Who Says Dogs Can't Talk

Who says dogs can't talk? On the left you'll see our 13-year-old Shih Tzu, Annie. For most of her life she was a quiet dog with little vocalizing.Over the past year, Annie has become all too vocal, displaying talents that Sarah Bernhardt would envy. The problem we're having is that it's not always easy to interpret her entreaties.

Does the whine that tears at our heartstrings mean she's hungry? Does she want to go outside? Are wolves surrounding the house and planning to attack anyone who opens a door? Is Timmy in the well? When she groans loudly, does she have a stomach ache, headache, hangnail, earwig or broken bone? If she's running toward us, but suddenly looks at her tail and spins in a circle and barks, is it a trick or a testament to some inner psychological turmoil. Are we simply not paying attention as required?

The vet assures us that she's a great shape for her age. Okay, so her hearing seems less acute than it once was and her eyesight isn't perfect due to a small cataract in one eye. Generally though, she's good. She still runs pretty fast when it suits her and manages to leap onto the bench at the end of our bed, then onto the bed itself without assistance. It's just the attempt to talk that's baffling us.

When we're not moved by her poignancy, we're often reduced to laughter. She's pretty cute, anyway, and there's nothing more amusing than watching her emote as she stares into our eyes with such intensity.

It's reminiscent of a child yearning to communicate, but not yet articulate. There is drama, pathos even. There's urgency, followed by periods of apathy. It's apparent that she is frustrated by our inability to understand her tones. Sometimes it's obvious that our incompetence angers her. She turns the plaintive whine to a growl, first gentle, then more threatening.

Mere sounds don't always suffice. When she's really intent on moving us to some action on her behalf, she backs up to us and kicks out at our feet. This, of course, usually just makes us laugh, so hasn't become her most oft-used method of messaging.

With all the ignorance of humans, we speak to her in English, a language far beneath her royal dogness. We ask all the easy questions about hunger and the need for elimination. We do not, of course, ever speak the word "treat" out loud. Even if that's not what she was seeking, it will be what she must have if the magic word is mentioned. That use of English is both allowed and welcomed.

If all else fails, she or we lose interest in this attempt at communication. We return to other activities, once again blithely unaware of the reason for the farce that has been enacted. She returns to her favorite pastime when off stage, sleeping. Fortunately, this takes most of the hours in each day, leaving us free to enjoy human pursuits.

My idea of heaven is that I'll find Annie and the other dogs and cats that have been part of my life and we will share the same language. I fear none of us will care much for reminiscing about the lives lived on this plane, but maybe they'll share a few secrets from this life. Maybe they'll give me the inside scoop on how they could enjoy the awful-smelling food we fed them or why they licked themselves so much.

It will be fun to talk with each other about the adventures we share in that new place or dimension or whatever it is. Perhaps we'll reverse roles and I'll retrieve the ball and jump up in the air to catch the catnip mouse. Maybe they will laugh at my antics as I've laughed at theirs. Maybe they'll tell me how silly I look.

One thing I'm sure about. If they are not there, it won't be heaven for me.