Peter does not always look like a happy dog. He’s excited to do anything—go for a drive, take a walk, wake up, go to bed—but even while he’s spinning and prancing and otherwise expressing joy, his face tends to look more like that of a despondent mime or sad French clown. His large, liquid eyes, his sweetly down-turned mouth, his fragile disposition. Oh, my poor Pierrot!
This veneer of heartache, combined with my overwhelming and admittedly somewhat concerning amount of love for him, is what fuels my drive to make him happy. It is a constant quest, full of toys and treats and trips, and it landed us most recently at a rental cabin in Upstate New York, a bucolic reprieve from our cramped Brooklyn apartment. I planned our days…