Some­times, when I take Hor­ton for a walk, there are chil­dren out­side play­ing. Hor­ton loves kids. And every time a kid walks toward Hor­ton and I, they stop about five feet away and break their eye-contact with Hor­ton just long enough to ask my per­mis­sion to pet him.

“May I pet your dog?” All of them, as if born know­ing the proper way to approach a per­son with a dog, ask permission.

All of them, except for Shawn.

Shawn is a six-year-old boy whose fam­ily lives in the same con­do­minium com­plex as me. He has the col­or­ing of a Campbell’s soup can, pale white skin and bril­liant red hair.

And he has Autism.

Shawn has the type of Autism that your mind goes to first when you think of a small boy with the dis­or­der. The type that makes you won­der if his enor­mous unblink­ing eyes under­stand what is hap­pen­ing around him.

Shawn doesn’t ask per­mis­sion to pet Hor­ton because Shawn doesn’t talk. Save for a few words like Mom, Dad, no and more, Shawn com­mu­ni­cates through grunts and ges­tures. His father, Jeff, serves as trans­la­tor. His eyes never leave Shawn. Even when he is talk­ing to me, Jeff is trans­fixed on every action of his lit­tle boy.

Jeff smiles most broadly when Shawn smiles. Shawn smiles the most when Hor­ton is lick­ing the pale faded streaks of Blue Moon ice cream off Shawn’s face.

Like Shawn, Hor­ton doesn’t ask per­mis­sion to do that.

But Shawn laughs and Jeff laughs and I smile.

This is how it goes on our evening walks. If Shawn has fin­ished his din­ner and, of course, his ice cream and if he hap­pens to be play­ing out­side, he walks, silent and smil­ing, to Hor­ton and I.

Every other kid asks per­mis­sion. “May I pet your dog?”

Shawn doesn’t ask per­mis­sion to pet Hor­ton because Shawn doesn’t talk, save for those few words.

Except now, when Jeff says it’s time to go, Shawn low­ers his chin and gives the friendly black dog a kiss on the nose and says, “Horton.”