Yesterday I went to a boutique pet store to buy my grand-dog Nellie a stuffed toy for Christmas. Next to the toy display stood a black, brown, and white, medium-sized dog. The dog looked at me and wagged its tail. Its big brown eyes were merry and its toothy smile was bright, so I asked its people, “May I pet your dog?”

“Of course,” said the woman, “she loves that.”

After petting the dog, I turned to the toys. I wanted one that didn’t squeal, squeak, groan, moan, or crackle because when my grand-dog sinks her teeth into one that makes noise, she is relentless.

The tri-colored dog turned with me. She watched me select toy after toy and squeeze it. The dog and I began a conversation.

“This one’s too high pitched,” I said to her.

“It sounds good to me. I like that toy,” the dog’s eager face said.

“This one makes a low noise,” I said. “It might work.” I kept it in my hand instead of hanging it back up.

“It sounds good to me. I like that toy, too.” The dog’s eager face filled with anticipation. She wanted a toy, but she was too well-mannered to do more than drop a hint. (My grand-dog is a Vizsla and she would have reached up and grabbed the toy. She’s not rude, mind you. She’s very, very sweet, but she’s a Vizsla. They’re impulsive. They’re enthusiastic. They’re larger than life.)

I tested toy after toy, telling the dog that each one was too loud, and each time the dog looked at me and the toy in my hand and answered, “It sounds good to me. I like that toy.”

I looked at the dog’s kind face. “My grand-dog will drive me crazy with these toys,” I told her. I decided even the toy that made a low noise was too noisy, so I hung it back up. I walked around the back of the display to see if there were more toys.

At this point I realized I’d been talking with the dog for several minutes while her owners looked at products on a display rack opposite the stuffed dog toys. Other than asking for permission to pet their dog and telling them I had a dog at home, I’d ignored them. It occurred to me this might be considered rude. It occurred to me that carrying on a conversation about noisy dog toys with a dog I’d just met might be considered strange. But in my defense, the dog was a good conversationalist.

I turned to look at the dog’s mother. “I guess you might think I’m a bit strange, standing here in a store having a conversation with your dog.”

“Not at all.” The woman smiled warmly. “I talk to her all the time. I would think it strange if you didn’t want to talk to her.”

Nice of her to say. I talk to my dog all the time too.

The owners and their dog moved on. And I wondered if they had stayed longer than they had wanted, thinking it rude to interrupt their dog’s conversation with a lady who was trying to find the right toy for her grand-dog.

I did find the right toy for Nellie. A nice clerk helped me find the only toy in the store without a squeaker. It looks like a cross between a squirrel and a beaver. Maybe it’s a woodchuck. Doesn’t matter. It’s nice looking, well-made, and quiet.

I didn’t forget about my dog, Ziva. She’s not interested in toys, so I bought her two fancy-schmancy cans of dog food: Venison and Lentil Pâté and Lamb Recipe in Bone Broth. Both sound as though they should have come with a footman from Downton Abbey to dish up her food.

A heart without a pet is just an empty cockle shell.