Whoever thinks dogs can’t speak should have been with me for breakfast Sunday.

My conversation with Ollie was entirely silent. Thankfully, our rescue spotted coon hound doesn’t vocalize his opinion unless he spots a cat or raccoon outside. It’s then that you have to watch out. He can work himself into a frenzy, which is reason enough to keep him in his crate until whatever critter has set him off leaves the premises.

No, this conversation has nothing to do with cats and coons, but rather, English muffins and body language, which I believe has a lot to do with how we can communicate with our fellow beings, whether they are human or canine.

A wagging tail is the universal gesture of a happy dog, as bared teeth are the signal to back off and keep your distance. Ollie is good at the tail wagging, and I’ve never seen him aggressively display his fangs – not even when playing a game of tug of war over a knotted section of rope. I call it the “pullie,” and it’s a word he heeds better than his name. Call “Ollie” and if you’re lucky he’ll look in your direction before carrying on with his purpose, which is sniffing and defending the yard from cats and coons. He ignores squirrels and might as well be blind to dogs on the other side of the fence.

But mention “pullie” in guttural tones as close as you can get to a growl and he’s off to get one of the crewed ropes around the house.

Our Sunday conversation was far subtler.

He knows the routine and where to be at the right time. Usually, I’ll do an omelet that involves finely chopping the parsley and basil, grating the cheese, slicing the tomatoes, and beating the eggs. Ollie gets the bowl after the eggs have been poured into the frying pan. As soon as he hears the fork striking the sides of the bowl as the eggs are beaten he appears as if we’ve sounded a dinner bell.

This Sunday was no different. He licked the bowl, knowing his next shot of food would come after we’d finished when he would get the plates. But then there was the matter of the English muffin perched beside the omelet.

We went about our Sunday ritual. I scanned through the first section of the Sunday Providence Journal while Carol leafed through the inserts. We chatted about the day’s schedule. She drank her tea. I had my coffee. Ollie was in his place lying on the carpet and keeping an eye as to when he might get the plates.

It’s when I picked up the English muffin that he came over and we had our little “talk.”

He sat at attention, eyes fixed on the muffin. I looked into his eyes and as soon as he spotted my attention, he wagged his tail in acknowledgement. I focused on those dark brown eyes and watched as they moved between my face and the muffin I held. He raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive look: “Well, if you’re not interested in that I sure am.” I took a bite of the muffin. The tail stopped. And then when I looked into his eyes a second time, the tail started.

I didn’t say anything. Usually, if I was to give him anything from the table, which I know dog trainers advise against, I’d make it somewhat challenging, telling him to lie down and giving him the “OK” command to retrieve the morsel.

This time I broke off a thin piece of crust and waited, not moving it from the edge of the plate. Ollie’s eyes went to the crust and back to mine. From the corner of his mouth I watched a drop of drool stretch until it fell to the carpet. I would need to clean that up, but for the moment we were having a conversation, albeit wordless. His nose twitched and his eyes watched mine for any sign that I might hand over those few crumbs. “Begging” is the term that came to mind. His demeanor, his erect posture and his complete attention said, “please let me try that little bit of crust.”

I wondered if he was reading my body language.

Naturally, if I had eaten the crust that would be the end of it. Instead, I tried ignoring him and the crust. Ollie watched. He didn’t droll and I could tell he was starting to question where his efforts were futile.

I then turned to him, looking him in the eyes and smiled. It was like I’d pressed a button. His tailed wagged and all of a sudden he looked optimistic.

“So, you’re going let me try some muffin,” he was broadcasting.

I held up the crust in his direction and he craned his neck to gently pull it from my fingers. I heard it crunch as he chewed with a look of satisfaction. Thomas’ English Muffins would have paid if only I had a video.

That tail had the final word.

He was wagging. How else would I have known that the butter had soaked into all those nooks and crannies?