Dogs follow the direction of a person’s gaze almost as well as another person can—better, in fact, when they are motivated to, because dogs are relentless. They track the movements of our eyeballs to see what we’re looking at so that they can look at it too, and they pester us to look just as attentively at them. When my late golden retriever had something to show me—a ball that had rolled under a fence, a man with an irregular gait—he didn’t always bark. Sometimes he stared first at the ball or man, then back at me, then at the ball or man again, until I retrieved the ball or moved away from the man. People speak with their eyes all the time, but every so often I’d be struck with wonder that a consciousness as radically different from mine could communicate so effectively. Then I’d love him even more, if such a thing were possible, and feel a little insecure. My dog was putting himself on my conversational level, as it were, or maybe the better way to say it is he was yanking me up to his level.