No one in the world can be unhappy in the presence of a happy dog.

Take Tessa, for instance. She is a big, goofy bundle of undiluted joy.

My wife, Susan, Wally the Dog and I met Tessa one rainy afternoon at Lemoine Point. Let me rephrase that: We met and were set upon by a wet, muddy and happy dog. Tessa was half poodle, half golden Lab and half yellow Lab. (Mathematically, that sounds like a George Bushism, but so what! George has a Scottie, and that makes him OK with me.)

God made puddles for Tessa. Between greetings, she would be sidetracked by every available body of muddy water along the pathway. In she'd splash, just for the heck of it. And, of course, she'd have to reintroduce herself to us with an aren't-I-adorable grin. This assumption was undoubtedly from her golden side. The instant sociability was her poodle lineage.

There Susan and I were, getting acquainted with our new friend-for-life, our hands now wet and gritty from petting Tessa. (Wally the Dog kept his distance; he finds young dogs so, well, immature.) Tessa's ownees tried to apologize for her exuberance and the newly acquired pawprints on our jeans. We tried to reassure them that pawprints on pants were badges of honour for true dog people.

Another friend, Tammy the border collie, was put on Earth to chase green tennis balls. She will fetch balls, sticks, rocks, whatever, until the cows -or, rather, the sheep -come home. A border collie will keep you too busy to get depressed. Who has time to get glum and grumpy?

Jupiter the big black poodle is totally engaging. What with his galloping self-esteem, a simple hello is not enough. "Am I, or am I not, just about the handsomest dog in three counties?" he would say if he could. A poodle's confidence is infectious to the point where if you're a little down in the dumps, you're in grave danger of greeting the next person you meet with the same million-dollar smile.

Natasha the pug is a special case. Here's a dog who's run into too many closed patio doors. With a pushed-in face, neck rolls, a waddling gait and a respiratory wheeze like an old locomotive, Natasha gives meaning to the saying "Beauty is skin deep." Beautiful she is not, except in her own eyes and in those of pug owners around the world -special breeds, both of them. If you feel you've put on a few pounds and have lost that lean and lithe athletic look, and if Natasha the pug deigns to give you the time of day, then you're bound to feel much better about yourself.

Howard the bassett has big brown eyes: so sad and world-wise. The long, floppy ears may be endearing and the stubby, wrinkly legs may be engineering marvels, being responsible as they are for moving and supporting considerable poundage, but those sad, sad eyes! But when Howard assumes that you came from o'er the sea to meet him and him alone, and when he stands on your left foot so as to keep you in petting mode, then you know you were put on this planet for a purpose.

The same with Ludwig the Great Dane. Having grown up with public adoration, and having heard himself being compared a million times to small horses, Ludwig, to his credit, has not let it all go to his canine head. Of course you're his long-lost friend. Why else would he lean his considerable body against you so you have no choice but to make a fuss?

Greta the dachshund, of similar cantilever architecture as Howard, is all business. Her Teutonic greeting will be correct and brief. But at least her acknowledgement of your almost-equality is bound to give your feelings of self-worth a little boost.

I hate to break the news to golden retriever owners. You know that goldens never grow up, don't you? They can't help it. Their two brain cells are both dedicated to happiness. Now I'm not saying goldens are dumb; it's just that their Perpetual Puppy Syndrome is locked in.

Every thesis has a glitch, a small fly in the ointment. Forgive me for saying it, but Yorkshire terriers -they come in pairs -may be that tiny flaw in my theory: namely, that you cannot be unhappy in the presence of a dog. I hasten to add that 99% of the Yorkies I've met have been adorable to the point of making me look silly in public. Though just a little bigger than a large chipmunk, their self-esteem puts them at Irish wolfhound height. The 99% just mentioned give heightened meaning to the word "perky." Like Ludwig the Great Dane, they know how to use their size to work a crowd. To humans, perhaps, the lesson to learn is that if a dog this small is ready, willing and able to take on all comers -to take on the world -then so can you.

That niggling 1% is reluctantly reserved for two yorkies -they come in pairs, like shoes or bookends -we encountered last week. They were a tag team, partners in crime, and ready to tear us limb from limb. But, in search of a positive spin, if you weighed two pounds soaking wet and were still prepared to take no prisoners, then maybe you could stand up to that office bully.

To dog people, I'm preaching to the choir. You know exactly who you are and what I'm talking about. We may not know each others' names but we do know our dogs' names -and that's perfectly OK. We have no qualms about saying, "Oh, look, there's Brandy's mommy" or "I saw Howard's daddy at Canadian Tire this morning."

If you see some weird guy in a parking lot baby-talking a bull mastiff sitting on the passenger seat of a parked truck, that's me. If you're a dog person, you'll understand. Saying "Aren't you just the sweetest widdle thing" to a jowly, salivating monster of a macho dawg is good for my mental health.

¦ Fraser Petrick is a Kingston freelance writer.