Gilly stiff-legs his rocking-horse gait in a circle ahead of me, spins, sticks his rump in the air, grins.
Happy, Poochy? I ask him.
Your happy makes me happy, I say.
You have highly contagious happy.
You’ve gone completely happy-viral.
You’re, like, the Patient Zero of Happy.
He gallops to the top of the pasture, hurls himself to the ground and rolls extravagantly in wet moss.
Then, he runs.
Just for the pleasure of it.