This morning, some hard-hatted men with a backhoe put orange cones down one side of our street. Then they started digging through the asphalt with a jackhammer. I have no idea what their goal was out there, but the noise upset our black cockapoo Chester who, like his chattering mistress, gets fluttery in times of stress. Chester barked at the front door, stared at the commotion from the top of the couch (he’s allowed up there), barked some more, and then looked at me plaintively, hoping I would do something. When I didn’t speak, he walked away, but when I said, “Chester,” he came right back. “It’s okay. The men are just working there, and we will have to put up with the noise for awhile. There’s nothing we can do.” To my amazement, he whined a little and then went to his bed. I’d solved it for him.

Sometimes, when he’s barking, I tell him to stop. I scold him and say he is bad. But that never works. This time, we really communicated. And I find myself aware of how we often don’t give our pets credit. Like children, they need this unpredictable, sometimes frightening, world explained to them.

One of my favorite dog books, by the way, is Suzanne Clothier’s “Bones Would Rain From the Sky: Deepening Our Relationships with Dogs.”