There are a few life truths I know for certain: coffee is sacred, people will absolutely not use their blinkers, and dog kisses are both a daily ritual and a divine mandate.

Let me break it down from the dog couch. A sacred, slightly chewed-up, fur-blanketed arena where life unfolds in its rawest, truest form.

First up, there’s the little one. Ten pounds of pure expectation. This dachshund-sized CEO of affection runs a tight ship. He expects kisses like he’s royalty and I’m the court jester whose one job is to pucker up on cue. A kiss in the morning. A kiss for existing. A kiss for walking by his bed. If I take too long, he tilts his head, blinks once, and guilt-trips me with a power only the very small and very sassy possess. He doesn’t ask for kisses. He commands them.

Then we have the big one, the gentle giant with eyes like a tired philosopher and a nose that’s permanently seeking warmth. He doesn’t demand kisses. He needs them. He sidles up like a freight train made of fur and yearning. He leans his head into my lap and looks up with the soul-searching gaze of someone who just read too much Rumi. His love language? Physical touch… and also dog biscuits. But mostly touch. If I don’t lean down and give him a forehead kiss, he sighs. Like an existential why even live kind of sigh. He’s emotionally fluent and slightly dramatic. He’s me with a cold.

And then, there’s the middle one. The stoic one. The one who pretends kisses are a social construct he doesn’t buy into. He endures my affection like he’s posing for a family holiday card. Strained smile, ears back, eyes darting for an exit. But when no one’s looking? He leans in. Just a little. If I sneak a kiss on his head, he closes his eyes like it’s the best thing he’s felt all week. He plays hard to get, but love always wins. Especially if it’s offered with a side of peanut butter.

Here’s the kicker: no matter how many meetings I’ve had, how exhausted I am from saving the nonprofit world one spreadsheet at a time, or how many strange things I’ve read in the news, these dogs get kisses out of me. Every time. Like clockwork. Like reflex. Like they’ve found a secret tunnel under all the defenses we build as adults and just burrowed in with their warm noses and quiet truths.

Because that’s the thing about dogs. They teach you how to give love without keeping score.

They remind you that affection isn’t a transaction; it’s oxygen.

And sometimes, the smallest slobbery kiss on a tired human forehead can be more healing than a thousand self-help books or that wellness retreat you couldn’t afford anyway.

So yes, I am the kiss whisperer. The distributor of smooches. The dog couch oracle.

And I regret nothing.