As far as I can tell — which admittedly is not very far — happiness is not about getting what you want. It’s about wanting what you’ve got.
Famed author and lecturer Dale Carnegie reportedly said something similar, back in the 1930s. His formulation of the idea:
Success is getting what you want. Happiness is wanting what you get.
Garth Brooks wrote about the same idea in the liner notes to his 1994 album, ‘The Hits’:
Happiness isn’t getting what you want, it’s wanting what you got.
And Sheryl Crow inserted it right into her 2002 hit song, ‘Soak Up the Sun’:
It’s not having what you want; it’s wanting what you’ve got…
These are all clever people, from whom we could learn something about life, and happiness.
But I actually learned my most important lessons about life from my cat, Roscoe.
When Roscoe wants me to let him outside, he typically waits about six feet away from the back door, which is near the refrigerator in the kitchen.
As I pass the door, (typically, on my way from the living room to the refrigerator,) he begins to walk towards the door as if he’s headed outside. Of course, he can’t open the door himself, but he just strolls towards the closed door as if it will magically open for him.
He doesn’t bother to look back at me. He just heads directly for the door.
And I, noticing his apparent belief that the closed door will magically open for him, I stop on my way to the kitchen, open the door, and let him out. No actual magic is involved. What’s involved is bold, fearless intention.
We will note that, in this situation, Roscoe has been crouched a few feet from the door for who know how long — 15 minutes? Half an hour? — waiting for me to walk past and magically open the door for him.
Magic works only if you time things correctly, so patience is an essential element. He knows that I will eventually pass the back door, heading for the kitchen — something that happens, incidentally, multiple times a day.
Roscoe has a very different approach to his own feeding schedule, which involves seemingly endless mewling. Roscoe has a limited vocabulary, but he long ago mastered one particular English adverb: “Now.”
My ex-wife Darlene used to claim he was saying “Meow”, but I quite clearly hear the word as “Now,” slightly mispronounced. (My ex is no longer around to argue about it, of course.)
I sometimes engage in a friendly conversation with him, about the impending meal.
Me: “You look like you’re pining for a little nourishment, Roscoe. Have the mice been too few and far between, lately? I bet you’d like some nice animal protein… maybe drenched in gravy? Well, I just happen to have half a can of your favorite food stashed in this little refrigerator. Would you like it now… or later?”
Roscoe: “Now.”
I think this conversation illustrates perfectly, a cat’s economical approach to communication. The human babbles on and on, saying nothing that really needs to be said, enamored with the sound of their own voice.
The cat gets by with a single word. “Now.”
Roscoe exhibits a similar restraint when it comes to listening to advice, or instructions. When it’s time to watch TV, and I remind him that he’s sitting in my favorite chair, he acts like either he didn’t understand me or he doesn’t care.
I know that he understands me, so the obvious conclusion is, he doesn’t care.
So I try giving him a taste of his own medicine.
“Now!”
He looks at me and blinks. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
He waits for me to pick him up, limp as a dishrag, and drop him on the floor. Then he heads for the back door, knowing that I will magically open the door for him.
To summarize the important lessons learned:
1. Be patient, and expect magic to happen.
2. Don’t waste words. Just say what you mean. Over and over.
3. When they want you to do something that feels inconvenient, act like you don’t understand. Then, leave.
If only I’d learned these lessons when I was still married…
Underrated writer Louis Cannon grew up in the vast American West, although his ex-wife, given the slightest opportunity, will deny that he ever grew up at all. You can read more stories on his Substack account.