Doggie Blog…Stevenson Style No. 4 by Gabrielle Stevenson
No. 4 – No Talking Back
Stanley had a hurt paw/leg/shoulder recently. It was frustrating not knowing exactly what was wrong, but by the way the long-board Pyrenees was walking, it was quite obvious that there WAS a problem.
After two trips to the vet, (at the price of a hefty car payment and then some) I was told that it was a combination of things, give him some steroids and see what happens next.
Ummmm… OK? That’s all you got?
The frustration mounted because it took a few days to figure out if the treatment was working.
See, Stanley doesn’t speak. (Except when you rub his ears a certain way, but that’s more of a garbled murmur of true love and appreciation of knuckles hitting THAT spot…. JUST right. But for purposes of this post, let’s just stick with the “dogs can’t talk” theory and move on.)
Therefore, Stanley couldn’t tell us where it hurt and whether we were on the right track. When it comes to this type of limp/injury, it was a waiting game.
Patient, I am not.
At least three times I caught myself saying… Oh, how I wish he could just TALK to me and TELL me where it hurts!
I always think that when Stanley or Lucy do a funny head tilt, jump up and down outside the norm (the words “ride,” “walk,” and “c-h-i-c-k-e-n” elicit jumping, for obvious reasons, but other times I’m stumped). When they have discomfort or injuries I always think about how great it would be to hear their thoughts.
If only they could communicate like humans!
And then I think… do I REALLY want them to be able to talk? I mean…. They really are the inner circle of the Stevenson household.
Them not being able to communicate is an issue until, well…. until you have DANCE NIGHT at the Stevenson house. At least once a week I find myself putting together some random playlist, or just finding my groove to a well-placed song on the radio (yep, I sure DO still listen to regular FM radio) and I just dance away.
Wine is almost always involved, but after a few failed experiments, wine glasses are no longer used as faux microphones. That’s a great thing because it’s easier to try and catch Lucy before she hides under the bed for fear of being my dance partner when you have two free hands.
My outfits are made for comfort, not style. And Dance Night usually happens after a shower and once jammies and slippers are on. That’s just how I roll, which is a good way to describe most of my “moves” I’m guessing.
Stanley and Lucy know I’m a terrible singer. They know I dance in my undies and haven’t changed my “moves” since “90s on 9” was current top 40 hits.
They know exactly when Ted makes me a complete insane person for both good and bad reasons. They know when I exercise and they certainly know when I have come up with yet another lame excuse to avoid the treadmill. They know my bookshelves are filled with classics that I have read, but will always prefer Grisham, Brown and other page-turning authors that did all the thinking for you well in advance.
They know everything!
Do I really want them talking? Could they be trusted?
Would my actions and I be held to secrecy as long as the Vanilla Woofer treats held out? As long as the walks were a certain time and distance daily? I already pick up their poop by hand with the thinnest plastic bags known to man. What’s next?
Oh, I can only imagine Lucy’s demands. She and I have been together for nine years. She has been my miniature, furry sidekick through life-changing career moves, hysterical dinners, awkward dates and trips all over the country.
She’s a great pal. But she is pretty high maintenance and is obsessed with c-h-i-c-k-e-n (I spell it out even in writing… she’s THAT good and I can’t risk a c-h-i-c-k-e-n standoff right now). The treats, the breast meat, the smells… heck… I can put c-h-i-c-k-e-n broth on old, stale dog food and she would eat it like a champ.
Could my little addict be trusted?
Humans often mess up basic communication or take it for granted all together. Who knows what would come out of the mouths of not just any dogs, but my dogs? Heaven forbid they have their own blog.
It scares me a little to think of what they know and what they WOULD say if they COULD talk. But it always scares me much more not knowing what pains them, what bothers them and what they need.
I’m pretty sure I would risk the secrets of Dance Night and Pants Free Sundays just to hear a few things rolling around their furry heads. But I’m not a total fool. I’d have extra Vanilla Woofers on standby, just in case.