Somewhere along the way, she even figured out the sign for “Bang! Roll over, play dead, ” which is by far the most adorable thing she does. By the time she was about eight months old, she was only having about one accident per week in the house.
But the quest for knowledge on Bonnie’s condition didn’t end there. When my mother found out about the BAER hearing test, she was convinced that it needed to be done. Even if we chose to do nothing about the lack of hearing, she wanted to know for sure. I used the cost as an excuse, but she said, “I’ll help pay for it, and I’ll ride down there with you.” I had already earned a day of vacation after my first month of work at the new job, so I had no other excuse. I scheduled the visit to the vet school for the end of December, and Mom, Bonnie and I were on our way.
Everyone at the vet school was helpful and sympathetic. I was taught that any dog, when it isn’t normally white, has a chance of being deaf in at least one ear if that ear is white. Additionally, those pretty blue eyes, when they occur in a dog that doesn’t usually have them, are another genetic marker for deafness. If deafness was akin to a hand of poker, Bonnie had the makings of a royal flush. With deep regret, the vets and the techs at the school all felt like there was a very high probability that Bonnie was deaf in both ears.
However, they were still willing to do the test if I wanted to know for sure. For the test, they would use a mild sedative, attach electrodes to Bonnie’s head, and then run a spectrum of sounds through both of her ears to see if there was any brainwave activity related to sound. Since we’d already made the trip, I told them to go ahead. Knowledge is power, right? It seemed pretty harmless at that point, and no harm was done.
One hour later, we were invited back into an examination room to review the results. The paperwork from the output scanner showed a flat line across all spectrums of sound: She wasn’t hearing anything at any level. The undergraduate vet student holding Bonnie began to cry and kissed her gently on the head. She was still quite groggy from the anesthetic but managed to turn and lick his face.
There we were, once again feeling a sense of loss over Bonnie’s deafness. We wanted so desperately to be able to “fix” her. The fact of the matter is that she was just fine with not hearing. She doesn’t know a life of sound. All of that regret was going on in our heads, not hers.
On the high side, they were actually impressed that a deaf Dachshund was almost completely housebroken at the age of eight months. When they framed it that way, it made me feel good, like I wasn’t a total failure at raising my little dog.
Life with Bonnie has been a completely different experience from when I was a kid growing up with Mitzvah. In my eyes, Mitzvah was perfection and I loved her being so dependable. Bonnie is the epitome of imperfection, and I love her for depending on me for so much. Both dogs taught me what it means to give and receive the unconditional love of a pet. As luck would have it, they couldn’t have been more different, and yet they fill up the same warm place in my heart.
In the end, I got what I wanted—and quite a bit more.
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G. Russell Overton: A MOSTLY PEACEFUL EMPIRE
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Any owner of multiple dogs will tell you that the interactions among dogs are quite as complex as any we mere humans go through with each other or with our dogs. Dogs work out social issues such as love, anger, playfulness, and the need to establish a place in the hierarchy without any spoken language beyond barks and
growls. And yet as Russ Overton demonstrates, an empire of dogs can live peacefully, even when its members vary in breed, disposition and size.
Cesar Millan, star of the National Geographic Channel’s Dog Whisperer, believes that you must be your dog’s physical and emotional leader. Often called the Dr. Phil for Dogs, he has an uncanny gift for communicating with canines. He warns that many pet owners are so eager to lavish love on their dogs that they avoid their role as leader of the pack.
Successful dog owners like Russ Overton and his partner, Bill Wisehart, recognize the need to provide leadership to their dogs along with affection, exercise, and nourishment. Their lesson to us is that multiple dogs can live together in harmony, the way Crickett, Nicky, and Carlos do, as long as their owners communicate expectations, maintain boundaries, and establish rules and routines that allow each member of the pack to know where he or she fits in.
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NICHOLAS II, JUAN CARLOS I, AND CRICKETT jointly rule the home my partner, Bill, and I have in Lansing, Michigan. It might be tempting to assume that “The Tsar of All the Russias” or “His Most Catholic Majesty” leads this triumvirate of power, but it is the untitled Crickett who reigns supreme.
The irony deepens: Nicholas II, or Nicky, is a 75-pound tricolor Basset Hound, Juan Carlos I, or Carlos, is a 6-pound red-and-white Chihuahua, and Crickett is a 3-pound tricolor teacup Chihuahua. Yet with the most regal of airs Princess Crickett wields all power over both Tsar and King. This ruler of our universe proudly holds court atop a sofa cushion each day.
Nicky is the oldest. I adopted him from a breeder nearly twelve years ago when he was just six weeks old. Nicky had a severe overbite, and the breeder said that if no one adopted him, they would have to euthanize him to prevent such a defect from entering the gene pool. I appreciated the breeder’s need to be responsible in protecting the breed, but with that news I could consider no other option. The breeder permitted me to adopt him on the condition I would have him neutered.
I carried him to my pickup, and we drove off together. Within seconds he began howling at the top of his lungs. I did my best to comfort him, but he wailed until the journey was done. On the way home I settled upon his name. Russian history is my academic field, so it seemed only logical to choose the name of the last reigning Russian monarch for him.
At the time I was dating a man by the name of Glenn. A year later we were virtually living together anyway and decided to end the farce of maintaining separate homes. He had adopted one of Nicky’s more incorrigible subjects, a true Rasputin of dogs, a Siberian Husky named Lucy. Lucy and Nicky became good companions, and the next six years were marked with a great deal of fun and mischief.
Lucy often tempted Nicky into acts of villainy. In her constant quest for liberty, Lucy frequently found a loose board in the fence and, with Nicky in tow, enjoyed running freely through fence and, with Nicky in tow, enjoyed running freely through degree morning. Lucy didn’t care much for dog food, but she and Nicky both had a hankering for anything humans consumed. Together they hatched a scheme to pull the platters of hors d’ oeuvres off the counter I had prepared for arriving guests and quickly consume the evidence before anyone could get back to the kitchen.
The dual mayhem continued until Glenn and I decided, in the year 2000, that we had other priorities in life. We had recently moved to Louisville, Kentucky, where I had no friends or social network. I found myself unattached, not happy about living in a strange place, being in my forties, and having failed at love once again.
I rejoined the dating world. I spent many Saturday evenings in smoke-filled bars, looking for Mr. Wonderful—or at least Mr. Good-Enough-for-a-Few-Hours. I dated some acquaintances from the past. I tried Internet-mating services for gay men. There I met a number of men whose physical appearance and personal character rarely matched their profile . There were times when it seemed Nicky was the only one I could trust to provide unconditional companionship.
Basset hounds are great companions. Their only challenging traits are their voracious appetites and the decibel level of their voices. Otherwise they exemplify the cliché “man’s best friend.” Bassets are intensely loyal and loving, and to me Nicky is the one mortal being that will always love me no matter what. To Nicky, I am the bringer of food, the one who says no a lot, who drags him into the shower, who takes him for thrilling walks where he can mark every vertical object along the way, and who knows the perfect spot on his neck to scratch.
I continued to watch the on-line postings, more for amusement than anything else. Then in early spring 2001, I noticed a profile that seemed too good to be true. His picture was handsome, and his profile said all the right things. Still, I considered the old adage “If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.”After a few days the profile started gnawing at me. The words had a ring of sincerity that most on-line profiles lacked. His interests in dogs, the outdoors, and romance were not the usual cliché lines others used as a lure. I looked at the profile and the attached picture a few more times before finally deciding I had to send a response.
We decided to meet on a Saturday afternoon, April 7, 2001. Bill looked just like his on-line picture. When he saw me he smiled, and the ice around my heart melted. Within a few hours we had bonded.
Crickett was about six months old when Bill and I met. He had adopted her, also at six weeks. Her name derived from the cricket box in which Bill transported her home from the pet store.
Having overcome the initial trial of a meeting, Bill and I knew we were perfect together. We dated for a few weeks, going back and forth between our two homes. The first night at Bill’s apartment Crickett selected my left shoulder as her favorite perch. At my house Nicky decided to try lap-time with Bill. Bill and I quickly fell in love with each other and with each other’s dogs.
Our biggest concern was how a fat Basset Hound and a tiny Chihuahua would get along. Theoretically Nicky could sit on Crickett and crush her to death or mistakenly think she was a small rodent and chase her as prey. With great hesitation and knowing full well that the outcome of the meeting could determine the course of the relationship, Bill and I decided it was time to introduce Crickett and Nicky.
It worked. Nicky was happy to meet a companion who was much lower maintenance than Lucy had been. Crickett was happy to meet a companion whose fat belly could keep her warm. Their first meeting was not unlike that of their daddies. They sniffed each other’s butts, licked each other all over, and snuggled up together. They became instant companions.
It was spring and perfect weather for a love affair to blossom. Among our many outdoor activities, we frequently took Crickett and Nicky for walks in the park. Passersby sometimes commented, “What an odd pair!”
We were never sure whether the remark was targeted at us or the dogs. Odd couples or not, the four of us had forged a family unit by the end of summer.
We moved several times together over the next few years, including back to Lansing at the request of my former employer there. Bill was able to obtain a transfer with his company. We finally settled into a 1950s split-level house in a Lansing neighborhood that gay and lesbian couples have been restoring for nearly twenty years. We have made our own contribution to the effort.
Crickett established her status as household alpha, and she secured genuine imperial status through the bequest of a priceless collar of jewels. One Halloween a human friend of most royal rank for the evening removed his bracelet and performed the coronation by fastening it around Crickett’s neck. Like Cinderella’s slipper, it was a perfect fit.
Though Nicky was much older and much larger, he deferred to Crickett’s authority. It is possible that Bill and I unwittingly encouraged her status. Nicky enjoys lap-time and seizes the opportunity whenever he can, but Crickett always has priority. From her perch on my left shoulder she can survey her realm from on-high. Nicky could never do that. Besides, his realm is really outdoors. There he can always find the scent of a “kitty-cat, ” buried treasure, or, his favorite, pond water. Crickett only enjoys the outdoors if it is hot, dry, sunny, and humans are present. The idea of getting her feet wet in a puddle or tripping through moist grass is anathema to her—ever the princess.
Bill, Crickett, Nicky, and I lived as a happy family unit for a few years. Then, like an unexpected pregnancy, Juan Carlos arrived. One snowy March Sunday two lesbian friends called from two blocks away saying they had a surprise. In their hands was a four-week-old Chihuahua puppy. His eyes were barely open, and he wasn’t ready for solid food. In the course of three days he had been passed to three homes, all rejecting this helpless yet loveable critter.
I was not thrilled about the idea of another animal responsibility, but I recognized the crisis. He needed a loving family. Bill never felt hesitation in the matter. I knew we were keeping the puppy, but I made it conditional upon me having the honor of giving him a name. That he would be regal was a given, but it would have made no sense to have two tsars in the house. Using the best logic I could muster, I theorized that because he was a Chihuahua and the province by that name was formerly a part of the Spanish Empire, he should carry the name of a Spanish monarch. My next dilemma was whether the name should be historic or contemporary. Franco (who was merely a dictator) was never under consideration. Of Spanish rulers in the past 500 years, the current ruler seems to me to be the best example of what a monarch should be. Therefore, I settled on Juan Carlos I as an appropriate name for our new puppy.
The ensuing years were a challenge in our family. Nicky and Crickett were downright hostile to the introduction of another monarch into their presence. No motherly instincts stirred Crickett, and when Carlos thought Nicky’s long, floppy ears were a chew-toy, Nicky let out a rare growl of warning. Carlos made matters worse by chewing holes in socks, underwear, sheets, hats, leather coats, and anything else left on the floor or a chair for more than ten minutes.
But his green eyes, constantly licking tongue, endless curiosity, and loving demeanor ultimately won all hearts in the house. Crickett found a playmate closer to her size. When Carlos crawled upon Nicky’s back, it was like a Japanese geisha’s back rub, but with claws that scratched nicely.
Carlos is now two years old. With Nicky at twelve and Crickett at six, Carlos is the most energetic and playful being in the house. Sometimes he and Nicky play tug-of-war, which always ends in a Russian victory over the Spanish crown. Sometimes they chase each other around the house, Carlos making about twelve passes for every one of Nicky’s. And sometimes, Crickett and Carlos end up in a wrestling match; Carlos usually loses there too, but it appears to be out of deference to Crickett’s status as the alpha.
Carlos also goads Bill and me into playing with him. We toss Carlos’s stuffed animal for him to chase. He runs after the toy at top speed, skidding to a stop on the terrazzo floor, often bumping into a wall, only to repeat the process a few dozen times before Bill or I grow weary of the game. Carlos never tires of it.
On any given Saturday evening, Bill is ready for bed long before I am. He asks, “Who wants to go to bed?”—the all-important question Crickett has been waiting hours to hear—and she jumps up and runs upstairs. Bill places her on the bed, she twirls around five times, then darts under the covers, not to be seen again until daylight.
After Bill and Crickett snuggle into bed, I warm up the sound system, and Ella Fitzgerald belts a flawless tune from a vintage LP. While I sip a snifter of Scotch, Carlos wraps himself around my neck until it is time to turn the record. Nicky sits at my side with the only free hand stroking his head. Eventually Ella’s concert is over. The lights go out, and Nicky and I walk up the stairs, me carrying Carlos because he is too sleepy to make it on his own. A goodnight kiss, a snuggle with Bill, and I drift off to sleep, knowing that all is well in the realm where Tsar, King, and Princess can sleep in peace.
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WHAT WE LEARN FROM OUR DOGS
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Victor J. Banis: THE GIRLS
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Victor Banis experienced a special kind of communication with his dogs, particularly with Jenny, his first. You don’t have to be a psychic to know what your dog is feeling or to communicate your own emotions and expectations. But you do have to learn to listen to your dog—which means being sensitive, using your intuition, and allowing yourself to really feel what your dog feels.
People often establish this connection with othe
r people: couples who finish each other’s sentences, mothers who know, with no spoken communication, what their babies need or want. But the same kind of connection is possible with our dogs. And what we communicate to them, they, in turn, are able to communicate to each other, just as Jenny taught Prima to be housebroken and to walk off the leash.
One of the pioneers of gay literature, Banis was persecuted in the1960sbytheU. S. government on federal charges of conspiracy to distribute obscene material simply because his first novel, The Affairs of Gloria, dared to depict lesbian life. When we asked him to write about the dogs in his life, he gave us this essay about the two dogs he and his friends called “the girls.” Prima and Jenny had a relationship as close as any human couple’s, sharing an admirably deep love. His keen novelist’s eye captures every nuance of that relationship, from its beginning to its end.
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THEIR NAMES WERE Jenny and Prima, but everyone called them “the girls.” They were lovers, of a sort; lesbians perhaps, though I can’t really say if their affectionate cuddling, nestling, licking, and mounting ever produced any kind of orgasm. I can’t even say if it was sexual in nature. I do know that Prima would lie for hours in rapture, eyes closed, a dreamy smile on her face, while Jenny patiently cleaned her ears; and sometimes at night I would hear noises—long, languorous sighs, or a happy panting that sounded suspiciously like girlish laughter—from the floor beside my bed, but I never peeked. Everyone is entitled to a little privacy.
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