Syntax and Grammar

Traditional wisdom would have it that "man," or humans, are the most intelligent life form on earth. We, the humans, believe that our larger brains (relative to body mass, dolphins and whales actually have bigger brains) confer us with greater intelligence. I would point to simple behavioral attributes of humans – war, pestilence, environmental degradation – and make the case that perhaps brain size is overrated, but I digress.

Language is often pointed to as the coup d'état proving man's superiority to beasts. Surely, if animals were so smart we argue, they would develop language, but alas, they don't. We shake our heads at their sweet but dumb simplicity. Poor things.

I've lived with wolves in my parlor for many years. Initially, I appreciated how they learned a little English with their inferior canine brains: sit, down, stay, and occasionally, when they wanted to, come. Oh, yeah, and w-a-l-k, c-a-r, and g-o. And then alk-way, ar-cay, and o-gay. Not that they were smart or anything, learning to interpret spoken and spelled English as a second language not only across culture but across species.

As time went by, we noticed we were spelling more words as our dumb dogs' English vocabularies grew. I noticed that I could say things like "Go find Maya," and Nicholai would dash to the car, seeming to understand we'd need to drive to Maya's house to find her. It seemed a lot to put together for an inferior mind and I became more impressed with the dogs' understanding of our language. On many a w-a-l-k with Nicholai, he appeared to read my mind, reacting to my thoughts even when we were not connected by a leash. Once I noticed a dark hooded figure skulking along the edge of the brush in the distance. Nicholai was sniffing driftwood about two hundred feet away from me, but at the moment I decided the mysterious person was suspicious, he lifted his head and glanced not toward me, but toward the figure, and raised his hackles. I imagined he felt a molecular shift in my energy or smelled a change in my chemistry, but how did he know about the dubious character? Not via language as we tend to think of it, but it seemed pretty sophisticated communication.

I began to observe the dogs more closely – their interactions with each other as well as with us. They don't use words like we do, but goodness me, they utilize countless variations of motion and stance, ear placement, eye direction, tail carriage, woof, ruff, bark, whine, and growl. A deaf man once commented to me (in sign language) that people with normal hearing have a repertoire of body language and facial expression roughly equivalent to a wooden Indian, relying heavily, as we do, on the spoken word. With a chuckle, I remembered his comment as I watched Nicholai communicate with my non-dog owning brother one day during a Christmas visit.

Joe plunked down on the couch and set a large blueberry muffin on the end table beside him. Nicholai trotted over and sat squarely in front of Joe, facing him. I didn't pay much attention, reading a book in a rocking chair nearby. After a couple of minutes, my brother asked with a nervous chuckle, "Uh, Mary, why is Nicholai staring at me?" Raising my eyes over my book, I looked at Nicholai. Joe looked at me with raised eyebrows and a shrug.

Nicholai sat erect and purposeful, staring at Joe. His gaze was soft, his ears alert, but relaxed. His tail wagged gently on the floor behind him; "I come in peace, but with a purpose" by all accounts. He stared at Joe's face, then raised one eyebrow and flicked his eyes toward the end table, subtle, but unmistakable; then lowered the eyebrow and returned his gaze to Joe. I laughed out loud. "Joe, you're smart," I said. "You're a scientist, you figure it out." I went back to my book. A moment later, I heard Joe laugh. "Ohh. He wants my muffin. Should I give him some?" "Entirely up to you."

Nicholai's meaning was crystal clear, syntax, grammar, even etiquette appeared present. So I wonder, do animals really not use language, or are we – like the stereotypical hearing person – just too "wooden" in our approach to see any language other than our own?

 

 

Threads

What is it that some of us love about animals so much? Why do I, a college-educated professional and parent, find my heart so deeply intertwined with the lives and hearts of animals? I could move on to contemplate more important things leaving Nicholai's life behind; he was after all, just a dog.

There's the fact that we need animals to live. For millennia they've provided humans with food and clothing, and in the most recent tens of thousands of years, with working partnerships in hunting, herding, and protection. We've domesticated some animals and formed alliances with other once-wild animals to our mutual benefit. So, I guess the first answer is simple. Even if we don't eat animals, we still need them to live.

I depend on animals for more. Whether I'm feeding the squirrels in the back yard (a plentiful population, especially without a prey-driven black dog guarding the perimeter), clucking at the chickens with left over corn-on-the-cob in hand, observing a spiny reptilian bearded dragon lounging on a rock, or enjoying a snuggle on the couch with my favorite canine companions, there is soul feeding that goes on for me. Each of these critters, wild and domestic, captive and free, connects me to the complicated labyrinth of the living world, removing me – if just for a moment – from the world created solely by and for humans. When life seems ridiculous in its difficulty and unfair in meting out challenges and blessings; when words and expectations pollute candid exchange of emotions between people, I find solace in the honest company of animal companions. Their unconditional love weaves me firmly into the world by shining threads; strands so slim as to evade notice, but strong as steel and silk.

A quilt hangs in our dining room stitching connection between lives over distance; threads speaking quietly of movement across seasons and years and decades. The quilt's maker was once a friend but our ships sailed apart long ago. Yesterday I learned she committed suicide just a few days ago. I have no knowledge of the struggles and pain that guided her hand and after five and a half decades of living, no arrogance with which to judge her actions. Only a tender awareness of fibers tugging at my viscera and a fleeting image of filmy white cotton fluttering in the breeze.

I've questioned the value of my individual life, wondered at the worth of putting one foot in front of another in the hardest of my times. I am grateful for the wordless love of plain dogs. Love that anchors my feet to grassy fields and sandy beaches, weaves my heart to the first crocuses of spring and the last crimson leaf of fall, entwines my arms in furry hugs, and knits wet-nosed kisses firmly to my cheek each morning.

Most days, life enthralls me in all its color and complexity. But on some days, the filaments of love offered by a dog are pretty much what get me through.

 

 

 

 

Brother Dog

"Oh Nicholai, I loved you so-o-,

I wonder why, you had to go-o-o.

I feel so lonely now that you're gone,

Oh Nicholai, why did you go?"

The home-made tune wafted to me over air rushing through partly open car windows and whining girl-dogs as we sped along the highway to the Sandy River. Blue sky overhead, sunshine, tennis balls, and a plastic bucket for berry-picking, we were set for a lovely upbeat morning. I joined Tim in his ode to a Dead Dog, my heart light. After a couple repeats, we sank into silence except for the panting of the girls, their eyes on the road ahead, quivering with anticipation.

"We're almost there; could you grab the balls please?" No answer from my talkative-to-a-fault kid. A glance in the rear view mirror showed a sobbing nine-year-old. I reached my hand between the seats. "Oh, bub," I said. "I'm sorry, I miss him too."

"I don't feel as brave as when he was here. Even if he was away with you, I still felt braver than I feel now." More sobs. "I've known for almost my whole life, he was my brother!" What can I say? "Why did he have to die too soon?" Hell if I know. "I hope he waits in Heaven for me to get there; I hope he doesn't go away."

When Tim came to live with us, he was three and a half years old and we constituted his ninth home. That's right – nine homes in three years. Birth parents, foster homes, a failed adoptive home, more foster homes. He was the poster child for attachment problems and at the tender age of three, came with a warning – "can be cruel to animals." Into our household he came, where not only a sibling but four dogs greeted him. Over weeks and months of trials and tribulations, we struggled to gain his confidence and rebuild the trust so severely broken before we ever met him. We supervised every canine-child moment for fear of harm one way or another. Then one day as Tim cried heartfelt tears over lost families, he recited a litany of names – every lost dog and cat family member since he had conscious memory. I was struck with the realization that his "cruelty" was born of the need to repel the instant and deep connection animals offered him. Experience had shown him clearly that forging bonds of love was a wasted effort, doomed only to heartbreak. Hence the pushing, shoving, kicking – keeping those damned critters out of his bruised, but not entirely broken, heart.

Our dogs won him over, one by one. And now, one by one, he's had to say good bye, not as he's shuttled to another home, but as his dogblings take their final and inevitable curtain calls. His open grief over losing his brother and protector Nicholai is a yardstick by which I can see how far he's come in the heart department.

We held hands and sang another verse to Brother Dog.

"Oh Nicholai up in the sky,

Watch over us with your loving eye.

Don't forget us, though we're left behind,

And please wait for us wherever you are."

 

 

 

Maltese?

I'm trying to square memories of Nicholai with images of diminutive white fluff balls called "Maltese." Lapdogs of royalty for centuries, it's impossible for me to find a remnant of this 4-7 pound doglet in my nearly hundred pound personal protector and rabbit eater. Maltese – really?

Don't get me wrong, I find lapdogs cute and cuddly. I imagine one day in a few decades a petite canine will be the perfect companion for this will-be old lady. The thing is, Nicholai was a great big, burly, wild, watchful, sometimes fierce, large, black buddy. How would a Maltese ever get in there? It just wouldn't be right.

The other oddity is that we knew Nicholai's parentage on the maternal side. Mom was what any person with half an education in dog breeds would label a "pitbull." And while pitbull is more a type than a strict breed, with lots of breed tweaking going on in back yards, I doubt any breeder of pitbulls anywhere at any time added a dab of Maltese to his or her line of dogs. I suppose the Dachshund might have gotten together with the Maltese over a back fence somewhere back in the ancestral lineage – at least it is a physical possibility.

We laughed about it when Nicholai was here, so implausible it seemed that he was descended from a pocket-sized prince of a toy dog. I know genetics are complicated and genes might or might not express themselves for generations, showing up as a blue eye, or a curled tail, or a splash of white in a black coat.

Mostly moot now that he's gone, we just chuckle at how Maltese Nicholai wasn't.