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Thursday, August 15, 2019

On the Conversational Acuity of Dogs

Whilst I was talking with Takut the dog this morning, I happened to note the conversational acuity of dogs in general. There is really no subject or rumination or rant or chit-chat to which they will not listen, which is more than can be said for some of our fellow human beings. 

Take my third wife for instance. There were times when I realized that I was absolutely talking to myself, that she was not merely not interested in what I was saying but completely deaf to what I was saying. I tested the theory in various ways. One was to fill in her side of the communication for her, noting upon doing so that she was equally as disinterested, or deaf, rather, in what she might have to say as in what I was saying. Another was to say some patently ridiculous thing such as 'Did you hear about the sky falling yesterday? Chicken Little was right after all.'  She thought neither that this was ridiculous nor something to be concerned about, because she simply did not hear it. The words may have lived up to the status of ambient background noise, but nothing more than that.

But Takut the dog, yes, he listens, as can be readily appreciated in the twitching of an ear, and he appreciates what is being said, most especially when the subject delves deeply into minutiae. Take food, for instance. The dog has a keen interest in anything pertaining to food, food preparation, or the consumption of food. Of the single subject of chicken, he can philosophize to no end. I am reminded of the scene in the movie Forrest Gump, wherein Gump's equally challenged friend, a fellow soldier, speaks nearly without end on the subject of shrimp, the many ways in which it can be prepared and consumed, the cuisines and flavors and spices with which it interacts and converses. It is similar with Takut and chicken, or any food, really--pork, beef, fish, and all the various amorphous unknowns he finds in garbage sacks or on roadsides. He can go on nearly forever.  

Another thing I noticed whilst talking to Takut this morning was that the neighbor across the way from my room, drying and combing out her hair in the sun on her porch, was glancing curiously my way now and then, wondering no doubt who I was talking to. Had I an unseen, rather silent guest? Catching her eyes in mid sentence from the kitchen window, I abruptly, self-consciously ended my conversation with the dog. Should I pick up the phone and pretend to have been conversing with someone? Should I just smile and wave? 

I chose the latter. 

When I went outside onto my porch, Takut followed me and took up his station on the mat in front of the door. The young woman was just leaving for work, hair dry now, dancing in the breeze, shining in the sunlight, beginning an engaging conversation of its own, as articulate--no, more so than words. 

"Is the dog sick?" she said, pausing by the front gate, smiling, amber eyes as lively as lion cubs.

"Sick? Well … he's pretty beat up, pretty ragged, pretty old, losing his fur as so many old dogs do. But sick? No, I don't think he's sick. He seems happy enough. 

"Hmm," she said doubtfully. But then again, maybe she wasn't really asking about the dog after all. 

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