Let me be clear. I talk to my dog.

Not the casual “good girl” or “who’s a bougie” kind of chatter. I mean actual conversations. Lengthy ones. From geopolitics to the weather. From the future of artificial intelligence to why it smells like Pepe Le Pew moved into the building.

I talk, Finnley listens or at least blinks slowly and judges me with the wisdom of someone who knows where I hide the dried smoked salmon treats.

Why do I do this?

Because my dog is the only living creature who will let me unpack everything in my head without interrupting, challenging or casually glancing at their phone mid-sentence.

She’s present. She’s engaged. And unlike most people, she doesn’t argue when I say that yes, Sex and the City was as much a fashion think-piece as it was a relationship show.

Let’s take yesterday, for instance.

We began, naturally, with the weather. She sat stoically on a Central Park bench as I lamented the humidity, debated the devastating string of Yankee losses, wondered aloud whether the contractor would ever finish up and where is Jeffrey Epstein’s client list because you know damn well trump’s name is included?

She had no opinion. But her silence? Encouraging.

Then we moved on to food. Not her kibble, which she eats with the resigned sigh of someone who’s accepted that life is compromise, but my upcoming review of that new restaurant downtown where they serve molecular gastronomy on reclaimed wood planks. She offered no culinary critique, but I swear her tail twitched disapprovingly when I mentioned the $28 radish foam.

Later, as I prepped dinner, lamenting that only three Americans are still competing at Wimbledon and questioned whether fashion had truly peaked in the late ’90s, she nodded. It felt like agreement.

And sure, some people might say, “Toto, she’s a dog. She doesn’t understand you.”

To them I say neither do most humans. At least she doesn’t pretend to.

These conversations aren’t about answers, they are about reflection, companionship and finding someone that doesn’t rush to fix, debate or post about it.

My dog is my sounding board. My furry therapist. My four-legged fashion confidante. She never rolls her eyes when I do a deep dive into depression over NY Giant and Yankee losses. She doesn’t need to. She just gets it.

So if you see me on the sidewalk having a deep conversation with someone who’s sniffing a lamppost, don’t worry. We are just discussing global diplomacy, dog-friendly tasting menus and whether I did dress my daughter like Ellen when she was two.

She’s my ride or die, my confidante, my walking partner, we share Turtle Time daily and in a world that never shuts up and never stops being judgy, she’s the best listener I’ve ever known.

Now if you’ll excuse me, we have a squirrel peace treaty to negotiate.