“You have to walk the jackal before work,” I tell myself as I sign up for a substitute teaching job this morning. “He feels very offended when his comforts are ignored, and he might damage the house.”

Here he is, under my desk, the loyal hound.

“The Jackal” is my dog. I don’t know who started calling him that. The basenji, of which he is one, is an African breed, which we got involved with years ago because my husband wanted a dog that didn’t bark. They have erect ears and a pointed muzzle and a high curling tail, and resemble the Egyptian God the Dead, Anubis.

But except for a rather haughty attitude, I wouldn’t say my jackal is much like Anubis. He asks relatively little — two walks a day, some dog food, and a dog bed to lie on under my desk. When I walk him, he doesn’t pull on the leash. If I don’t walk him, he doesn’t necessarily do anything — though depending on his mood, he may leave a sign of his non-appreciation somewhere in the house for me to find when I get back from work–but usually he just stares at me with gold eyes of reproach and wonder, as if to ask, “how could you fail to perform a task so simple and so important?” His dogly brain seems honestly confused. “Don’t you love me?” he seems to wonder.

Recently I realized it’s easier just to walk him than try to get away with not doing so. The time I save by skulking out of this task isn’t worth the burden of those yellow eyes asking mutely, “Don’t you love me? I love you! Come on, let’s go for a walk.”

Yes, I love you, jackal-dog.