Dr. Doolittle Rides Again
There is an old Polish legend which I hold fondly that in
honor of the hospitality of the stable animals when Christ was born in
Bethlehem, all animals are given the power of speech at midnight on Christmas
Eve. I cannot tell you if it is true or
not because earlier in my life I had no animals in my parents’ house; in the
middle of my life in college, I had no animals other than a beta fish; and now
at middle age with a house full of animals, it is difficult for me to stay
awake that long to test the theory. (I
have the same problem when the “ball drops” on New Year’s Eve.)
I have noticed lately at my house, though, that there are
attempts at inter-species communication – and they are kind of comic to me. (You may take this entire rendering with a
grain of salt if you like.) I first
noticed it with my chocolate cocker spaniel Madeline Grace. She would look at me and I could feel words coming
through her eyes to me. That’s not how
it’s supposed to work. But I understood
what she meant. I would hit the snooze
for the first time in the morning. She
would drape half her body over me and rest her chin next to my heart. I would say it for her: “Hi.
Good morning. I love this time
with you.” Then I would hit the snooze
for the second time, exactly 10 minutes later.
The snooze alarm goes off at 8 minutes.
Madeline would say, “are you going to wait 2 more minutes before you get
that” and “Do you have to get up and leave?”
I looked at her. She looked down
at me and run a paw across my cheek. I
would get up. As I sat up – I got pounced upon by both Madeline and Valor (her
tri-color son). I would ask them: “Is there a Party on my bed??? Do you wanna go O-U-T???” And they would circle me and leap off the bed
and hit the hardwood floor at full steam ahead.
The year I took her home to visit my parents for the
holidays, I became aware that not only can she communicate with me, she can
also make herself invisible to everyone else.
Raw talent. It was Christmas Eve,
in the middle of the night. She was
sleeping in the kennel next to the bed where I was. Early morning, I got up to use the lav and
came back. I said to her, “Now be very
quiet, okay?” and unlatched the kennel, she hopped up on the foot of the bed,
curling herself into a nice circle and we both went back to sleep. My mother popped the bedroom door open an
hour later to say good morning. She bent
down and saw no dog in the kennel. With
the proximity of the kennel to the bed being only three feet it was surprising
that she had to ask: “Where’s the dog?” She turned her head to the right and looked
toward the foot of the bed and the form of a small dog appeared. “OFF THE BED!!!” This is why some people never get to hear
dogs speak: they don’t listen to dog’s
hearts and what they want. Thud. Madeline jumped down and slunk into the
kennel, very disappointed. So was I,
because she can effortlessly toast up my feet to the appropriate degrees on a
chilly night.
Then there’s Madeline’s son Valor. He has a few different names. His official AKC name is “Valor Prince of
Morning Glory Acres.” When he stands on
top of his kennel and turns his head to the side, his profile is absolutely
regal. But when he looks at you and
smiles, he is 100% mischief, no additives:
Valley-Canally. Valor answers me
when I call him … most of the time. When
he is very pre-occupied outside with chewing grass so he can puke on my floor
later or watching the neighbors yell at their dog, I have to use the other
name. His other name is not an AKC
name. It is the name that is under his picture
which I think is posted in the post office of the small city of Chihuahua,
Mexico. That is his professional crime
name: “Little Enrique.” Only you can’t say it that way. You have to use the I-Love-Lucy voice that is
high-pitched, and drag it all out. Think
of the way Lucy used to say, “Little Ricky!!!” and you are close. Phonetically it sounds like, “Little
Ennn-reeee-kayyyyy!!!!” the higher the pitch the better. It snaps his brain out
of whatever outdoors distraction he has going on and he will spin on a dime to
come to me. When he arrives, it is
imperative that a “big deal” is made. “oh! Hello, hello, hello! What were you doing?! It was great, no?! Yes, let’s go in for a TREAT!!! Dream bonez!!!” He becomes one big, walking wiggle.
And yet Valor is closest to talking. He will sit at the side of the table and
quiver his lower lip as he attempts to speak.
A pained look crosses his brow. And
I respond: “I just GAVE you a piece of
the steak; I think you’ve had enough.”
More painful brow, sorrowful eyes.
“Can you catch it if I toss it?” and he watches my hand and sails up
like the best outfielder ever to play in the major leagues, catching a scrap
mid-air. Sometimes he will come and sit
next to me and quiver that lip as an appeal for attention. I will tuck him under my arm and explain
things to him. Dogs very much like to be
a part of what is going on and they find it very demeaning when people treat
them like, well, like just dogs. When the hostess in a restaurant greets me
with: “Just one?” I have been known to respond:
“Oh, I’m so much more trouble than ‘just’ one.” Dogs taught me that: what you see is not always what you get.
The other day, even though it was June, there was leftover
Christmas legend magic in the house. The
cat had just come off her official strike.
She was talking to me again in cat dialect. I had recently quarantined her to the
bathroom so that she was protected from a dog that was staying with us
briefly.
The week before, when the small dog had run into the
bathroom and barked at the cat, Madeline and Valor sailed down the hallway like
fighter pilots in tandem. They banked
right, turned into the bathroom and separated for mere seconds. Madeline banked to the right to block the cat’s
body from the little visiting/intruding dog.
Valor swooped to the left, forcing the small dog out into the
hallway. As he did so, he spoke quite
clearly in dog dialectic which sounded like:
Raw, raw, raw. Translation: “we don’t bust our cat.” That little offending dog turned, tweaked
her princess-like tail, and walked away, appropriately chastised.
During the cat’s time of quarantine in the bathroom – a couple
of weeks –another area of our life was getting unsupervised. I was down in the basement doing laundry and
turned just in time to see a mouse run straight UP the wall. This is probably where the expression comes
from: “you are driving me UP the wall.” Now that the cat is back making her
whole-home rounds again, I feel fairly confident that “Mickey has left the
building.”
I went out for an evening meeting, or perhaps it was grocery
shopping. Even though it was barely the
first week of June, the air smelled of summer, the collar on the goat next door
clinked as he wandered his pen in the inky dark, and the leaves fluttered in
the gentle breezes. I pulled into the
driveway and hit the garage door button.
As I watched the door go up into the rafters via the miracle of
automation, my eyes scanned down toward the headlights. I said some muffled word of aggravation as I
engaged the parking brake and stepped into the night air. As I walked to where the beam directed me, I
bent down and picked up a wood toad. He made no protest as I re-located him
away from where my tire treads would be going in the next few minutes. It was a small gesture, but I saved his
life. It seems to me that particular
night that the Ponde Family Symphony sang a little louder. Maybe one little voice made all the
difference. Or maybe we only hear the
magic when we truly listen.
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"we resemble that remark."
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