed God for.
And in so doing, everything collapses into void,
without content, lacking purpose.

This is what it has meant for us to make time the metric of our age.

If nothing means anything,
can you still chase happiness?

For something so essential, so deeply woven into human life, it remains remarkably elusive. We spend our days seeking it, longing for it, yet when we reach for it, try to grasp it, or when we attempt to define it, to capture it in words… it slips through our fingers. Necessary for life, yet whatever I can try to say about it will be insufficient. I can explore it, progress toward it, invite you to reflect on it, but happiness is not a lesson to be taught or a formula to be solved.

I can say this much with certainty: it is easy – common, even – to write about wanting happiness, especially when it remains out of reach. Equally easy is to write about remembering happiness, recalling a golden past that now feels distant. But how do we speak of happiness in the present tense? How do we write, here and now, I am happy, in a way that compels? How do we write in a way that invites another to partake in that experience? Hardest of all, how do I write something that is happy, something that, in the very act of reading, evokes happiness itself?

Let’s dip our toes into the water with a simple question: Can happiness be shared?

Sharing? Ah yes, sharing. When I ask someone to share, it’s usually cuz I’m hungry. Maybe you’re hungry? Here, have half of my sandwich. But happiness is not like a sandwich.

Funny? … No? Well, let’s try again. Lock in.

We are taught to seek happiness. To find what makes us happy and to pursue it. This framing means happiness is something external. It’s waiting to be discovered, acquired, and possessed. It is out there, so let’s go after it. Be a go-getter. Take, for example, someone who lands their dream job. They’ve been working really hard, built a reputation among their colleagues, achieved successes, and created the idea in their minds that acquiring this role would bring them the life fulfillment they’ve always wanted. Sounds amazing, right? Not so fast. Isn’t this actually terrible? They’ve redefined life as their work and the work is based on a contract of servitude to an employer. Who cares how enjoyable the job is. It’s still work for someone else not even for oneself. The richness of life refuses to be contained within the confines of a contract. And – back to reality: most jobs are genuinely awful. We do them not because they fulfill us, but because we have no real alternatives.

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It gets worse, though. As we orient our lives to find and obtain happiness, we inevitably run into powerful barriers: The job gets in the way. Setbacks arise. Responsibilities pile up. Relationships drain energy. Exhaustion takes hold. Other people disrupt our plans, sometimes carelessly, sometimes cruelly. And so, many end up telling themselves that maybe this whole happiness pursuit is too much. So they lower their expectations. Shifting from happiness to something smaller, more manageable: momentary joy.

If I can’t be happy, at least I can have this or that. A little jolt of pleasure. A hit from something new. I’ll open a new credit card and buy stuff. Browse around, add things to my cart, build anticipation for the purchase. And soon – maybe even later today – the bright and shiny new thing will arrive.

(Thank you, delivery slaves! – Oh, wait…)

Then I’ll get that endorphin spike, just like in the commercials.

Until the luster fades. But it was fun enough, so you repeat.

It’s never satisfying, but for a while, it keeps the engines running. At least the treats provide a little burst of joy (a 2-pump-chump’s worth) before refracting back to normal, i.e., back to zero. (Or worse, despair.) Then the bill comes due, and suddenly, those small bursts of joy reveal their cost.

Master Debt has come a-calling, his loyal demons, Stress and Misery, trailing in tow.

There’s something profoundly sad about this, isn’t there? The cycle. The emptiness. The way we give in, knowing it won’t fulfill us but doing it anyway. We’ve all done it. We’ve all welcomed stress and misery into our hearts. We can feel it in ourselves. It lurks between the lines of much of what we read. And we see it in the sadness of others.

Now, why does this pursuit yield such sorry outcomes? The problem isn’t simply the shift from seeking happiness to chasing moments of joy. There’s nothing inherently wrong with acquiring something you desire. Nice-to-haves are nice to have. That’s obvious.

The real problem – that which breeds despair – occurs when these external objects, these little indulgences, rise to the level of necessity. When they become the sources of happiness. When fulfillment becomes confused with acquisition. When we convince ourselves that something out there will complete us.

And yet, disturbingly, this remains the dominant teaching on happiness.

You don’t need to dig deep to find it. Just turn on your television. Log onto Instagram, YouTube, or TikTok. Visit a Target. It’s all around you.

Every. Single. Advertisement. You. Have. Ever. Seen.

Its lessons drilled relentlessly into our psyche. A pillar of late capitalist society. And not just in advertising. This teaching runs deeper. It’s embedded in the culture itself.

What are the consequences? For one, the persistence of despair. Isolation. It atomizes, separates, and distracts us. It convinces us that happiness is nothing more than what we buy.

It’s consumerism. It’s consumptive.

And it enables those in power to keep the distracted and divided precisely where they want them: disempowered.

There. I set out to write about happiness, and in just a few paragraphs, I’ve landed on politics. This isn’t to deny the political dimension of the discussion, as each step in our reflection has led to this point. And while I’m very tempted to go further here, we note the connection of happiness and politics but must save it for another meditation.

Still, keep this connection in mind. 😉

But when the cracks begin to show, when the realization dawns that consumerism is a hollow promise, something curious happens: we need a new belief about happiness. We do not want to give up on it as a possibility. But where can it be found?

If happiness cannot be bought, perhaps it can be remembered. Maybe it was never meant to be pursued at all, only preserved. And so, we take the next step: we neither confront our situation with clarity nor put in the effort toward a better state of being. Instead, we retreat into nostalgia.

Life is careless. Life is cruel. We need somewhere to place the ache in our souls, so we reminisce. Reconstruct. Idealize. Longing for a return.

For most, this longing often centers on one of two experiences, sometimes both. The first was during childhood – when I was free, when I had not a care in the world. The second was the first love – that time when we were young and loved each other completely.

But those days are gone. Life now feels heavy, yet I take some small comfort in knowing that, at least once, things were different. At least once, I was happy. Or as close to happiness as I ever came. It was the best I had.

If happiness was the carefree lightness of childhood, then love, burdened with desire, worry, and attachment, would be its opposite. And yet, when we long for happiness, we turn to both. We cling to the weightlessness of youth, yet also to the depth of first love. But happiness cannot be both carelessness and care. It cannot be both freedom and attachment.

So, which is it?

Neither. A memory is not the thing itself. The past is not happiness, only a reference to it.

Or if happiness is neither the past nor a memory, then what is it? How can we claim to have something we do not even understand?

Perhaps the better question is: Can we even "have" happiness at all? If happiness is not something we own, perhaps it is something we embody. Or, better still, something we participate in.

And so, we arrive at a new question: if happiness is not an object to be had, but a state to be participated in, how do we participate?

One answer: when we participate in the act of creation.

Happiness is so pregnant with meaning, so fundamental to our nature, that we long to create it – quite literally. The act of reproduction – the creation of a living image of ourselves – is without a doubt the most universal and most powerful. For a child is not merely a new, living, breathing, needful creature. A child is a living symbol, the embodiment of the love that brought them into the world. A parent’s joy incarnate. Happiness incarnate.

That is the reason for the union in the first place. Through it, the parents create a joy that endures past their own lifetimes. For most parents, the child’s presence causes a fundamental shift. Your life’s center of gravity and purpose realigns from yourself toward another. Your happiness becomes linked with your child – as they grow, flourish, and discover happiness themselves.

This connection with the child shows that parenthood is an ongoing act of creation. Creation did not begin just during conception and end with the child’s birth; it evolves continuously through the raising and shaping of a life. As the child grows, as the parents grow. To be a parent is to be bound, not just in love, but in responsibility. To take part in something greater than yourself does not mean control; it means participation. And that participation does not end.

Even if the bonds are strained, even if distance or hardship comes between you, even if the child turns away, the connection remains. You will always relate to them as the embodiment of happiness because you are their parent. A parent might make mistakes and even harm the relationship. But unless they commit the ultimate betrayal – disowning their child – the bond is never truly severed. And so long as that bond exists, the parent will continue to fight for their child’s happiness, for their life.

We now see both a lightness and a burden to parenthood. There is contagious joy in the child’s laughter, bound up with ongoing care and responsibility to prepare the child for the world. This is a burden that cannot be set aside. Happiness as parenthood contains the ethical obligation to one’s own. This is mandatory. It is the deepest of responsibilities.

Should we wonder why a parent will fight to death and beyond to protect and nourish their bond? No. The reason is clear: their child’s growth and flourishing – inseparable from care and responsibility – are precisely what bring parents true happiness. Even the mere possibility of their child’s flourishing fills parents’ souls with a joy that is pure and unshakable.

A parent’s life becomes life for the sake of their child, who begins entirely dependent upon the parents. Over time the dependency reduces in certain ways, but its powerful echoes remain forever. Joy and responsibility, the heaviness and lightness, become inextricably woven into the fabric of daily life to include all the struggles, the nonsense, the wins and losses, the pranks, the heartache and laughter. The rises and falls, the successes and failures. Unconditional love that is ethically required – unfree. Intensely personal and impactful, yet also given and shared.

This is the highest and most universal expression of happiness. It is as old as humanity and will persist as long as our species survives.

Parenthood encapsulates the past, present and future, touching the fullness of human life, for those who choose to partake.

If there is a higher power, parenthood is humanity’s expression as its image.

But there is an objection.

Sousarion, I have no children. Or I cannot have children. Or I do not want children. (Or I cannot afford children.) You’ve given us an example – not a principle. Something conditional, not universal.

And that is true. Parenthood is not the sole path to happiness. But this example applies, or, in the very least, is applicable to as many people as possible. This is why I selected parenthood: because it comes as closest to a principle for partaking in happiness.

But I grant the objection, nonetheless. Let us now explore happiness further and from a perspective: that of the individual. Not in rejection of others, but independent of them, for the most part.

Let us agree on the following: happiness will not arrive through the mere acquisition of things. We have all experienced the dead end of consumption. How it creates an unhealthy cycle of craving, anticipation, the burst of joy, and then refraction, dissatisfaction, distraction, craving anew, chasing the treat. Then repeat and repeat and repeat. Hamster wheel vibes, initially. Until you realize the control mechanisms keeping you lonely, locking you in to the wheel of despair.

It is a process we feel locked into not because it is true, but because it is the reality we are raised in. Society has embedded it so deeply into our way of being that it seems like the only way. Not just powerful; relentless.

Yet even within this cycle of despair, the commitment to happiness remains. Damaged? Yes. Distorted? Certainly. Misunderstood? Undeniably. Also – never fully extinguished. It may feel implausible, but it is not impossible, not beyond hope. Perhaps I cannot afford to reach for it, yet I cannot help but wish I could. And that matters. Because if the desire lingers, then despair has not consumed us. We hope, and so we may be closer to happiness than we realize.

If we cut through the haze, we can see it clearly: the treats themselves were never the source of happiness. They were only a means, a trigger, a gateway to something else: to feeling happy. And what gives that feeling weight is the state of being from which it arises. Your state of being. My state of being. That state we hope against hope to attain. In this light, the search for happiness takes on a new form. It is no longer about pursuit, but about realization; less a chase and more an inner awakening.

This is interesting. So let’s explore further. If happiness is something I feel, that makes sense. I want to feel good about who I am, what I’m doing with my life. The people in my life. All the rest. The experience of this feeling is my state of being. … Wow. Suddenly I’m getting all mushy inside. Didn’t expect this. But I liked that little ripple. I’d like to feel it more. I’d like to get into that headspace. To feel this way all the time. To partake in this state of being.

How’s it done? How do I attain it? How do I hold on to it?

Now let’s stop for a moment and think about what happened. We’ve certainly taken a step forward. You feel it. But hold on. Was the step taken by us? I’m writing and you’re reading. So, by you? Or by me? Am I following and you’re listening? Are you reading and I’m following? Who is being impacted right now? Who’s received what took place? – What you need to realize is that this state of being, or this feeling, if you prefer, is yours. Or it’s mine. Not both at once. Maybe not even the same internal phenomenon. Our hearts may be beating a little faster but it’s your heart and my heart, this time. Because happiness is personal. Deeply personal.

I might share glimpses of it with those closest to me: a dear friend, my partner, my children (if I have any). I might point them in the right direction, so to speak, do everything in my power to help, but I cannot hand it to them. I cannot baptize them in my happiness, nor can they in mine. At best, we are witnesses to each other’s journeys, as companions, servants to each other’s pursuits. By its nature, happiness is singular, personal. I will have mine. May you have yours.

From this realization, conflicts arise – not necessarily, but often enough. The struggles for happiness have played out for millennia, their echoes scattered across our oldest myths. From the divine struggle of Gilgamesh and Ishtar to Paris and Helen, whose kidnap set a thousand ships to war. Or perhaps you prefer the tale of ultimate woe, that of Juliet and her Romeo. The story cycles, again and again.

It is far too easy for the passions of envy, jealousy, covetousness, and avarice to poison the well. To see another’s happiness as a threat to our own, somehow. To resent, even hate, those whose happiness seems greater than ours. At times people kill to prevent another’s happiness. We know this, if not consciously, then somewhere deep within us, especially when we recognize just how fragile happiness can be. How easily it can be dashed.

But this can only be true if we return to mistaking happiness as something external. Let us imagine an extreme example: someone kidnaps a child. Later, the parents find the child murdered. That is happiness destroyed. There is no restoring it. No revenge, no justice will undo the loss. We are reminded that it is far easier to destroy than to create. This thought brings me to tears – that parents must bury their child. The child was their flesh and blood. Different from them, growing in life, but sharing life together. And that has been taken away forever.

I cannot image – much less describe – how hard it must be simply to endure. In such a case, perhaps happiness does dissolve into despair. Such an outcome would be unwished for, but understandable. A loving friend, partner, family, or community would do their best to comfort the parents and help in whatever way they could. I certainly would. It would not be enough. No one can bring the child back. Their first step is to accept that fact, then reconcile themselves to it. Everything has been damaged, torn, undone. Had there been a glow – it is gone. Accept these. They are reality. It is incommunicably sad, that’s true. Accept the sadness. Hiding from it, denying it will make you worse. If you accept, you can begin to heal. The scar will be there forever. The pain will never fully dissipate. You will wake up in the middle of the night and weep. That is okay. These are part of your life. Accept these. And then, after you’ve taken the time you need, allow yourself some space inside yourself for mending. For healing. Some repose. Cherishing and loving despite the loss – continuing to cherish and love because of the loss. Become stronger because you are finding a way to continue. Then let yourself begin to feel 1% better than you were. Your child would want this for you. Permit a smile. Shed a tear at the contagious joy their laughter brought to you. Reminisce and continue forward. Continue for them. Improve and heal. Make a little more room. Stay true to them. Let a little more in. Open yourself up to free a little happiness within you. It’s yours and for you. It will emanate throughout, bringing you strength and fortitude. Continue for them and continue for you.

No matter what happens, at least a little bit of happiness will always remain attainable. This is precious, sacred. Forever available, waiting to be acknowledged and accepted. For you to open your being to it. It is within you, waiting to be recognized as yours. This is why happiness is private.

Life is fleeting, and so easy to cut short. It’s delicate and sacred and precious. Happiness itself realizes this; in an act of self-preservation, it restricts itself from being fully shareable. In other words, happiness is meant to be personal. It is for me to partake in if I can achieve the state of being. No one else can fully replicate my happiness, for no one else is me.

By extension, no one else can fully partake in my state of being. It is mine alone. Those closest to me, that is, those who walk beside me, who see me unguarded, they might sense its presence, might feel its warmth. But it would be absurd to say, for example, that my partner’s state of being and mine are one and the same. While close, and with some degree of overlap, my state of being is not the experience she lives; it is an experience she may observe. We do our best to build each other up but we must partake in happiness alone. She must find her own way. As must you.

But how, then, does one reach this state? Under what conditions does happiness arise?
For me, when I am mindfully engaged in what I love – writing or music, in particular – it manifests naturally. But even beyond these, happiness is not confined to intrinsically spiritual moments of creation or activity. When I am engaged with another commitment, I may enjoy the activity less, but it does not follow that, in some way, I am less happy. Further, I can be equally happy in stillness. Simply sitting, reflecting on whatever I choose. Embracing the peacefulness of slowing down, of coming to rest. There is deep satisfaction in this, in the serenity of stillness itself.

At times, I need stillness to regain strength for something yet to come. At others, I rest simply to bask in the knowledge that my abilities remain at hand, ready to be actualized, yet content to be at ease. And even in action, I access this inner calm, this focus, this peace, moving through my work with the quiet assurance that I am doing the best I can in that moment – and that is enough. No one can take that from me. For I do not own happiness; I participate in it. I partake, I observe, I describe, and I share. Perhaps, in reading this, you too may find a path to your own.

A meditation on happiness is necessary but insufficient. Necessary, because if your life is not oriented toward happiness, much remains to be done. But insufficient, because no words, no matter how thoughtful, beautiful, penetrating, eloquent, or whatever, can fully encapsulate an experience so singular and personal. My examples are only that; they do not rise to the level of a universal principle. They are not exhaustive. They do not dictate. They do not prescribe. They aim, instead, to communicate something universally. To reveal an opening to you, a point of connection – a welcome to yourself. And if you find that connection, if these words have spoken to you in some way, then may they help. Perhaps, if I’m lucky, they have even been beautiful.

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He made a mess of his bowl and the floor with drool – then licked it up. Slowly, patiently, meticulously. He regained some strength. Shortly thereafter, he wanted to fetch the ball, even sniff the bush once more. But after three passes he collapsed. Exhausted. Surely in pain. But his eyes remained alert.

A couple hours later his scrawny little skeleton of a body lay spooned against the master’s. Pressed against him. One of many little acts of love the guy constantly expressed to him.

His breathing was still strong – deep, steady. Almost healthy. But every breath exposed each rib and disappearing abdomen.

With every breath, air rushed in through his nose and out again, stirring a distinct scent to all corners of the room. In other words, spooning with love for the master carried with it the flush of rotten air. “I’m slowly dying,” sort of air.

Sleep refused to come. For sleep depends upon the slowing down, the stopping of the motions in the mind, the mind’s nightly flirtation with nothing and nothingness. But this time it would not comply. The mind wished to think, not slip away and lose. Or, said otherwise: to recall, to recollect.

Recollection would soon be all that’s left.

Stop thinking; sleep.

Think; live.

Thinking is a motion – restless, ceaseless.

What was there to think about?

When he arrived home for the first time, the master placed him in a shoe. The little guy was tiny, too small to climb out. He struggled – white and delicate and soft. Barely eight weeks old. At eight weeks a human baby cannot climb, can hardly move. Too helpless even to struggle. Incapable of much, except to cry and eat and shit and stare into the mother’s eyes. – To bond. The motion of the infant puppy at eight weeks is similar and different: he, too, ate and shat and stared, and even struggled with his motions, but he did not cry. That came later. Children cry from birth but later learn it is shameful to cry, especially before their peers. We’ll run to help a crying pup. But when our own kind cry, we lose consistency. We harden. We silence the heart’s motions inside us…

Another thing to think about: Foreknowledge. The master is like Prometheus. Prometheus gave fire and foresight to humankind, and for this he was punished. Zeus forbade us that latter gift. We were meant to live with hope – not the certainty of our end. And yet, the master knows the time and place the little guy will meet his fate. That knowledge is forbidden for oneself, yet we may wield it over those in our power. And when such knowledge is ours to wield, it is not stolen - it is decreed. The master did not take this knowledge; he made it so. Quietly, guiltily. A prophet’s burden, but not a prophet’s gift. The weight of knowing is heavy…

Yes, thinking is a motion. Thoughts are ineffable but also carry weight. The weight of guilt ahead of a heinous and ineluctable act.

That night, these thoughts remained in motion, circling back and forth. A dance of unrest, endless, unbroken through the night.

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The little guy grew his heart, having watched and studied human beings, perhaps as well as we study ourselves. He was drawn to his master, and his master to him. He needed to be touched affectionately. The fur at the back of his head was soft and always welcomed a gentle rub. Most of the time that would suffice. Eventually, he learned to press his head into the palm of the hand, insisting on a little more, right at that spot. Don’t stop. I love you, master. Let me please enjoy.

Life is beautiful. Life is loving. Is loving beautiful? Is Beautiful loving?

Life is short. But according to which standard of measure? His life, the little guy’s, was wonderful, emotional. His life was made of loving, all-surpassing loving. And all that follows in the wake of love: I love you, master, let me please enjoy.

Let me enjoy it. Can it be only me?

The little guy was loved by his master, the family, and his master’s mother. He loved her most, in fact, and forbade another to show her affection in his presence, particularly the master’s father. Jealous he was. Very much so.

And why not? As far as he was concerned, it was only fair. The master’s mother doted on him and pampered him. Let him sit upon her lap as she conquered crosswords from the New York Times and shook her head at the idiotic editorials. Or when she lay upon the love seat in the television room, to watch a bit of Downton or a genuine classic, like Keeping Up Appearances, the little guy insisted that he snuggle right beside her. And not merely snuggle – press himself into her side. Asserting his affection, he would curl up and sleep, knowing and believing in the place he held beside his favorite.

But if, some other one might grab the mother’s attention, the little guy would growl. And if that other happened to be the father of the master, then teeth would show, the nostrils flare, the fur would bristle, and the growl transform into a jealous snarl.

He was hers and she was his.

In turn, the father of the master played the role of woman-stealer. With mock theatrics, he would express his love right in front of the little guy - half arousing her, half attacking her. The parental pair still enjoyed the sort of “tickle me and make me giggle like a teenager” affection, particularly after returning home from his day at the office.

Most evenings, the master’s mother would have the little guy on her lap. He would sense the approach of the car, barreling down the driveway, and come to attention - alert, acknowledging the creature who had infiltrated his territory. Not necessarily vicious, but certainly ready to protect his love.

Then the door opened. The father entered, and the little guy, already deep in his protect-the-damsel game, would first shift into his other role - ecstatic greeter. He had known the father’s scent from a mile away but relished the act of greeting just the same. It made the game more worthwhile, for the master’s father always played along, acknowledging the little guy’s gusto at his return.

But with the little guy, no game was ever just a game. Every match had a strategy: protection, distraction, and devotion.

The greeting was short-lived. The father would bestow forehead rubs and tickles behind the ear, all while commanding the little guy to express his joy at his (the father’s) return. And the little guy, elated, should have returned to his defense - but no. Not yet. Not quite. Ahh, right there behind the ear. Ahh. That’s it… Wait! Hold on. The father moved toward his wife. The little guy’s demeanor changed. Now his eyes lock onto the attacker. Teeth bared. Ears pressed back. Fur bristling. He growls. The father grins and moves closer. The growl deepens. He meets his opponent’s gaze – mocking. The growling becomes a snarl. Elation has transformed into fury. His heart is racing. The father can see it through the little guy’s heaving rib cage. His hand extends further towards his wife, taunting. The poor little guy is stricken. The father places his hands upon his beloved. They embrace. Overcome, the little guy barks, snarls. He takes a step forward – bristling with indignation, jealousy boiling over. Another step. Paws click against the floor. The sound of …MMMMMMM… fills the room, exaggerated. He makes it known: he is enjoying the embrace. The poor little guy nearly loses self-control. He steps between the standing parents’ legs. Pressing his head against the legs, teeth bared. About to bite.

– He does not bite. The father shifts his legs and steps away. The little guy stumbles but feels he has won. Loyalty to the family means protection, not mutiny. The father grins again. He scrunches his fingers – open, closed, open, closed – in a taunting motion to his adversary. He prolongs the poor little guy’s jealous suffering.

Regaining his footing, the little guy stands between his beloved and the disturber of the peace. His fur still bristles; eyes burn – aflame but also sad. Why must he endure such human cruelty? – No. It is for her. He must protect. He must not attack.

The father’s hand scrunches again, extending his game of mockery. He begins to laugh. Suddenly, the mother feels this teasing has gone too far. She tells him to stop. The husband grins, like an older boy whose teasing never stops because his younger siblings have yet to learn to ignore him. And so, he ignores her order and continues.

In retaliation the mother bends down to pick up the little guy. An effort to calm him and soothe the jealousy. But this is not allowed. The father steps in to halt the move. –

Oh no! What happens next? Was this an attack? To what extent should the lover defend his beloved? Attack, indeed? The game is through.

Amidst the confusion, a stern assertion quiets the little guy. He transforms from defender of his love into a guilty criminal. Come here, the father orders, taking a seat on the floor. The little guy steps forward, tail between the legs – apprehensive, nervous, expecting punishment. But no snout is struck. No punishment comes. Instead, the father points to his chest and repeats the command. The little guy climbs into his lap, places his front paws onto the father’s shoulders and presses his pounding chest against him. The poor little guy repents. He does not understand but knows that lines were crossed, somehow. And somehow, he was found to be at fault. Now let us make up for it with a forgiveness hug…

The master had sat off to the side, watching the scene unfold. He knew each move that would be made, for it had happened many times before. You see, the master, too, had tugged at the little guy’s heartstrings before. Seldom, though, for it made him feel guilty afterwards. It is in our nature to be emotionally manipulative. At times. And it causes pain. It’s wrong. It’s best not to twist the cords of love – with anyone. Especially not with his little guy.

But there were many times the master needed hugs like these. Times, when human hands were too impure, the meaning of their touch – too filled with caveats, hesitations, and unspoken conditions. When the little guy stood on his hind legs, pressing himself into the chest or neck, the power in that moment was pure. The emotion, raw. The intent, entirely clear. I love you, master. I know you’re hurt; feel better. I love you, master. I would like to play. I love you, master. Perhaps another one? I love you, master. May I enjoy your love?

Quiet companion in thought and study.

Thinking starts again and sleep recedes – again.

Concentration pulls the mind and heart tight.

Where do the souls of humankind and beast fly?

Perhaps the bond between man and beast must be reimagined.

The little guy had much to teach. No bond built on love denies this.

The master spends much of his conscious life lost in thought. And oftentimes, the little guy would trot into the study to take a seat beside the master’s wooden chair, his quiet request for attention. Nothing. Just thought. The little guy would look up, tail swaying in slow rhythm, trying to catch the master’s eye. He’d wait, then murmur a concerned hello, a kind of whistle, a wheeze and a whine. With no response, the patient beast would rise again, tail still moving in steady arcs, crouch, and launch himself upon the master’s lap.

This delightful ambush always shattered the master’s spiraling thoughts – bringing him back to his best friend. The little guy would let out a bark with glee, tail wagging excitedly, triumphant at breaking the spell that too often overtook his master. He could tell that some strange, mysterious power had captured the master, and he always tried his best to free him (the master) from its grip.

Play. The little guy would hop back to the floor, speaking insistently. The master must follow - out of the study, down the hall, down the stairs. A glance back, always making sure. They’d reach the kitchen, loop around the island, and bound outside to the green lawn. A system: tennis balls by the door, a backup under the bush. Darting in their direction, the little guy would corral the nearest, free of drool, and lay it at his master’s feet. A shrill demand. Persistent insistence. And so, the game began: throw, fetch, repeat.

Too many times to count, he tore across the lawn with lightning speed, locked onto the ball. A living lesson: the power of the mind when action follows. A joyful act, repeated without end - except for a pause, an outstretched plop beneath the shade of a garden tree. To catch his breath, to let his soul soak in the joy of motion, knowing his master had granted him this boundless affection.

But the game was only joyful if both were in tune, if they played in rhythm. The one tossing the ball with a different spin, a new direction, a longer arc. And the other: catching it on the fly, after a bounce, leaping, listening - anticipating its fall.

Create the game together - or risk disappointment. The little guy never let him down. Always ready. Go until his legs gave out. Go until exhausted. Then rest - just for a moment. Then go again. Constancy. Hearts full of joy. Together.

Can thought alone nourish the soul with joy?

To the little guy, joy was meant to be shared. It couldn’t be owned. It couldn’t be hoarded. His heart, his being – wholly his master’s. Only together could they fill their souls with joy. And it was always best to share. The sharing occurred between the two. It brought them joy. A toy was nothing without the master’s hand, tugging against his clenched jaws, resisting, playing back. Throw-and-fetch, tug-of-war, neither could be played alone.

Food and shelter. Walks after dinner. Cuddles in bed. A rub behind the ear. The words, “good boy.” To be pet, to be master. None of this was possible alone. And all else that came with these bonds. As it should be.

Somehow, the little guy always knew when to rush upstairs. When to speak, when to place the ball, the toy, even a bone sometimes, beside the master’s leg, as if it were an arm, not a leg. As though the leg might lift the object, shifting the focus of the master’s focus back to him. That he might share again. And take his mind away from sorrowful thought and solitude.

Is sadness inherent to the nature of thinking? Thinking together is an oxymoron. One thinks alone. Think for yourself. A thought is born in a single mind, one at a time. Only once a thought is fully formed can it be shared. Only once it is processed, shaped into words, can a thought be spoken. What happens then is a command: Think the thoughts you are led to think. Who leads? It cannot be another – yet thinking does not lead itself, only to more thoughts, more thinking. What sparks thought? Others. Interaction. Sharing.

The best game is saved for last. He’d find a ball inside the house, corral it between his jaws and place it in the master’s hand or by his foot. Then, he’d dash for the main staircase of the house, which had a landing halfway up. From the landing, he’d bark an order down to the staircase base, demanding the ball be hurled up for him to catch. Upon receiving the toss, the little guy would place the ball upon the foremost stair, give it a nudge with his snout, causing it to bounce back down the stairwell. His focused, insistent head would bob in tandem with the falling ball, as it made its way back toward the master’s place below. Repetere in infinitum.

This game was unlike the others. It wasn’t one he had learned; it wasn’t taught. It was his own invention, a game entirely his own. And perhaps that’s why he loved it most, even more than fetch-and-chase in the grass. It was his idea, his joy, his creation.

He took so much delight in this game that when some other commitment took the master away, the little guy was known to let out a disappointed howl. Until once, while in the middle of a catch, he yelped. His hindquarters buckled. He crumpled in a heap upon the landing’s rug. No sudden jerk had caused the rug to slide, for it stayed stationary. Nor had the ball been tossed with some peculiar, parabolic arc. In fact, that ball had been caught and then he met the floor. It was his mouth. Drooled and swollen, sore. He’d lost a tooth, a little blood, and enough adrenaline to need a break. The first time in his life.

Infinity was never meant to be. Life forbids it – outside of thought or numbers.

His end began with a cracked tooth, a swollen jaw, and a telling symptom: drool. It flowed, it stank. In weeks, he lost two kilograms, his energy, another tooth. His once-white legs faded to a discolored taupe: as he lay on his cushion, the drool spilled, dried, and stained his fur. His decline came swiftly. And it was crushing.

He'd glare up at his master in frustration but would always allow his legs and jaw to be cleansed. He knew the act was one of care. Still, he’d wince, and more than once, he let out a yelp when the cloth brushed against a particularly painful spot along his gums. Most often he managed to hold back and let what the master felt needed to be done be done. The little guy was fighting – fighting as hard as he could.

Life was to be filled with joy, not disintegration or decay. It was against his outlook; against the way he’d led his life. For a while, a little aspirin in peanut butter and lots of love provided him with some aid against the disease.

However, the stink refused to stay contained. Mounting proof of his decay. Eating away at him. Chipping at his weight, his poise, his strength, his confidence – but never his master’s affection.

A couple months went by. The bones began to show. He could not eat by himself. He needed help. He could not jump into his master’s arms. He could not court the little one-year-old girl pup who’d grown so attached to him.

Worst of all, he understood. It shouldn’t have been this way. But it was. He’d look into his master’s eyes, communicating that he knew. Inevitable.

The master tried. He took the little guy to a vet named Barksdale – a storybook name, yet real as could be. Canine periodontitis, disease. Incurable. That was that.

At least the veterinarian showed she cared. Not enough, of course. But something. The little guy looked up, eyes in pain and full of trust.

An antibiotic medication was prescribed by Barksdale, to be administered to the loving skeleton. This helped. He regained some weight. Some energy, too. The stink and drool dissipated. Until the medication ran out. Then the disease returned – worse than before, spreading fast, consuming more.

The little guy held on. He understood. Most days, he would retreat into his bed, sleeping through the ache, hiding from the smell. Pets sleep most of the day anyway because that’s what they do; his was with a purpose. It was intentional.

Apparently, intentionality requires a mind, the human mind. And apparently no other being besides humans has a mind. Therefore, no other being but the human being is capable of intentionality. This is a grave logical and metaphysical fallacy.

He must have known the disease would consume him. Nevertheless, we all put up a fight. The body will fight, the soul as well, to curtail the diminution, to prevent the diminuendo to death. And so, he did. He fought with all his might, with all the love held in his heart.

He did his best. And more than that.

It is tempting to say it was his duty to his master. A duty that expresses itself as – and through – love. Sleep to muster up the strength to be there when his master returned from the focus at the desk, or from errands beyond the territory’s domain. Strategize how to hold on. Speak when he returns or wakes you up with a rub behind the ears. For as long as possible, be ready to chase the ball. Offer it and even when the strength is spent, show you still would if only you could. He did his best.

This was intentional. This was love.

But while he slept, one day, in early Fall, as the rosemary leaves quietly brushed against the bricks of a house outside the windy city, the decision was made. It was not an easy one. The vote was democratic, five to one.

Barksdale was called again. An appointment was set.

Morning came. The master and his brother left the house, holding the little guy close to the heart. It was a short drive. He was weak but alert. He showed no worry, only pain and trust. The appointment was for nine.

They waited in the sanitized room until the little guy was gently lifted from the master’s arms for the preparatory injection. Upon being taken out, the master was asked if the rest of the process should occur in their (the master’s and his brother’s) presence or completed entirely in the other room. The master insisted that he hold the little guy until the very end.

So let it be done.

Not fully sedated, still aware, the little guy was gently placed back into his master’s arms. He had a little catheter placed just above the stifle joint of his right leg, the one he’d used for shaking hello.

The master looked into his eyes. Somehow the little guy knew. His loving eyes revealed it.

Barksdale quietly returned with a tray on which a syringe was placed. She looked at me. I looked back. Then at him. Then I nodded, held him closer, and whispered, “You are such a good boy, Milo. Such a good b –” – And it was done.

Life left. He was limp. Eyes shut. Heavy.

The master laid him on the table in the center of the room. They wept.

This ache will not leave. An immaterial throb. So heavy. Sure, external responsibilities push the ache to the background, but the guilt remains, eating at my mind.

Perhaps it was necessary. Perhaps it had to be done. Perhaps it made me more of a man – to hold a beloved being through the final transformation.

What makes it feel like murder is time. It felt too early. When the time is right, all must pass. But death too soon is robbery. To rob life is to commit murder. And I robbed him, even if his end was near.

What is cruelty? Cutting short the time deserved – turning life into harm. Too soon was cruel. Had he lived too long – too long to wag his tail, show affection, express joy, play – even for just one pass or two – that, too, would have been cruel. Life is forgiving when it ends at the right time. But growth, growth happens when forgiveness is impossible.

Growth carries a heavy, heavy price. I so wish I could rupture space-time, conjure his presence. And then bend down, hold him close, and offer him the hug he deserves…

A lifetime of love in his eyes.

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