He’s not especially doglike, our dog. He wears a troubled look, and I know that lots of dogs wear a troubled look, but our dog’s troubles do not seem particularly canine. A dog craves simple attention; Morris is made nervous by attention, but still wants to be sure that he is well-liked. He frets that you are just being nice for the sake of being nice. He is wary of fakers. Morris is curious of the world but finds himself retracing the same paths: to the familiar parks, stores, bars. Morris wants to believe that he is happy but spends so much time checking on his happiness, quantifying it, cross-examining it, weighing it against alternate happinesses that he finds little time to actually enjoy his happiness. A bundle of worry, this dog. Not a nebbishy worry, no, but the worry of a enlightened despot who, though beloved by his people, thinks that maybe despotism really isn’t where it’s at.