Dogs laugh, but they laugh with their tails.

Hear, O seekers of joy, the words of Max Eastman, who declared with gentle wisdom: “Dogs laugh, but they laugh with their tails.” Though the tongue of the dog makes no sound of laughter as man does, its tail becomes the banner of its delight. Here, in this playful truth, lies a teaching deeper than jest—that joy may be spoken not only in words, but in gestures, in actions, in the silent language of the heart. The dog, humble and faithful, reminds us that happiness is not always shouted; sometimes it is wagged, sometimes it is lived.

The tail of the dog is its voice of gladness, its symbol of trust, its signal of welcome. When the master returns home, weary from the burdens of the day, the dog does not ask for speeches nor demand gifts; it lifts its tail and wags with a joy that cannot be contained. In that simple motion is laughter purer than any spoken by man. Eastman, poet and philosopher, saw in this the truth that joy often dwells in the body more than in the lips, and that sincerity is measured not in words but in presence.

So it has been since the days when humans and dogs first shared the fire. The hunter who returned empty-handed was not mocked by his companion, but greeted with wagging tail, as if to say: “You are still my master, you are still my friend.” This is laughter without cruelty, joy without condition. And here lies the lesson: the world often teaches us to laugh at others, to mock their failings, but the dog teaches us to laugh with them, to rejoice simply because they are near.

Consider the story of the soldier who returned from war, broken in body and spirit. His comrades hailed him, but their words could not mend his wounds. Yet when he entered his home, his dog leapt upon him, tail wagging furiously, as though the years apart were but a moment. In that instant, he felt whole again. The laughter of the dog’s tail became a medicine to his soul, reminding him that beyond hardship, beyond sorrow, there is still loyalty, still joy, still life.

The meaning of Eastman’s words is therefore clear: laughter is not bound to sound. It is an attitude of the soul, a gesture of love, a signal of presence. The dog laughs not to mock, but to share joy. If men could learn this lesson—to let their laughter be a gift, not a weapon—how much gentler, how much nobler the world would be.

The lesson for us is profound: let your joy be visible, not hidden, and let it uplift others. Do not only laugh with your lips; let your deeds, your gestures, your very presence radiate gladness. Be as the dog is—generous in affection, unashamed in joy, unreserved in welcome. For laughter is not only what you say, but how you live.

Practically, this means showing your love openly. When you greet someone, let them feel your warmth, whether through words, a smile, or an embrace. When joy touches your heart, do not hoard it; share it in actions that others can see and feel. Be as the dog who wags its tail—not because it is eloquent, but because it is sincere. Dogs laugh with their tails; we must learn to laugh with our lives.

So, O children of tomorrow, remember Eastman’s gentle teaching: joy is more than sound—it is presence, it is loyalty, it is love. Be like the faithful dog, whose laughter is seen in its tail, whose gladness is felt in its nearness. And may your own life wag with joy, so that all who meet you know, without words, that they are welcome, cherished, and loved.

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