Pepita, a three-year-old neutered Jack Russell, sat on my couch with a look that oscillated between indifference and contempt, as if her very presence there were some kind of cosmic joke.
She was my patient for the day, and the session promised to be interesting. I approached the situation with the same solemnity I’d offer any human lost in the labyrinth of life's meaning, because, after all, who am I to say dogs don’t ask themselves the same existential questions?
“Pepita”, I began, clasping my hands in front of me with that therapist's cadence that seems to channel Viktor Frankl, “what’s the meaning of your life?”
She looked at me like I’d just asked the dumbest question in the world. She tilted her head, her ears twitched slightly, and she replied, “I love my owner. Does that count?”
And there we were. It was the classic argument of love as salvation, that automatic response humans offer, believing that loving someone magically gives meaning to everything. Because, of course, if you love, it doesn’t matter if the world is falling apart around you or if you've been stripped of your ability to reproduce. If you love, the existential void is suddenly a little less empty. Or so we like to think.
“Well, Pepita,” I said, “love, while noble, is just a band-aid, a kind of anesthesia for the absurdity of existence. Can’t you see that? You love your owner because she’s your source of food, your link to what we might call ‘reality’ in your small domestic life. But, is that really meaning? Or, better yet, isn’t it just a convenient excuse to avoid facing the fact that all of this, everything, is essentially purposeless?”
Pepita blinked, clearly confused, as if she were trying to process something beyond the reach of her four paws.
“So, are you saying that even my love for my owner doesn’t have any meaning?” she asked.
Ah, the tough questions. This brings us to the central irony of logotherapy: we pretend to search for meaning in a world that, objectively speaking, is so indifferent and absurd that any attempt to impose meaning on it is almost laughable.
“What I’m saying, Pepita,” I continued, “is that meaning isn’t something that’s given to you. It’s not a leash you put on when you go for a walk. It’s something you create. Or choose not to create, depending on the case. What Nietzsche might call the ‘superdog,’ perhaps. But come on, do you really think the fact that you can’t have puppies, for example, affects your life’s meaning?”
Pepita lowered her ears and looked at me, a mix of bewilderment and hurt on her face.
“Well, before they neutered me, I thought my purpose was to have puppies. Now, I don’t know.”
Obviously, we were dealing with a minor canine existential crisis. Pepita, with her scarred belly, was in the same spot as many humans after they lose a life goal, like someone who loses a job or gets divorced. Because, really, what is neutering but the perfect metaphor for life itself? We’re promised a future full of possibilities, only for those expectations to be snipped off without warning.
“Ah, neutering.” I leaned back in my chair, looking at her with a mix of pity and understanding. “That’s a real tragedy, isn’t it? They’ve taken away the future you thought you had. But tell me, isn’t it also kind of liberating? What does it matter if you don’t have puppies now? You’ve got the time and energy to chase after something else. Maybe catch a fly, chew on the couch, or just stare out the window.”
Pepita raised an eyebrow. What I’d said seemed to resonate on some level. And this is what I love about my job: the moment you see your patient, whether human or dog, realize that their suffering is a cosmic joke, one they can’t even laugh at because they’re too busy crying over something that, deep down, really doesn’t matter.
“But... is that it?” she asked, her voice tinged with palpable sadness. “Just finding things to do to kill time?”
It was almost adorable how her question mirrored the existential angst any human might have. The dog had grasped something most people overlook: life is just that, a collection of activities to pass the time until it all ends.
“Yes, Pepita. That’s it.” I looked her straight in the eyes. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t find beauty in it. Sure, you could wallow in the grief of not having puppies, in the fact that your life won’t be transcendent, but what good does that do you? Instead, you could enjoy the simple pleasure of chasing a ball or napping in the sun. Because that’s what we are: beings seeking distractions in an empty universe. And the irony, Pepita, is that those distractions, as absurd as they may be, are what make all of this worthwhile.”
Pepita was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, her tail began to wag, as if the weight of my words had somehow lifted her spirits.
“So, is it okay if I just settle for chasing balls?” she asked.
Ah, the million-dollar question. Everyone is searching for something transcendent when, really, what’s right in front of us is more than enough. A ball, a walk, a sunny day. We spend our lives searching for meaning in the clouds when the real answer has always been on the ground.
“It’s more than okay, Pepita. Because, in the end, it’s not about what you do, but how you do it. If you can find joy in a ball, if you can live each moment without worrying about what it means or doesn’t mean, then you’ve already found more meaning than most humans ever will.”
The dog looked at me with something that seemed like relief, as if, in her animal simplicity, she’d grasped what so often escapes us humans. And somehow, in that moment, I felt like I’d done my job.
“Well, can I go chase a ball now?” she asked, standing up from the couch.
“Of course, Pepita. But remember, the ball isn’t the point; it’s just the means. The trick is to enjoy the chase, not catching the ball.”
Pepita left the room, tail held high, and I sat there, wondering if maybe we had talked about more than it seemed. Because at the end of the day, the meaning of life, for a dog or a human, is something you make up for yourself. And whether that means chasing a ball or getting lost in the search for something greater, it makes no difference. What matters is that you run.
Maybe that’s what makes life, in all its absurd lack of purpose, worth it.
Knowing there’s nothing more, yet we still keep chasing balls.