As I work at my desk, my spotted dog lies on his foam rubber bed and gazes up at me. Whenever I leave the house, he begs to come with me by wagging and panting. If he can't go, he mopes, puts his head down and refuses to eat the bone-shaped biscuit I offer him as a parting gift; miraculously I am more important to him than food. On good hair days and bad, my dog sniffs the ground I walk upon, and whether I've gained ten pounds or twenty, whether my breath smells of mint or mustard gas, my dog thinks that I am the most delightful, fantastic person in the universe. How in the world does anyone live without a dog?

In turn, I think highly of my dog, Re-bar, who is a lab-sheepdog mix. I consider him the finest and most discriminating creature around. He may or may not be any help with my mathematics or my housekeeping, but he is handsome, brave, and trustworthy. He does not pass judgment on me, will never point out the stupidity of something I've said or done. I can confess my strangest and darkest thoughts to him; and I can fantasize aloud about my new mustached postal carrier who looks like a young Robert Redford only with better muscle tone, and all is kept strictly confidential.

Because I want him near me always, I have dog beds in most rooms of my house, and as long as it isn't too hot or too cold, I take Re-bar with me everywhere. Having him in the car gives me license to talk aloud to myself, in the guise of talking to him. I keep the back seat of my hatchback folded down for him so he sits up high, and while I drive I can see his spotted face in the rearview mirror. He sometimes looks out the window and barks at dogs in other cars or alongside the road; I too look out the window and growl at passing motorists.

The other day, I was wondering what it would be like if Re-bar could talk. Would that make him the ideal pal? And if he could suddenly talk, what would he say? Maybe at first he'd have simple requests: "Um, Bonnie, would you roll the window down?" Or, "I've got to go to the bathroom, could you pull over here and let me out?" Later, because he prefers conservative talk shows, he'd ask, "Will you change the radio station to WKMI?" He's driven with me enough to know the fundamentals of the road, so he might ask, "Why did you accelerate through that yellow light? Doesn't yellow mean caution?" or perhaps, "Aren't you supposed to signal before changing lanes?" In short, driving with my dog would become a lot more like driving with my husband.

What might Re-bar say when we were home? "I'm getting tired of this dog food. Can't you get some of that breakfast cereal I saw on television?" He's a good natured dog, so he wouldn't always complain. He'd say, "Wow, this is good chicken skin. Thanks." But that surely would be followed by, "Give me more." When I was trying to leave the house without him he'd plead. "Let me come! Oh please, let me come!" as he does now with his eyes and tail. But eventually, equipped with the power of speech, he'd develop new postures. It would only be a matter of time until he said things like, "Oh, I see you're leaving again and not taking me with you. Fine."

Might Re-bar share with others the things I'd told him in confidence, say, about the blond mustached postal carrier? Would he repeat what he'd overheard while I was gossiping with my sister Sheila? Would he inform the IRS of the shady accounting practices of my off-and-on business, Goulash Tours Inc.?

If dogs could talk, they'd certainly want to talk to each other, to take their communication beyond the level of genital-sniffing. My dog would call his dog friends on the phone and yap while I was trying to work. The dogs in the neighborhood would have special nights where they'd get together, ostensibly to play poker but undoubtedly to dish the dirt about their owners. They'd compare notes and perhaps they'd all decide that they were mistreated, that they deserved more for their loyalty than comfy cushions and the odd meat-flavored treat. And pretty soon there'd be some kind of doggy revolt or canine civil disobedience--dogs might just lie down and refuse to do their jobs.

Granted, my dog's job consists mainly of eating and barking. But I'm starting to think that the reason we love dogs is precisely because they don't talk. The only thing we would really want to hear from a dog would be "You're the greatest person in the whole world. I love you even when you smell bad, even when your hair is flat on one side, even when you've just eaten fifteen good-sized chocolate chunk cookies." And our dogs already tell us this, by gazing at us soulfully from their dog beds, by sulking when we leave them, and by jumping with joy upon our return.

(This essay appeared in The Bark)

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