Born to Bark

by Stanley Coren

  Norma motioned to me and we stepped out of the bedroom, while Jennifer came over and sat on the edge of the bed next to her grandmother.

  “This is a miracle,” she said wiping tears from her eyes. “She hadn’t said more than a dozen words since I brought her here. This is wonderful. But where can I get a Cairn terrier as quickly as tomorrow?”

  “On the off chance that Flint’s visit might be helpful, I contacted a local Cairn terrier breeder named Glen,” I said.

  I had originally met Glen when Flint had scored a rare high in class at an obedience trial. Glen had been impressed at seeing a Cairn terrier do well in obedience, but he was quite unimpressed by Flint’s looks. “His back is too long, his ears are set too close, and his tail is set too high. Listen, for your next Cairn come to me so that people who love the breed can take pride in a Cairn doing well in obedience who is not quite so badly put together,” he told me.

  I continued, “Glen told me that he has an 18-month-old gray Cairn that he was keeping as a possible show dog. However, his coat never came in quite the way that he wanted, so he was willing to sell it. That way you’ll get a dog that is a young adult and already housebroken, which should make things easier. Anyway, that is one possibility to consider since I don’t think you want the hassle of starting with a puppy for your mother.”

  Norma nodded and we went back into the room. Jennifer was still sitting on the bed next to Alice. Both were petting Flint and they were murmuring something to each other. Alice looked up and nodded at us. Norma smiled and said, “Dr. Coren and Flint have to go now, but tomorrow we’ll get you a new Snuffy.”

  Flint turned to look at me and I signaled for him to come. Jennifer got up and came over to me. She gave me a hug and whispered “Thank you. I think that she is back with us.”

  As Flint and I sat together in the car on the way home, I started talking to him. Just because he couldn’t hear me made no difference, since he always seemed to know that I was speaking to him and he would look at my face attentively.

  “You’re a good psychotherapist,” I said, glancing in his direction. “I was worried when everything started falling over and making all of that noise. I was afraid that you would get upset and ruin the mood. I suppose that it’s proved to be a blessing that you are mostly deaf, because it meant you weren’t spooked by all of that commotion.”

  The old familiar voice answered me, “Yes, just call me Sigmund Cairn, the world’s greatest canine therapist. You know being deaf isn’t such a bad thing for a psychotherapist. Most of them don’t listen to what their patients say anyway.”

  A month or so later I received a “thank you” note addressed to Flint and me. Inside was a photograph of Alice sitting on a large rocking chair. On her lap was a handsome gray Cairn terrier and she was smiling warmly at it. The “thank you” note was signed Jennifer, Norma, Alice, and Snuffy.

  CHAPTER 25

  SUNSET

  My father once said that when you own a dog and observe his life, you learn that it is possible to grow old with grace and dignity. Flint never did anything gracefully or with dignity, however. Although he slept more than he used to, when he was awake he could still careen around the house as if he were putting out wildfires, barking when Wizard indicated that there was something to be barked at, and chasing glints of light or flickering shadows that might be rodents or other vermin that needed the attention of the great gray hunter.

  Still, Flint now moved a bit more stiffly and was not quite as quick or agile as he used to be. One evening he had difficulty jumping up on the bed. While Wiz slept every night curled tightly against me, Flint only came up on the bed to rest against my legs for the first hour or so of each night. Sometime after I was asleep he would hop off and spend the rest of the night on a floor pillow that I kept in the bedroom for him. If the night were particularly cold, I would sometimes find him on the bed when I awakened, where he had curled up in a nest that he had made of the blankets.

  The fact that he could not climb or jump up to the bed bothered me enough that I couldn’t go to sleep, so I went down to the basement and constructed a step and covered it with a scrap of carpeting. Then I went back upstairs and put the step near the foot of my side of the bed, called Flint over, and gave the step a little tap. He looked at it for a moment, then stepped up on it and then to the bed. He then proceeded to lie down in his usual place with an audible sigh.

  In the morning the alarm clock went off and we got up. Joannie swung off of her side of the bed and as she moved toward the door, of course, she tripped on Flint’s new step, nearly falling in the process.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “Just a step,” I said. “Flint was having trouble making it up to the bed last night.”

  She gave a little snort and replied, “So if he has trouble biting me, you’ll give him some false teeth as well?”

  Flint’s mind was still sharp and capable of finding novel solutions to problems. Because Flint could no longer hear the scratching and scrabbling sounds made by mice when they found their way into the house, the number of dead mice that we found diminished until we rarely found them.

  One evening we were out at our farm, which used to be Flint’s prime vermin-hunting area. We were still living in the little shack, since Joannie was taking courses on house building and designing the new house, and we could not quite afford to build it yet. The little shack was a great place to catch mice, since it did not have a proper foundation but simply stood over a crawl space with the wooden floor about a foot or so above the bare ground, and there were gaps in the floor and the baseboards that gave the rodents easy access to the house.

  I had just put out food for the dogs’ evening meal, which normally they virtually inhaled in a minute or two. This particular night Flint did something very odd. He finished all of the food in his bowl except for one piece of kibble. He then picked that kibble up in his mouth, moved to a corner of the kitchen, and spat it out on the floor. He then moved across the room and lay down staring at the piece of food.

  Wiz noticed this behavior, and opportunistically moved toward the corner to grab this last edible bit, but a low rumbling growl from Flint caused him to change his mind and to put some distance between himself and the dropped morsel. Flint was still staring at the place where he had dropped the kibble when Joan and I went to bed that night.

  In the morning we woke up and there was a dead mouse in the kitchen with a broken neck—the clear sign that Flint had dispatched it. Over a number of subsequent nights Flint would continue to leave a bit of kibble in that corner after each evening meal. It was seldom there in the morning. However, now and then we would again find dead mice indicating that Flint was on the hunt again.

  Late one night, I was having difficulty sleeping because of a headache and decided to get up and take a couple of aspirin. As I walked out of the bedroom, there was Flint, lying on the floor, staring at the corner where he had dropped the piece of kibble that night. I was about to say something to him when I glimpsed some motion in the corner. Flint shot from his position to the corner, and after two shakes of his head we had another dead mouse. Flint was baiting a trap by placing a bit of kibble in a corner where there was a gap in the baseboard. He had figured out that, if he couldn’t hear the mice, he could still see them and catch them if he knew where they would appear and if they stopped for a moment to nibble a bit of kibble. It didn’t always work, because sometimes he would fall asleep and miss the rodent’s arrival, but it did work well enough to allow him to continue his hunting at least out on the farm.

  Some aging humans tend to become more religious and spiritual, although to the best of my knowledge no one has ever observed such behavior in dogs. There was one moment, however, when I thought that it might have applied to Flint.

  It was a summer night out at the farm, and there was one of those big full moons, such as you find only in paintings. Joannie had been working in the garden all day and had decided to go to sleep early. While she was g
etting ready for bed, I wandered out on the wooden platform that served as a deck behind the little house. I had a can of beer and had just settled into a chair when I noticed Flint staring at the moon. His back was toward me and he sat unmoving with his head tilted up for a long time. Then he did something that I had never before seen him do. He leaned back his head and gave a long and mournful howl. He was still howling when Joan opened the screen door. She was in her nightgown and she asked, “What’s he doing?”

  “I think that he has had a religious epiphany and is singing some kind of prayer,” I said.

  “For which religion would that be?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe the First Church of the Domestic Canine? They have a rich and complex dogma, I’m told.”

  Joannie smiled and disappeared back in the house.

  I don’t know if Flint’s god heard him that night, but the local coyotes certainly did. From a distance I could hear them answering with their familiar yip howls. Within a few moments a veritable chorus of howls was drifting across the field. Sadly, Flint could not hear the musical performance that he had triggered and after a minute or two of further singing he stopped and trotted back to lie down beside me. The wild canine choral continued for several more minutes and drifted away.

  “Do you think that your prayer was successful?” I quietly asked him.

  His silly voice answered, “God appreciates a good tenor.”

  When we were back in the city again. I was looking forward to a three-day (Friday, Saturday, and Sunday) dog show. Flint was not in competition, but Wizard was, and I was planning to take both dogs out to the show Friday afternoon. Flint loved to socialize at dog shows, and all of my friends from the dog club would be there for me to socialize with as well.

  That Thursday night Flint did not try to climb onto the bed but lay on one of the floor pillows, whimpering and shaking. He had eaten his dinner heartily, and had seemed to be all right early in the evening. Concerned, I carefully ran my hands over his body, prodding and pushing gently to see if a specific place was sore. He didn’t seem to be in real pain, but to be feeling some kind of general discomfort. I thought that he might just be suffering from some sort of muscle pain from overexerting himself after some vigorous play with our next door neighbor’s little girl, Clara, that afternoon. I gave him a half an aspirin and some water and promised to take him to the veterinarian in the morning.

  Wizard actually seemed to be more concerned than I was. He stood close to Flint and whined a bit, looking at me and then back to my gray dog. Finally, he walked over to the corner where some clothing was lying on the floor (because the clothes hamper was over full as usual). He rooted around and eventually pulled out one of my sweatshirts. He dragged it over to Flint and, by tugging and pushing with his paws, arranged it like a blanket over him. Flint watched him but otherwise he didn’t move or try to shake it off. Then Wiz lay down, with his body touching Flint as if to provide some of his own biological warmth for his friend. He stayed there for the whole night and never came to bed with me, either.

  In the morning Flint appeared to be a lot better, although he was moving a bit slowly. He ate his breakfast—which I considered to be a good sign. Nonetheless, I still wanted to take him to the vet, just to be sure that there was no serious problem.

  We went out to my car, and Flint hopped up onto the front passenger seat as he always did when Joan was not with us. He then stretched out on the seat. As we drove I looked out at the bright sunshine that looked like it was coating the world with a yellow butterscotch glow, and I assured him, “You and Wiz will get a really good walk this afternoon in that park near the dog show. We have sunshine predicted for the whole weekend.” Flint’s only response was a single whimper, which could have meant anything.

  I pulled up in front of the veterinarian’s office. I noticed that Flint did not pop up in anticipation of leaving the car the way that he always did before. When I went around to his side and opened the door, he seemed to be unconscious and unresponsive. I felt a surge of panic. I quickly lifted him in my arms and raced into the vet’s office. His receptionist looked up at me and I barked, “Kay, please get Dr. Moore right away!”

  She jumped up, threw open the door to the examining room, and gestured for me to go in. A moment later the vet appeared. He ran his hands over Flint’s unmoving body, then he grabbed a stethoscope. A minute or two later he dropped his hands to his sides, looked at me, and said simply, “I’m sorry.”

  “He was fine this morning,” I blubbered.

  “He was getting old, and he’s gone now,” was all that he said.

  I looked at that old gray grizzled face and noticed tear tracks running down his muzzle. I had no doubt in my mind at that moment that he had been quietly weeping during our short ride here. I certainly also knew that there were matching tear tracks running down my face.

  I stood outside the vet’s office. I was in shock. I looked down at the leash and collar in my hand—a leash attached to nothing and an empty collar. I remember that what had been soft sweet sunshine on the way here now cast a hard yellow light that made the world look as if it had suddenly turned to cold unyielding brass.

  I have no recollection of the ride home. I just remember opening the door to the house and having Joannie look up at me with distress in her eyes and ask “What’s wrong?”

  “Flint …” I was finding it hard to breathe, hard to talk. “Flint … My Flint … He won’t be back.”

  Joan rushed over and put her arms around me. Joan might have really wanted to dance in the street at the news that Flint was gone, having lived in such a state of cold war with him for so long. She might have made a cold or cutting comment to express her relief that a being that had stressed her so had died. But she was my Joannie, and she loved me miles above the level of her distress with my dog. So she quietly held me and repeated over and over, “I know how much you loved him.”

  Eventually, I got control of myself. I was still clutching Flint’s leash and collar, and my fingers were stiff as I dropped them on the table. I went into the bathroom and washed my face and tried some deep breathing to get back to normal.

  When I returned to the living room I called Wizard over to me. The touch of his soft fur was comforting. I then hooked a leash onto his collar and picked up the small satchel that contained the various bits of equipment and supplies that I used for dog shows.

  “Where are you going?” Joan asked with concern.

  “I have a dog show to go to,” I said, and was surprised at how hoarse my voice was.

  “Do you think that that is wise? I mean, being at an obedience competition is just going to remind you so much of him and it may hurt worse.”

  I gave Joan a hug and said, “You know I love you, but I need to be with people who not only knew him but feel the way that I do about him.”

  She gave a thin, sad smile and said, “If it does get difficult, just come home early. I do know how much you loved him.” She leaned her head against mine and whispered softly, “And you should know how much I love you.”

  A bit less than an hour later I arrived at the show. Wizard had sat the whole time on the passenger seat, which he used to share with Flint. We didn’t talk, but I often reached over to stroke his fine soft fur. When we entered the arena, Shirley and both Barbaras were sitting next to the obedience ring and, as I walked toward them, Shirley bolted from her chair and came to me.

  “What’s wrong? You look like a truck ran over you.”

  I told her that Flint was gone, and was surprised that I could do it without my voice breaking and without releasing the surge of emotion that I couldn’t hide from Joannie a short time ago. Both Barbaras got up and crowded close. They asked what had happened and I told them.

  Barbara Merkley then quietly said, “He must have loved you very much to go that quickly and to not put you in the position of making that final choice for him,” then she gave me a hug.

  Someone had pulled up a chair for me and someone else brought me a
cup of coffee. We sat quietly talking. Everyone had a Flint story to tell and all were funny accounts of his random and oddly thought-out behavior. As various people came over to say hello and learned about his passing they added their own personal observations about him.

  Every dog who has shared my life has had its own character with its strengths and foibles. Each had a story and each added its experiences to my way of thinking and my personal psychological make-up. Before Flint, however, the influence of each dog had been confined to the area within the walls of my house and the people living there. Dogs are not suns that radiate their light over vast distances, but rather candles that illuminate the small spaces in which we live—the spaces in which we feel. When they are gone, only those who lived in their limited light recognize that the world has become a bit darker. It was, therefore, a great comfort to me to see that many people had noted Flint’s presence, even if just in little observations or amusing scraps of memory. I don’t recall if I actually competed with Wiz that day, but I felt somewhat healed and in control by the time that I returned home.

  Later that night I had a dream. In it Flint is lying beside the gates of Heaven and an angel comes out to ask him why he didn’t come in. In a voice that I don’t remember giving to him ever before my gray dog answers, “Can’t I just stay out here awhile? I’ll be good and I won’t even bark. You see, I’m waiting for someone that I miss very much. If I went in alone it wouldn’t be Heaven for me.”

  I woke from that dream to find tears on my face, and when I went to wipe them off, Wizard, who had been lying beside me, sat up and began to lick the wetness from my face. In my mind I heard him talking to me in that quiet voice that I had long ago given to him, “It will be all right. I am here for you. Rest easy—before he went away Flint left me instructions on what to do.”