by Hammond, T.
“Where is Carley?” I asked. “You’ve never spoken about her before.”
“Her facility, Blind Sighted, is located outside Seattle. I’ve occasionally donated dogs to her guide dog school. Usually runts, or puppies showing good temperament, but not up to show standards. It’s a write off for the kennel, and Carley gets some good dogs added to her program.
I took Dru with me on a road trip a few months ago. Carley assessed him and tried some minor preliminary tests for his suitability. She told me he’d be a perfect candidate for her program, although the final aptitude determinations are made between eighteen months and two years old. It was a fascinating place. After matching each dog to an owner, she invites the blind person to stay at her facility for a month to learn how to care for their guide dogs: feeding, grooming and poop scooping,” Janey chuckled. “Thank goodness you have all this wild area around your house. You should never have to clean up after him unless he decides to poop during a walk in the park or something.”
Dru was heavy in my lap, but surprisingly calm after a few initial chin licks. I could feel his head pivot as he followed the sound of our voices, but he didn’t struggle, or otherwise fight to leave my arms. He was a good boy.
Janey droned on about obedience class, and from long practice, I found I filtered out much of what she was saying until, “What? You neutered him?”
“No, no, you’re tuning me out again, aren’t you. I was saying, Carley recommends companion animals be spayed or neutered, but I felt that should be your decision. He’s a pure-bred German shepherd from a champion lineage. Last year, you paid good money for his breeding potential, so it wasn’t up to me to make that decision for you. I only wanted to tell you what the recommendation was. You can’t see him, Teresa, but he turned out to be the pick of the litter. He has beautiful conformation and the smoothest gait of any pup in his brood. I know a teenager in town who would probably be ecstatic to show him for you as part of her 4-H club activities. Let me know if you’d like to enter him in any of the GSD shows.”
I snuggled my cheek into the ruff of my dog’s neck. “Hear that, handsome? You’ve got blue ribbon potential.”
“He’s really social,” Ken added. “I’ve taken him with me a few times, at Janey’s request. He gets along great with other dogs, and seems to love being around kids. I was worried at first, when a toddler screeched and came running straight at him in the store. He just sat down and let the kid pull his ears, and step on his tail. He’s really mellow.”
“Oh! Ken, we need to get bowls and brushes. And food. He'll need a leash and toys...” My voice trailed off and I smiled, giving Dru a soft squeeze.
“What's this 'we' shit? I know who is really going to be running around to get him properly outfitted in the style to which he should become accustomed.” There was a smile in his tone which led me to believe it wouldn't be such a hardship. “Food, bowls and his harness are already taken care of. Janey brought them with her and they're at the front door. The bowl and water system only need to be filled every few days so he can free-feed. He's wearing a new red collar. I'll pick up anything else he needs later this morning when I go shopping.”
“While you're doing the shopping, I’ll bring Teresa over to my house for lunch. Bas will be here in four more days. She and I can spend some time together before he sets himself up in the spare room.”
“Who, or what, is a Bas?” Ken asked, suspiciously.
Janey's voice turned excited, “Sebastian, my big brother. He recently finished his twenty years in the Navy and retired last week. He's taking care of business in New Jersey, then dropping in to stay with me for a few months while he decides what he wants to do next.”
“Big Jerk, you mean. Bas the Ass,” I added. I couldn't keep the dislike out of my voice.
“He is not,” Janey scolded. “It’s probably been more than ten years since you last saw him. He grew out of his womanizing man-ho phase a long time ago.”
“Man-ho?” Ken choked out the words around a laugh.
“Yep. If it had boobs, he'd nail it where it stood,” I clarified. “Talk about indiscriminate. It’s a wonder he didn't end up with VD. Ha! He probably caught something more than once.”
“Oh stop, he wasn't that bad. Give him a break! He was twenty-six when you walked in on him and Sherry. You'd think he had women strewn across the room, the way you reacted. Let it go already.”
“I was scarred for life. Eighteen and the first time I’d ever seen a naked man was walking in on him having sex with Sherry Dangerfield. On the kitchen counter of all things! Didn't he realize food was prepared there?” I didn't mention to Janey her brother was hung like a horse (I mean, ewww, you don't tell your best friend such intimate facts about her brother).
My mind easily recalled the scene: Bas bowed over the woman's splayed body, one large hand cupped around her jaw. I must have made some noise, or maybe Bas happened to glance up and see me frozen in the doorway. I can still see the smirk on his face when he lifted his mouth from Sherry's neck, slid his hand down as if he was holding her restrained by the throat, and then, staring straight into my eyes, he pistoned his hips harder into her. I fled and managed to avoid him for the remainder of his military leave.
In my inexperience, I assumed all men were equipped like Bas. It took years before I screwed up enough courage to lose my virginity. His size, coupled with the aggression in his face and body, had scared me. Intimidated me. Fear contributed to the dislike I'd felt for him over the years.
Bas would be thirty-eight now. Last time I’d seen him, he was tall, blond, and built like a minor deity. Broad chested and beautifully proportioned, Sebastian Declan embodied the physically ideal man, and he knew it. Muscles pulled tautly over a huge 6'3” frame which moved with an unexpected fluidity. Even when he was at rest, he radiated an alertness which suggested he could snap into action from a perfect standstill. That threat of action made me nervous even casually being in a room with him.
His eyes were more gray than green, and twinkled with devilment. I'd always argued he was up to no good, but a more generous person would've probably said his eyes were lit with the joy of life. Yeah, whatever. Amiable when we were younger, as we aged he and I barely tolerated each other – I thought he was a man-whore, he thought I was a prig. We were both right. The only thing we had in common was our love of Janey – so, we got along, usually by avoiding each other.
Our mutual strategy had managed to keep us out of each other’s path for a good twelve years, excluding incidental eye contact at family gatherings. With luck, we could continue to avoid each other for another dozen. Eye contact would certainly not be an issue anymore.
The puppy was still calmly curved against my torso. It struck me as somehow against the character of a young dog to be so still, but I was thankful not to worry about dropping him. His warm weight felt comfortable, but he was already a good-sized dog and wouldn't be able to climb into my lap for much longer. My left arm was curled around his body so I ran my right hand softly over the face tucked against my neck. My fingertips learned the length of his muzzle and the contrast between the softness of the fur around his face and ears, versus the coarser ruff over his chest. His ears were large and strong, already held at attention and tilted forward at the top of his head. I couldn't resist stroking them and leaning forward to tease, “I bet you get great reception with these things, Dru.”
In my mind, I heard a snort. “Aren't you the comedienne? And it's Red.”
“What's Red?” I asked aloud, confused.
There was a slight, pause, in my mind, “My name is Red.”
“Holy crap!” I told the room at large. “The dog talks!”
Chapter Two
“I thought you said she was off the painkillers,” Janey retorted drolly, obviously to Ken, as her voice was aimed away from me.
“Yes, but she may have bumped her head on one of those imaginary protuberances she obviously believes are located all over the house,” came the equally droll respon
se. “It would be logical for there to be imaginary voices, too.”
“Har har, you two. Seriously, the dog told me his name is Red, not Dru.” At least, I don’t think I imagined it.
“And, why would a black dog call himself Red?” Janey asked, stressing the logical, or in this case, illogical. Whispering loudly to Ken, “Has the fish been talking also?” Janey referred to the betta, Murphy, on the kitchen counter... well, I assumed Murphy was still there.
“I only know what he told me, not his intelligence,” I defended with no small amount of wonder. Scratching the pup thoughtfully under his chin, I decided the best way to find out, and make sure I wasn’t imagining things, would be to ask him. “So, the peanut gallery and I want to know why a black dog is named Red.”
“That's what Janey called me. Maybe we should be rating her intelligence, hmmm?” Red's words didn't have a distinctive voice in my mind like you'd associate with, for example, Sylvester Stallone or Tom Cruise. Nothing instantly identifiable as a specific person, age, or nationality. His voice was more emotions and attitude – like when you talk to yourself in your head. Oh, Oh... I didn't like the direction my thoughts were taking here. Those were the kind of smart-ass things I would think or say.
Tentatively I relayed, “He says that's what you called him, Janey.”
There was silence before Janey softly verified, “I call all the puppies by their yarn color. Since it's up to the owners to name their dogs, it’s easier. I've never called him Dru, or Druid.” Another pause, “You do know how this sounds, right? You admitted, out loud in front of witnesses, the dog talks.”
Conceding with an affirmative nod, “Yeah, you're not the only one questioning my sanity. I already realized he speaks like I talk to myself, in my head. Hard to distinguish between the two, but there's a subtle difference.” I leaned back so I could tilt my dog's face up and thought to him, “Can you hear me?” There was no response, so I asked out loud, “Can you hear me when I think words to you, Red?”
I swear he hrumped at me. “What? You think I'm a mind reader?” Yes, there was a definite trace of sarcasm there. “I was as surprised as you were that you could understand my thoughts, but I don't hear yours. Other people don't seem able to hear me. I just now tried to talk at Janey but it didn't work with her.” I could feel laughter in his next comment, “Now who has reception like a radar dish?”
I chuckled.
“What?” Ken asked, clearly intrigued by my slim grasp of reality. Probably wondering to himself how could he have missed the signs?
I chuckled again at my new train of thought, but brought myself back to Ken’s query. “I teased him about the size of his ears earlier. He just retorted by pointing out I'm the one with reception like a radar dish as I am receiving the signals, rather than him. I have a smart dog!” I said, proudly.
“What you have is a loose screw,” Janey corrected, gently.
I bit back my exasperation. Obviously, we don't want to upset the crazy girl, so we must use a soft voice and guide her gently back to the real world. What? She thinks, simply because I'm potentially crazy, I won't recognize she just insulted me? The temptation to do something wildly outrageous flitted through my mind. Mental sigh. Must be nice to my friends. I'll save the crazy display for a later date, and more appreciative audience.
“Hey, Pal,” I addressed Red, “how's Orange doing?” Janey'd never told me if the smallest puppy survived, so I figured this would be a good way for all of us to determine if I was going nuts, or not. There is no way an imaginary voice could know the answer.
“Janey called him Little Guy. She brought him back from the vet all doped up and he went home with a man, later the same day.” Red let out a soft, rumbling growl. “Please tell me neutered doesn't mean what I think it means,” he whined. "I can't tell time very well, so I don’t know how long ago this was. I think the man said something about Valentine's Day?”
I mock-covered Red's ears, and spoke toward Janey. “Neutered? You had to talk about that in front of my dog? He's traumatized!” I exaggerated. Tilting my face down toward Red, I added, “And yes, it means what you think it does.” Facing Janey again, “Red says you called the sable 'Little Guy' and a man picked him up around Valentine's Day; the same day you had him fixed.”
“Holy shit, Teresa.” Janey murmured, reverently. “Your dog talks!”
The next half-hour passed in a blur of excited questions, and laconic answers, as Red proved to be an intelligent companion with a biting wit and endless patience.
“How did you learn to talk?” I inquired at one point.
“I learned words from listening to Janey, the radio, and TV in the kennel." Red informed me.
“Can you 'talk' to other dogs?” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Can other dogs talk to their humans?” Janey chimed in. This question was followed by a short silence as Red stirred himself, from his position snuggled under my chin, to look toward her.
“Is English not her first language?” he asked rhetorically. “If I can't talk to other dogs, how would I know?”
We all laughed over his comment.
“You're not even a year old, how can you communicate so well?” I wanted to know.
“I know I don't think like people do, but I understand a lot of what you say. I have never tried to 'speak' at anyone before. Sometimes words are really confusing because what people say doesn't always match their body language. Dogs rely on body language more than words. When you made the comment about my ears, I knew what you meant and thought back at you. There are some words you say, and I don't know what they mean, and sometimes you say sentences which don't make sense to me, even though I know the words. What is a peanut gallery anyway?"
What followed was a discussion of slang and context.
“Do you have a favorite dog food?” I asked, curious.
“I only know about the food Janey gives us. Food is food. Some food smells more interesting. I like chicken because it smells and tastes really nice. Bread is good too.”
Red's weight became too much to hold comfortably so I placed him on the floor. I could feel him settle at my feet, leaning against my foot and chair leg. His weight felt warm, and reassuring. My heart was utterly full; I was amazed by the completely unexpected feeling of completion. How like Janey to recognize what I had been unable to pinpoint since my accident.
Ken was topping off coffee when I asked Red, “How good is your sense of smell? Can you smell emotions, or sickness?”
Red seemed surprised when we explained humans couldn't pick up on scents like anger, nervousness, and illness. He informed us how changes in odor from sweat and (what we all assumed were) hormones or pheromones, combined with body posture, gave dogs a pretty decent indication of what people were feeling. He wasn't able to clearly associate many scents with words because he hadn't been around a person he could smell to associate the scent to a particular term.
Red told me there were smells which indicated stay away, leave, or come closer. Also males and females definitely had specific aromas (hence our assumption regarding hormones) but some odors didn't have any association to words yet. Red wasn't sure about recognizing sickness as he hadn't been around any sick people, except Janey when she had a cold a few months back. “There was a smell, kind of sour and ‘wrong,’” he attempted to describe.
I drank deeply from my newly refilled mug. The constant talking over the last thirty minutes, translating mind-speak (as Red and I decided to call it) to my friends, was hard on a woman's throat. Ken made the best coffee, I thought with a contented sigh. He insisted the secret was a little pinch of salt on top of freshly ground beans.
“Can dogs pick out one emotional scent from others if there are a lot of them together?” I wondered aloud.
“Sure, especially when you add in body language,” Red told me. “I can smell you were happier when you started to sip your coffee. You leaned forward over your cup and held it like you didn't want someone to take it from
you, and you spent a lot of time breathing in the scent.” I smiled and told my friends about Red's observation.
“Janey likes Ken’s scent, because when he walks close to her, she smells really, really happy and her body leans toward him like she's trying to rub up against him. And Ken...” I was smiling over Red's perspective and still deciding if I was going to translate Janey's interest in Ken to the room in general, when I felt Red's body shift to alertness. “Ken likes Janey too. He sniffed her as he poured her more coffee. He likes her scent.”
