Born to Bark (7 page)

Often, when there were issues that I had to work through, decisions that I had to make, or parental decisions that I was supposed to abide by, I would close the door to my room and “discuss” them with Penny. Nowadays, psychologists have shown that it is not unusual for people to talk to their dogs in much the same way that they might talk to another human—conversationally. A lot of evidence has accumulated that such interactions between people and their dogs can be important for psychological health. For most people the bulk of their social interactions come from other humans. However
, elderly people, those who live alone, or someone who was having difficulty speaking to his family about important matters (as I did) can get some of the same benefits from talking to a dog. Certainly my conversations with Penny helped me over some rough spots in my life and ultimately allowed me to make some important decisions—including some that would not please my parents.

One scientific survey, published in the 1990s, found that 96 percent of all people talk to their dogs in this way. Nearly everybody admitted that they usually greet their dogs when they come home and also usually bid them farewell when they leave.
Sometimes they will explain to the dog that some recent behavior was “stupid,” “naughty,” “helpful,” or “funny.” Sometimes they will extend the comment into a short narrative such as “It’s a good thing that I found this mess before Mom did. You would catch a lot of grief if she knew what you did.” Virtually everyone admits to asking questions of their dogs about matters they feel the dogs care about, such as “Do you want to go for a walk?” or “Do you want a snack?”

Conversations with canine companions also include questions that the dog really can’t be expected to answer (or even care much about), such as “Do you think that there is any chance that it might rain today?” or “Do you think that Alan will forgive me for forgetting about our scheduled meeting for lunch yesterday?” Of course, this talking usually is a monologue, since the dog provides a friendly presence but no real input.

Some “dialogues” with dogs are more complex interactions, where there appears to be some give and take between the dog and the person, even though only the human is speaking. Overhearing this kind of conversation is similar to listening to one side of a phone conversation. A snippet of it might go, “I’ve asked Sally out to dinner with me on Saturday. Where do you think we should go?” [Pause for a few seconds.] “No, I took her out for Chinese food last time. How about an Italian restaurant this time?” [Another brief pause.] “You know, you’re right, there is that new Argentinean res
taurant with all the meat served from skewers.” [Pause.] “Of course! I had forgotten that on Saturdays they have that Latin band there. This could be a lot of fun. That’s a really good suggestion, Lassie.”

In another variety of human-and-dog conversations that is familiar to many dog owners but might appear to be strange to an outsider, the person not only talks to the dog, but also provides audible answers, essentially speaking the words that he believes the dog would say in response. Parents often engage in this kind of conversation when talking to young
babies: when a
mother gives her child a toy, she might say something such as, “Would you like this teddy bear?” When the baby smiles or reaches, she adds (often in a higher-pitched, more childlike voice),
“Oh yes, Mommy. I like that bear.”
When a person provides both his own dialogue and that of his dog, however, the conversation sounds much like the often used Hollywood movie sequence where a mentally deranged individual carries on an argument among his various multiple personalities—each with a distinctive voice and character.

Perhaps the best-known such conversations with a dog were recor
ded by John Steinbeck, the Nobel Prize–winning author who wrote about a trip across the United States with his black standard poodle in
Travels with Charley
. In truth, the book could just as well have been titled
Conversations with Charley
. A sample of one such conversation occurred when he found Charley simply staring blankly off into space. Steinbeck began the following bit of dialogue and provided both parts of the conversation, presumably out loud:

“What’s the matter, Charley, aren’t you well?”
His tail slowly waved with his replies.
“Oh, yes. Quite
well, I guess.”
“Why didn’t you come when I whistled?”
“I didn’t hear you whistle.”
“What are you staring at?”
“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”
“Well, don’t you want your dinner?”
“I’m really not hungry. But I’ll go through the motions.”

And some quite hilarious conversations are featured in A. R. Gurney’s popular play,
Sylvia
, in which the dog Sylvia speaks clearly to her owner about many big and small matters, although only her owner (and the audience) understands her. Many of my discussions with Penny were like those in
Travels
with Charley
. I would say something to her and then give her answer in a voice that mimicked that of the Disney cartoon character Goofy. I have given every dog that I have spoken to its own unique voice. I have no idea why I chose that particular voice for Penny, especially since many of our conversations were fairly deep and personal, and many of the comments that I filled in for her in that silly voice were emotion-laden and the suggested actions often had important personal consequences. Perhaps I chose Penny’s voice because at one level I still considered the idea of intense personal
conversations with a dog to be “goofy,” or perhaps to keep matters light and to remind me that “the dog’s comments” were not to be interpreted as commands or requirements for action. To an eavesdropper, such conversations would probably sound as if I had lost my mind, so I always closed the door before Penny and I “talked.”

Immediately following my graduation from high school, I entered the army, which took me to Fort Knox, Kentucky, for basic training, and then to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, for training as a still photographer. My coursework scores and my evaluations as a photographer were very good, and I soon found myself being sent out on various interesting photographic assignments for the army’s Public Information Office. This took me around the country and allowed me to meet a large number of interesting people and their dogs.

According to my mother, Penny had been quite upset at my leaving. She would spend long hours upstairs guarding my room and barring entry to anyone except my mother. She refused to sleep anywhere else but on her pillow by my bed, and if her way into my room was blocked, she would set up a howl until she was allowed inside. However, matters did change a bit with a new arrival in our family.

By the time that I returned home to restart my civilian life, my youngest brother Arthur had been born and was now an unsteady toddler wandering around the house. In my absence Penny had adopted Arthur, and her maternal instincts caused her to act as a protective shield around him. One day Arthur grabbed the electrical cord attached to a ceramic table lamp, and when he tugged, it toppled to the floor, breaking into several large chunks.

My brother Dennis, who was in the room, shouted, “Arthur, get away from there!” as he leapt from his seat and dashed across the room to try to keep his brother from cutting himself on the broken pottery. To Penny, however, his loud vocalization and sudden movement toward “her child” looked like an attack, so she vaulted from her position to interpose her body between Dennis and Arthur. When Dennis reached for my brother, she produced a low grumbling growl and then used her head and blunt muzzle to move Arthur toward the door, away from his larger brother. At that moment my mothe
r entered the room, lifted Arthur from the floor, and then carried him into the next room. Only then did Penny seem to relax, as she followed my mother to monitor what was happening to “her child.”

Penny’s relationship with Arthur was special, and she would tolerate many misdemeanors and abuses from him that would have brought out hostility toward anyone else. For example, one day when Penny was peacefully resting in the living room. Arthur waddled into the room carrying two large metal spoons. He looked across the room at the peacefully resting boxer and clanged the spoons together to produce a sharp sound while he announced “Glock!”

Arthur then proceeded in an unsteady waddle across the room toward the dog, clanging the spoons together and with each impact he repeated “Glock!”

“Glock! Glock! Glock! Glock! Glock!” Now he was in front of Penny, who lifted her head and looked up at him. Arthur
then slipped one spoon under her chin, and took the other one and banged down across the top of her muzzle. His shout of “Glock!” was partly cut off by the fact that Penny leapt to her feet and in the process knocked the unsteady toddler off of his feet. She looked at him, shook her head as if trying to clear some fogginess from her eyes, and then walked over to the other end of the living room and lay down again.

Arthur rolled over and pulled himself upright. With spoons banging he marched back across the room toward Penny: “Glock! Glock! Glock! Glock!”

When he was a foot or two in front of her, she rose to her feet, bumped her square muzzle against his chest, and watched him topple backward. She then walked over to him, licked his face, and went to the far end of the room.

The whole process then repeated itself, Arthur wobbling across the room with his “Glock! Glock! Glock! Glock!” Penny knocking him over, licking his face, and retreating to the far side of the room.

Back and forth they went in their little dance of “Glock and tumble.” Arthur apparently enjoying the game, Penny showing incredible degrees of forgiveness.

My mother ended the show by announcing, “Come on, now, we can’t just sit and let him abuse the dog.” She removed the spoons from his hands and picked Arthur up. Arthur reached his tiny hand out in the direction of the dog, opening and closing it and repeating “Glock!”

The next time Arthur saw Penny, she was resting and he was not carrying spoons. However, he ran over and flopped on top of her and announced “Glock!” Suddenly and spontaneously, my family concluded that they may have been observing more than a game, and to Arthur at least, this was a naming ritual and thereafter Penny had a new nickname, although it was used differently by different family members. My mother used it as a noun and as a synonym for the word “dog” as in the query
“Have you fed the glock yet?” Arthur, Dennis, and I tended to use it as just another name for our dog, as in “I’m going to take Glock for a walk.” Penny accepted the name as just another strange label that was being applied to her and responded to commands like “Glock, come!” with the same reliability that she responded to “Penny, come!”

In spite of her protectiveness toward Arthur, Penny still spent her nights sleeping on a pillow next to my bed. Because I was a sound sleeper, I needed a loud alarm clock to wake me, so I had bought a spring-wound clock with two large bells on top. The noise that this clock made when the alarm went off virtually shattered the furniture around it—certainly no one could easily sleep through it. Penny hated it. Because the clock made some sort of sound as it approached the time set for the alarm, Penny quickly learned that if she could awaken me just before the time set for the
alarm, I would glance at the clock, and, since it was near the time when I intended to wake up I would turn off the alarm and get out of bed. So each morning I was awakened by 50 pounds of boxer landing on my chest. Because of this very effective biological alarm clock, the entire time that I was at university I never missed a class because of oversleeping.