The Interview, cont.: Arf!

My chatty dog, telling me she'd like to walk down that block this time.

KathyR's last question involves one of my favorite subjects, my pets:

5. You have a pretty chatty relationship with your dog. Have you had other chatty pets before this one?

For those of you who don't understand what she's talking about, you'll have to read this post, in which I first introduced my dog to my readers. And here I expanded a little more on our conversations. Yes, I talk to my dog, and I am positive she talks back. If you find that strange, you are at the wrong blog.

As long as I can remember I've had dogs. First there was Trixie, a fluffy white puppy who got ran over before she learned to talk. Then there was Buster, a mutt who lived outdoors, thus was not exposed to much human language, and Red, who it turned out wasn't our dog at all—he'd strayed away from home one day but we quickly adopted him as our own when he stood between my father and his belt and my misbehaving brother, growling menacingly. His owner came by a few weeks later, looking for her dog, so we agreed to share him.

One day the house next door burned down, a terrifying experience for a five-year-old. Even after we moved away, I was convinced if I let down my guard my house would burn down too. I couldn't sleep at night, and had terrible separation anxiety. My mom stayed in my room every night until I fell asleep, and when I woke during the night I crawled into bed with her—if I could muster the courage to walk out of my bedroom and down a hall that might surely be consumed with flames any minute.

One night, the summer after a disastrous first grade year, I dreamed that I had a kitten, and was no longer frightened. When I told my mom about my dream, she immediately looked in the paper for a kitten. All that was available was a white poodle puppy.

We got FiFi that afternoon, after I'd helped count pennies until we had $40 to pay for her. And although my fears didn't disappear overnight, I was able to attend second grade without crying every day. I loved FiFi, and nurturing her the way I had that kitten in my dream did indeed dissolve many of my fears.

FiFi lived a long time, until after I got married and moved into my own home. The day the moving van left after moving us on base, where we were allowed to have dogs, I went to pick up the puppy I'd picked out the week before, a buff-coloured cocker spaniel named Bonnie. I was three months pregnant at the time, and I learned many mothering skills practicing on my puppy.

When Daughter Number One came, one of the first words she recognized was "Bonnie". I remember asking her as a three-month-old, "Where's Bonnie?" and watching her look to the floor, which told me she understood what I was saying. Eureka!

This first lesson in language development stuck with me throughout the years as I raised two very verbal daughters. Bonnie eventually went deaf at age thirteen, and then loud claps were all she could understand.

About this time we brought another animal into our lives, a male rat named Boyd. I didn't like the idea of small caged animals, but when we moved to Dayton when Daugher Number Two was ten, she didn't handle the move very well. (Like mother, like daughter.) She told me one day if she only had a little pet she could hold, she'd feel better. So, like my own mother had, I took her to PetSmart, and after having her read the information provided by the store on hamsters, gerbils, and rats, we both decided a rat would be a great pet.

Of course I didn't keep Boyd in his cage, at least during the day when I was the only one home. He roamed the house, collecting bits and pieces of whatever caught his eye—a tin measuring cup, dog food, furniture from the doll house—and hiding it where we couldn't find it. He absolutely hated my husband, and would lie in wait and attack him when he came home, so I had to put him in his cage in the evenings.

He kept me company during the day, while I was busy writing—and if you don't think a rat is good company, again, you're at the wrong blog. My daughter and I were heartbroken when he died, a few months after Bonnie died. Fortunately, it was Poetry Month, and she wrote beautiful poetry for her sixth grade class about losing her pet.

Not long afterward, I was outside, putting bird seed out for the birds in the tree underneath which he was buried. I swear to this day when I called the birds that he heard me. A weird feeling came over me, an overwhelming "Boyd" feeling.

Not long before Bonnie died, I had another experience with post-traumatic stress disorder (to recap, I was bitten by a two-year-old male Chesapeake Bay retriever, and the next week chased by another aggressive male dog, and ended up terrified of dogs). So after Boyd died, I knew I knew I needed another puppy, right away. I deliberately chose the least aggressive breed I could find—I was determined I would not be afraid of dogs, and a golden retriever seemed like the best antidote to my latest fear.

Now I had a chance to apply everything I'd learned about language development, only this time to a canine. I talked to her often, and there is nothing like a golden for making you feel you are being heard. She'd cock her head, listening intently, and talking as well: "Can I have this shoe I found in your closet?" she'd ask silently, looking in at me from the office doorway. "No, that's not your toy," I'd tell her firmly. A few minutes we'd go through the same thing again: "Can I have this bra I found in your closet? I think it might fit me."

I taught her how to tell time—"tomorrow" and "five minutes" are both concepts she understands perfectly. (Here's a list of words she knows, for the more pedantic among you.)  I've read a few books on language development in animals, and once I wrote a letter to the New York Times on that very topic. She is much more verbal than any other animal I've lived with, except maybe my daughter. (I swear my dog talks to me more than my laconic husband.)

There's a serious side to all my doggy talk: dogs can heal, as I'm well aware. They're also darn good company (as are rodents, by the way). I've always wanted to get my dog involved in pet therapy, but she flunked the test as a very excited not-quite-two-year-old, so I decided to pursue it when she's older. But I saw her in action with my mom—she didn't care that my mom's mind was failing, or that she spilled food and wore a diaper. She loved her unconditionally, the same way all my dogs loved me, an ugly little redhaired girl who was afraid of everything, even, occasionally, dogs.

Some of you may wonder why I've never mentioned my dog by name. She does have one, as many of you know. At first I was worried about security, as were all of us new to the web. I changed my passwords, but I realized that by speaking of her anonymously, she'd become The Dog. Every Dog, a sort of stylistic symbol of dogness that fit my writers' voice perfectly.

And that fits this post, doesn't it?

Now, the interview is over. My thanks to KathyR for asking such thought-provoking questions. Who knew I had so much to say? (If you missed any of it, see questions one, two, three and four. Or not.)

If you'd like to participate in this blog thing and be interviewed by me, either on your own blog or here in comments, please let me know. You don't have to be as verbose as me, or my dog—one word answers are fine. It's good therapy, though. I had no idea all this stuff would come out—I seriously needed a psychiatrist when I was a kid, didn't I?

Yes, the dog answers, wondering if that involves going in the car.

Comments

[Hannah]

DNO = talks the most!!! Yay I win prize! And HF wasn't talked to when she was a baby I thought you would say.

[KathyR]

I am still afraid of big dogs because I was bitten by a scary German Shepherd when I was about 4 or 5. To this day, no big dogs near me, please.

You and Peaceable Imperatrix and the rat-love. I don't get it.

And you're welcome. I enjoyed your answers very much.

[Rod]

Indeed our animals understand what we say, and it is only our own failing to not know what they are saying. If only I could understand exactly where and why it hurts when Amber says "I can't". Thank YOU ya Flake, for being a beacon in these dark days.

[Meryl]

It was so much fun reading the answers to your questions. It's funny how you feel like you know people when you read their blogs each day, but this was even better. Will you interview me?

[Isabella]

Dogs certainly do understand human language! My Human now spells certain words when she doesn't want me to know what she is talking about. I haven't learned to spell yet, but I am working on it- then she won't be able to keep secrets from me.
Big Wags-
Isabella

[Stacey]

Kathy, I've only read your blog for a short while, ever since it started to be a reality that I will be moving to the UK this summer. However, when I read your blog, I am constantly surprised by how much we have in common. How do you like living in the UK? Also, I'd love to be interviewed pre-move and then post-move. That could be interesting! Do you have any room in your life for new friendly expats?

[KathyF]

Meryl and Stacey, I'll send you both some interview questions.

Stacey, welcome to WDIK, and eventually, the UK! I love it here, and I bet you will too.

Rod, you are right--give Amber hugs from me.

And Isabella, I'll give you a hint: W-A-L-K spells "Walk!!!!!!!"