God help me, I’m considering a Great Dane.

I’ve never owned one, and only met them at dog parks. I met one so handsome and Paul-Newman-blue-eyed I told the owner it may have been the most beautiful animal I’d ever met. He said thanks, but that he was just the walker. He said the dog had its own agent, it was booked for so many commercials and magazine shoots.

I don’t give a shit about magazine covers, but I gotta admit: I’ve always loved horsedogs. In truth, my Walter Mitty existence involves owning a horse. But let’s be real; I’m no cowboy.

I am, however, a dogboy. And the bigger the better. Teddy tipped the scales at 75 pounds, Larry 80. Now I’m flirting with the idea of a single dog that outweighs them both.

I’m not sure why I’m drawn to such an enterprise, because every column and YouTube video I’ve watched warns: Be prepared to do the work. There’s no short-changing training or attention with a Dane.

Perhaps that’s the appeal. I once knew a 120-pound Detroit Rottweiler, a frightening site to behold. She looked like she’s have you for an appetizer, but she was all softie. And when a 120-pounder splays on you, it’s a lovegasm, plain and simple.

I think I want that again. I’m not one with the natural world; I don’t commune or meditate or chant a mantra. Your cosmic unity will always sound like a horoscope to me.

But maybe I find the world through dogs. I know this is parental dementia, but a dog’s breath to me must smell like what baby’s breath smells like to a mother. I don’t engage in dog speak, but that’s only because I think it demeans both parties. But if I could get through, I’d bark over talking.

I know this instinct would cost, literally and figuratively. I would want insurance. Dog food would cost some people’s rent. Shit would drop like a Trump rally.

And still…

I’ve never had a parenting urge. But this desire to bring a wolf to guard my campfire is primal.

If a dog is my entree to the universe, maybe it should be soul that blows the goddamn doors off.