I hated waking up early to go to
school. My mother worked most mornings,
so I had to ride the bus, which wasn’t terrible, except that I lived in the unfortunate
geographical position that required me to wake up even earlier, for my bus stop
was the first of the day. After eating a
sugary breakfast the older me doesn’t understand was both possible and so
frequent, I hoisted my backpack over my shoulders and checked the time on the microwave
clock, which often reminded me of my tardiness.
Before heading out the door and sprinting down the street, I would pet
the family dog.
She usually lay curled on top of
the couch in a position more feline than canine. Sometimes I would tell her how lucky she is
to sleep all day. To remain in good
standing, her only requirement was that she not run away, get into the trash
can, or shit on the carpet too often. In
return, we would shelter her, feed her, and bestow considerate attention upon
her. As a child, I envied the family
dog.
She lived in an ideal state of
laziness and gluttony without the impending guilt. Nobody told her when to wake up, and nobody
expected her to do the dishes. The
possibilities of her brain and body are extremely limited compared to ours. Her world was reduced to simple desires, so
excitement came easy. The master’s routine
homecoming, a soft patch of grass to pee on, a dropped morsel of food snatched
up from the floor, an opportunity to sniff foreign odors around the block: that’s all it takes for them to be thrilled. The human equivalent of a dog’s euphoria, I assume,
is usually the result of an extraordinary orgasm, a snort of cocaine, or the
virginal sky-dive.
At a glance, this relationship
seems parasitic, but there’s much to learn from a dog. I am now living with eight dogs, a rare
opportunity that enables me to scrutinize a dog’s effect on a person’s home
life. My aunt owns five of the dogs,
fosters two more, and my brother has a cocker spaniel named Duncan. Since I began collecting unemployment, the
weather hasn’t been so great, so I’ve been stuck inside the house for several
days in a row. In the past week, my life
has been very dog-like.
When I am alone, I will talk to the
dogs in a joking fashion with a voice I do not use with humans. I should feel weird to admit this, but I think
everyone has a baby-voice they use only to communicate with dogs. Dogs have the uncanny ability to crumble our social
inhibitions, so, naturally, this baby-voice is used freely when our guard is
down. But where does this voice come
from? A dog-voice can vary from person
to person, but I usually find them all to be squeaky and grammatically
incorrect. My brother has invented a
voice, and entire persona, for his cocker spaniel Duncan, and I have taken
part.
The mental construct that is Duncan’s
persona is that of a sarcastic, foul-mouthed comedian with a sibilant slur. The character often pluralizes non-count
nouns that traditionally do not end in S.
This made-up speech is replete with improper pronouns and a lack of subject-verb
agreements, such as: Them other dogs is annoying. When barking is imminent, there’s an
unexpected amount of cursing, especially when other dogs are near.
People without dogs talk to
themselves, but people with dogs talk to their dogs. At a glance, both actions are the same and
rarely do they signify sanity, yet talking to a dog is much more accepted as
normal-ish behavior. The personification
of the dog is an attempt to give voice to his impenetrable thoughts. When you humanize a dog’s actions, you can’t
help but be absurd. Most pet-owners, I
suspect, are trying to substantiate the dog’s role in the family and create an
illusion of a mutual understanding through spoken word. Undoubtedly, some dogs can learn vocabulary
words, perform tricks, and identify objects.
A dog’s role at home can range anywhere from a pretty decoration that
moves, a science experiment, a quiet companion, or a therapist.
We buy dogs because we are bored,
and because plants often don’t give us enough life in our living rooms. A dog infuses a space with vitality. While some dogs linger in the background,
others are major characters. A dog and
its owner, when together, can fuse into the same character. In some ways, the persona——this dog voice——is
his master’s alter ego. When the owner
is alone, the dog voice is mostly used to narrate benign actions, belt out
songs to a non-judgmental audience, and to allow your aggression to exit safely
from your mind.
During a social situation, the dog
voice takes on revealing complexities. I’ve
noticed it’s used primarily to reaffirm facts and opinions. I’ve visited friends and family members with
excited dogs running in circles in celebration of my homecoming, which wasn’t
the usual trip to the grocery store. The
owners would then speak to me through the dog using the dog-voice: You’re home!
You’re home! We missed you, didn’t
we?
I visited a friend from my hometown
who recently bought a house and a new dog.
As I meandered through the rooms, the dog followed, sniffing me all the
way. The pet-owner would then introduce
each room with the dog-voice: This is our dining room. This is the living room, and the couch, where
we’re not allowed. The dog was the ambassador, translator,
master of his domain, so naturally I had to go through him.
I’ve even conducted entire
conversations through dogs with aloof relatives I visited out of curiosity and
a pulling obligation to end the visitation drought. Upon entering their unfamiliar home and
making the necessary greetings with my family members, I then stoop down to pet
the dogs and inquire their names. Despite
our lack of camaraderie, the normal voice disappears and the dialogue resumes
in the dog-voice: He says, My name is So-and-so, and I’m four years old.
