Lexi's Outing

I don't often write about my twelve-year-old German Shepherd, Lexi, because these days she's mostly quiet. This is not to say that she is inactive, however: she amuses herself during the day by playing invisible power games with the other dogs. She parks herself in certain spots in the kitchen or living room and suddenly I'll hear either Wolfie or Bisou give a pathetic whine and I'll go see what's wrong and they're standing on the other side of Lexi, "trapped," even though there is plenty of room to go around her. I don't know how she does this, because she isn't growling or giving any outward sign that I can read. It must be her aura.

Lexi is in good health, except for the fact that her musculoskeletal system is falling apart--arthritis in the hips, the elbow, the knee, the spine. So every six weeks she and I go on an outing, to the vet. This involves getting out the heavy dog ramp, unfolding it, leaning one end against the edge of the cargo compartment of the Subaru, then telling Lexi that no, she can't jump into the car, she must use the ramp. Once she's settled, I take down the unwieldy contraption, fold it while trying not to catch my fingers in it, put it in the back seat, and we're on our way.
Lexi loves going to this vet, who started out as an "ordinary" vet and then decided to specialize in chiropractic and acupuncture. She is a soft-spoken, slow-moving young woman who always tells Lexi what she is about to do and shows her what she is going to do it with, namely, the acupuncture needles.

First, however, she has Lexi get up onto a low, towel-covered platform and goes over her entire body with her hands. Then, slowly and gently, using the thumb and little finger of one hand while supporting Lexi's belly with the other (Lexi has trouble standing for long periods), she adjusts Lexi's spine. Meanwhile I'm holding Lexi's head, and she and I gaze into each other's eyes, and generate oxytocin.
Then the needles go in, and Lexi is allowed to lie down and, as the vet puts it, "cook" for a while. For the next ten or fifteen minutes, the vet and I sit on either side of Lexi--I on the floor, the vet on the platform--talking idly of dogs or politics. But most of the time we are silent, and focused on Lexi. And under our combined gaze Lexi seems to expand, and takes on a kind of glow. Part of it is the action of the needles, part the anticipation of the fabulous treats that the vet dispenses at the end of the session. But I think that it is being the focus of our relaxed and caring attention that transforms Lexi every time.

Strangely, by the time the needles come out I feel as if I've undergone some kind of therapy myself. I put Lexi back in the car and drive home through the Mettowee Valley, looking at the cows, watching out for cyclists, wondering if the farmers got enough hay in to last the winter. At home Wolfie and Bisou, who have forgiven us for leaving them behind, throw themselves into our arms. I eat my lunch, and Lexi carefully lowers herself down in one of her power spots, and takes a nap.

Growing Into His Name

Wolfie's real name is Wolfgang, but we call him "Wolfie," pronounced the way Constanze says it to her husband in Amadeus: Voool-fie.

Like Constanze's husband, our Wolfie in his early years has been a bit of a goofball. He has a great big head, broad paws, long tail, and a narrow body that could use a set of shoulder pads. German Shepherds mature slowly, and at age three Wolfie still has some pup-like traits about him. This is especially obvious in contrast with twelve-year-old Lexi, the dowager, who is all about dignity, domination, and dinner. When I let them outside, Wolfie hunches down before her, ears back, tail wagging low, hoping that she will, for old times' sake, give him a run for his money. But Lexi has left all that foolishness behind.

Now Wolfie has a new friend, a massive six-month-old German Shepherd puppy, a male, and what I have seen between them has taught me a great deal about dog manners and mores. When Wolfie and the pup are loose in the meadow, Wolfie is always the chaser, and the puppy always get caught. And every time he is caught he is rolled by Wolfie, and while I apologize to his owner the puppy comes up smiling, begging to be chased again.

The most interesting interactions happen when we are walking them both on leash, side by side. Wolfie is always a little in front, looking straight ahead. The puppy trots along, stealing looks at Wolfie. Every once in a while, unable to help himself, the puppy crosses in front of me and in an ecstasy of self-abasement pokes his pointy muzzle into the corner of Wolfie's lips. And does my silly Wolfie then go bananas and leap about doing play bows, the way I expect him to? Not at all. Wolfie stands his ground, turns his head aside, and looks tolerant.

"My, doesn't Wolfie look regal!" the puppy's owner said the other day.

Regal? Wolfie? But I must admit that yes, in the presence of the young dog, Wolfie has suddenly acquired a new dignity. Pretty soon, we'll have to start calling him Wolfgang.

Snapshot

Bisou is digging a tunnel to get at something under my dresser. I get down on my hands and knees, retrieve her beloved purple teddy bear, and hand it to her. Joyfully she delivers her killing bite and gives the bear a shake for good measure.

Wolfie walks up and delicately picks up a well-chewed bone fragment. Keeping his eye on Bisou, to make sure she's watching, he walks out into the the hallway. Bisou drops the bear and runs after Wolfie. A moment later, Bisou is gnawing on the bone. This kind of thing happens every morning.

English As A Second Language

I spent a lot of years teaching Romance Languages to English-speakers. Now I'm teaching English As A Second Language to my Cavalier King Charles puppy, Bisou.

She came to us at the age of nine weeks already fluent in Dog. Despite looking like she belonged to a different species from my two German Shepherds (pendulous ears, shortish nose, red coat) from day one she fit seamlessly into their society. She understood the (to me) invisible and inaudible warnings from Lexi that told her not to trespass in certain (to me) mysterious areas of the living room. She knew she could leap up endlessly to bite Wolfie's muzzle, but that at certain points in the dialogue she must flip over like an omelette and lie very still on her back. She understood, without the need of a single growl or snap, that she was never to wander over to the big dogs' feeding bowls at dinner time.

Dog is mostly a silent language, composed of signs and subtle moves. A few gifted humans understand a small percentage of these. In Dog, I am at the phrase-book stage—about the same level as Bisou's grasp of English As A Second Language.

She is making progress though. She knows “waitttt!” and “sitttt!” and “outside” and “inside” and “do your business!” followed by “good girl!” and “treat!” She knows “come!” but sometimes pretends she's forgotten. She knows her name, with variations: “Bisou, Beez, Bisoulette.”

As in all elementary classes, I try to keep things simple. “Toy” for the moment must stand for “bone, ball, and tiny bear.” Discriminating among bone, ball, and bear will come in the advanced stages. Her vocabulary right now is composed mostly of nouns, and of verbs in the imperative.

Given the nature of our relationship with dogs, the verbs will continue to be mostly in the imperative. (Most of my utterances to Wolfie are imperatives: get in the car, bring me the sheep, find Bisou!) There will just be more and more of them.

But we won't stop there. Soon I'll throw in some subjunctives (if you were to have a bath you would smell better) and interrogatives (why did you jump on the sofa with muddy feet?) and she'll look at me with her big eyes and act as if she understands every word.

And she will understand every word—just not my English words, but the other ones, the ones that I transmit by posture, tone and smell, and that reveal what I really mean. The ones in Dog.