Beware the sounds of silence
Caring for dogs or puppies in your home is a sensory-intensive experience. There is fur or hair, soft or bristly to touch. The moist sensation of being licked — out of nervousness, or love, or who-knows-why, just get ready, tongue ‘n’ snoot comin’ atcha. The scents, of varying intensity – no explanation needed there. Then there are the sounds.
The clicks, growls and purrs of puppies, dogs and one cat are what make my house sing, without me having to orchestrate. Sometimes I try to capture the best sounds: months ago I pushed “Record” on my smart phone, standing in my basement, while the mini-stampede of two puppy siblings chasing after the same toy thundered along the hardwood floor in the bedroom directly above. The recording only captured whatever was quietly humming in my basement at that time. But I sure enjoyed the heck out of the live percussion concert, above.
I’ve tried to record Gogo, my very good boy, doing his signature falsetto mini-howls in his sleep. Sometimes it escalates into a full-throated, mature and mournful howl. How he does that without waking himself up, I’ll never know. But he’s been doing it for as long as I’ve known him. I’ll never get tired of it. Alas, I’ll never get a good recording of it, either; I’m just not that quick with the function buttons on my phone. My active listening takes over, and my fingers fail.
You get used to the sounds of the critters chewing, drinking, scratching their favorite things. Gogo drinking from his water bowl (a one-gallon Pyrex bowl; I needed something too heavy for him to knock over when he was a puppy — don’t judge us) sounds a bit like what you’d expect to hear when a bison bellies up to the watering hole. Maybe without the snorting. When Octavia, the new recruit, drinks from the same bowl, it sounds like a gently trickling stream. Either way, I can tell from two rooms away that my animals are hydrating themselves. And that’s good.
Then there are the sounds of the critters chewing, drinking and scratching my favorite things. And that’s usually not good. Here are some of the sounds I’ve learned, some in time to intervene:
A bamboo and cotton item, previously known as a coaster, being pulverized;
The soft squish-‘n’-squeak of my leather clog as it is being taste-tested by a medium-sized dog;
The thud of a 12.5-oz metal cat food can hitting the rug after being dropped from dog-mouth height, 20′ away from its usual storage shelf; followed by gentle rolling sounds;
The r-r-rip of a guest-dog’s plush squeak toy being eviscerated by the host dog who, for good reason, is not given plush toys any more;
The light, quick steps of the guest dog sneaking into the host dog’s crate to have a snooze while no one is looking;
And the most dangerous sound of all when you’re home with all your animals: silence.
It’s easy not to notice silence, at first. One might be busy, say, writing a blog post, and not realize that there are no bone-gnawing, cardboard-clawing or other wholesome activities going on. And heck, they might be sleeping.
But then you go and poke your head into the silent bedroom where two 8-week-old puppies were napping, last time you checked. And see: nothing. And hear: nothing. Or, one is running up and down the floor along the edge of the bed, yapping, and the other one is…not there. Not making a peep.
In the case of Remo and Ruthie, my recent dynamic duo, that meant that once again, one of them* had figured out a way past all the baffles and barricades I put up to block them from going under the guest bed. Did you know, when you’re six inches tall, and weigh less than ten pounds, what the underside of a full-size bed looks like? The most awesome playground you’ve ever seen. And do you now what puppies like to do in their awesome playgrounds? Poop. And pee. Every chance they get. Every. Chance. Oh, and for reference: those extra boxes and other smooth surfaces you shoved under there to keep the varmints out? They make great pooping surfaces, too. And their sound-dampening properties just can’t be beat.
On the bright side, active silence is how you know that they know they’re not supposed to do that. So you have some good behavioral material to work with. They have been listening, up to a point. The elaborate positive-reinforcement parties I threw for Remo and Ruthie every time they pooped someplace good were pretty impressive, if I may say so. They helped. I…think.
Remo and Ruthie moved out before they’d convincingly learned not to poop under the bed. By then I’d also invested a roll of duck tape, three pieces of scrap plywood, several wood screws (to screw the boards directly into the box spring frame), some para-cord, two pieces of metal crate dividers, and a heavy dose of my time and dignity, to block temptation. They have now each been adopted by loving families.
As I write this conclusion, I can hear Octavia chewing a delicious bone nearby, and Gogo snoring away in his bed. Oh, wait — I just heard the flap-flap-flap of ears-on-noggin. Gogo’s awake. His belly must know it’s 5:05 pm. Time for supper!
*Remo, I know it was you, you little bugger. I forgive you.
Puppies are Jerks 