I'm Listening With a Broken Ear

by Vicky Kaseorg

  Anders is a quiet genius; his mind engaged in places not only most people cannot begin to understand, but most don’t even know exist. He is not arrogant about his intellect, but he long ago learned that most of what he cares about is totally incomprehensible to all but an elite few. He comes home to see us because I am an expert at the fine art of guilt. I think he loves us in theory. We are harder to stomach in practice. I know it is lonely and difficult for him, under the best circumstances. My suspicion is that he would not consider Honeybun to be one of those “best” circumstances.

  One of the many failures of my life is my inability to connect to him. I tried to read Technology Today and Computing magazines so that I could toss words like kernel source code, Debian packages, megabytes and gigahertz with wild abandon. It didn’t work. Like dog training, computer programming is not conquered in ten minutes. I long for the days when he was younger and we were inseparable. Back when I could still teach him things he didn’t know, before he was two, he clung to me. He is beloved to me in a way I know is as incomprehensible to him as Linux is to me. You have to be a genius to program computers and you have to be a mother to fully comprehend the depth of a mother’s love. Or God. I suspect God understands both, though I doubt He needs a computer.

  Maybe that is why He sent Honeybun my way. I am so busy clutching after children who are leaping left and right away from me that maybe it is all part of some heavenly help to untie some apron strings. Malta warned me I would learn things about myself through the dog…. Is it possible I could learn things about others too? It is true that much of my energy that was channeled into obsessing about what I could have done differently as a parent is now being channeled into how I can unscrew this screwed up dog. And I am spending a good bit of psychic energy trying to see inside the brain of an alien, uncommunicative, and troubling creature. I am learning however grudgingly to patiently read and understand behavior that seems incomprehensible.

  Could understanding Honeybun help me understand Anders, or at least how to better relate to him? There are some remarkable similarities between them. Neither talks very often…. And when they do it is difficult to exactly understand what they are saying- one speaking in a different language and the other who might as well be for all I can comprehend. Both have big brown eyes that seem to reflect a deep soul hidden by fur. Anders’ fur is now shoulder length and when he washes it, he never brushes it so it hangs in long dread locks, obscuring his face. Both spend a lot of time watching the world with what looks like frightening perception. Both seem wounded but they don’t seem to want to discuss it. Honeybun attacks. Anders withdraws. He has told me that most words are a waste of time. For someone like me who needs words to order my thoughts, it is almost impossible to know how to relate to another who finds words useless and annoying. I get the same blank look from Honeybun that I get from Anders when I wax eloquently about how they should best be civilized. Of course, he might well just say he is busy reconstructing Einstein’s theories and that is more interesting than interacting with or smiling at Mom.

  But smiling or not, Anders will be home for Christmas, and I am counting the days when I will see him again. Not just because I look forward to that day, though of course I do. I also am calculating the odds of Honeybun having some sort of miraculous conversion by then. If Anders walks in the door right now, I have little doubt that Honeybun will go straight for his throat, if she can find it through his dread locks. That will certainly make him think long and hard before coming home again, which I am not sure is on his list of top ten vacation spots as it is. What an unintended mess I have created.

  Malta’s call interrupts my pleasant thoughts when she is ten minutes away.

  “OK,” she tells me, “Have Honeybun on leash. I want you to close the screen and the wood door, but don't lock them, so that we can come in. Then here is what we need. Are you taking notes?"

  "Hang on," I say, fumbling with a pen and paper.

  "OK," I pronounce, "I am ready," feeling a flood of relief. If she is giving me detailed instructions, then she is taking the issue seriously. If she is taking it seriously, then that means there is still hope.

  "Now," explains Malta, "Take your cleanest towel and roll it into a rope.”

  "You mean a bath towel?" I ask, wanting to have everything exact.

  "No," she says, "A regular kitchen towel will do. Be sure it is a clean one."

  “Lengthwise or widthwise?”

  “Either is fine. Then put your daughter in a back room.”

  “She will want to see this,” I counter. In fact, Asherel can hardly wait. This is great fun. She has her videotape set to go. She does not seem to be approaching this whole situation with all the gravity and concern I feel it deserves. In fact, she is distinctively flippant, and enjoying all my whipping and rolling and angst-ing.

  “It will not be pretty,” warns Malta.

  “She is tough,” I insist. Asherel stands near, grinning and nodding. If she had been born in the Middle Ages, she would have been a knight fighting dragons and using them to roast marshmallows after taming them.

  “Well then,” continues Malta, “Get two of your cleanest kitchen towels. Roll them into two ropes.”

  I carefully write this down, assuming it is some sort of tool to help control Honeybun should she go into a feeding frenzy. Cognizant that Malta specified clean towels in case there are wounds, I am feeling scared.

  "Next," demands Malta, "Stuff them in your mouth and your daughter’s mouth. No matter what you see, do not speak. If you must, bite down on the towel.”

  It takes me a moment, but I have the sense to laugh.

  Malta rambles on, “I am sending Will in after he rings the doorbell twice. Leave the leash on Honeybun, but leave her loose. He will walk right in. If Honeybun bites, Will intends to defend himself. He is a skinny guy, but he packs a punch. Warn Asherel that no matter what he does, she cannot talk or scream.”

  I am back to feeling pretty nervous again, but get off the phone and pace while preparing the two towels. The dogs sense something is up. Asherel can’t wait. She claims she wants all Honeybun’s door charging aggression gone, but I think she gleefully is anticipating high drama.

  The doorbell rings. Asherel stuffs the towel in her mouth, giggling. The dogs explode as usual. Will walks in. Honeybun runs up to him, wagging and sniffing. He stalks her, arms akimbo, but she keeps wagging and trying to lick him. Then Malta enters and Honeybun joyfully greets her. I am crestfallen. She will never believe me now. May as well resign and see if I can collect unemployment for retired vicious dog rehabilitators.

  “This is normal,” says Malta, "and acceptable."

  No kidding. To Malta's credit, she assures me she doesn’t think I am lying about my dog’s reception to strangers. She recognizes that Honeybun had stayed with them for a week and thus knows them. The only way she can assess what I am experiencing when strangers come to the door is if strangers are produced. I call the two neighbors that I know would not be terrified and would trust Malta, if not me. Neither of them is home. The only neighbor available is Komer, who turns ninety next year. I don’t want to jeopardize his chances of reaching that milestone. Where are all the strangers when you need them?

  Fortunately, Honeybun has enough delinquent traits that door charging is only one of many issues Malta can work on with us, so her visit is not wasted. She notices that when we tell Honeybun to sit, she wags her tail, looks at us, and maybe, twenty seconds and three or four repeated commands later, slowly complies.

  "You are teaching her to ignore you," says the ever observant Malta.

  I have often told Asherel that delayed or partial obedience is not obedience. It is subtle defiance. So happy that Honeybun is doing something other than biting or growling, I count it a victory if no one is bleeding in her presence. Malta would have been a remarkable mother in that she understood that as soon as you relax your standards you are dead meat. But she wants no part in animal procreation, she reminds me, not of dogs, n
or of humans.

  "So you tell her to sit once, and only once," she instructs Asherel.

  We look at Honeybun. We tell her to sit once and only once, and she remains standing.

  Malta squeezes gently on Asherel’s shoulder, thumb and forefinger on either side, the same way Spock used to do on Star Trek when he wanted to make someone instantly collapse.

  “What do you feel?” she asks.

  “Strong pressure,” answers Asherel.

  “Do you know why I did that?” asks Malta, “Besides that I like to hurt little girls?”

  Asherel laughs, “No.”

  “Well dogs have pressure points too, and you can use them to make her sit, on command every time. You push your two fingers on either side of the base of her tail and you don’t need to even push too hard.”

  She demonstrates. Honeybun sits instantly.

  “Next time,” promises Malta, “You won’t have to push barely at all.”

  She commands Lucky to sit, the sweetly obstinate Lucky. He of course ignores her, but with a scruffy, happy look on his face. She does the Vulcan grip gently near his tail, and he sinks instantly to a sit with just a gentle touch.

  “Do this for a week,” Malta teaches, “Every time. She will never disobey sitting on command again.”

  Every time? Malta clearly is not aware of all the responsibilities a home school parent juggles. I must learn and teach every subject in every grade, as well as care for the home, the dogs, the bird, the yard, teach my art class, manage the Destination Imagination team, transport Asherel to dog classes, speech club, Spanish class, horseback riding….. and then spend countless hours wallowing in guilt for how poorly I am doing it all. Who has time to follow through on telling a dog to sit?

  Then she plops down on the floor with Honeybun who is calm, and content. Malta scratches behind the little dog's ears, and under her chin. Honeybun rests her head on her front legs, her eyes glazed a little with peacefulness. As she pets Honeybun, Malta informs me that for a Christmas gift to herself, she is sending hand grenades to the organization that confronts Japanese whaling ships. I am speechless. I love whales and definitely believe no one should be hunting those placid, intelligent creatures. However, I cannot condone killing the people who are so ignorantly and sinfully even doing so. She watches my face, which probably conveys some degree of horror.

  "Best Christmas gift I ever got," she says, grinning.

  "Hand grenades?" I squeak. Who is this maniac in my home?

  "Stink bombs," she laughs, "Makes the whale meat unusable. Really smells bad! Not real hand grenades...."

  "Oh," I sputter, relieved.

  “Your job,” she pontificates, as she pets the euphoric Honeybun, “Is to relax. I am not saying this dog doesn’t have issues. She does, and it is not your fault that she is territorial. But it will take time, and if you can learn to relax, you will be able to help her.”

  So Malta does not believe I have ruined this dog! It is also true that relaxing is not easy for me, the prototypical type A personality. When I start a project, I work feverishly at it till it is done. I have often stayed up all night completing a piece of artwork, unable to tolerate unfinished projects. This dog, requiring sustained patience and diligence is taxing my entire genetic predisposition. Staying the course is excellent advice if the course is no more than five minutes long. In that case, I can stay with the best of them. On the sixth minute, I implode.

  “You become what you want to become,” she adds, “Like I have ten horses we rescued at home, and I don’t know how we will have the money to feed them…. But somehow, we always do.”

  We as yet have little surplus money ourselves. Arvo left his entrepreneurial foray into the mortgage industry, and has been in a new finance position with a telecommunication company for about a month now. The past year of lean income has drained our bank accounts and we have already raided what we can in good conscience from Asherel. Honeybun’s propensity for injury has further depleted funds. However, before Malta and Will had come that day, I had written a small check for their rescue farm. We can’t give much, and I am a little ashamed of that. This is becoming a mantra of our life, I muse, while handing her the donation check.

  “See,” she proclaims happily, rising to go and petting Honeybun goodbye, “Money to feed the horses. Let’s go Will.”

  Malta is not satisfied with Honeybun’s door greeting performance since she and Will are not total strangers and likely not eliciting her full arsenal of viciousness. She seems to believe me that Honeybun is a different dog with people she has never met. Malta wants fresh meat, victims who don’t know Honeybun so Malta can assess more accurately. She wants me to find people willing to risk dog attack when she returns in two days.

  I scour the neighborhood for willing victims. I don’t like asking others for help, preferring to handle things on my own and give an aura of self-reliant competence. Letting others know you need help can lead to many undesirable consequences. For example, sometimes then, they expect you to help them later on. Who has time for that? And additionally, if they notice chinks in my armor, they may also notice rust on my sword, and holes in my heart. This can lead to uncomfortable questions and scrutiny. It is not good to show one’s weakness. I glance at Honeybun, who is barking again as a stranger walks by. That’s right, I tell her, a good offense is sometimes the best defense.

  Nonetheless, I email my neighbor Carolyn who has her own dog that I recently cared for while she was away. I have amassed enough good deeds with her that maybe a bite or two would be considered payback. The sweet Christian couple on the corner might agree to be victims since they are very assured that when they die they are going to heaven. Carolyn’s son is co- opted to be sacrificed for the cause. That is a total of four bodies of varying sex, age and skin toughness. Surely if Honeybun is inclined to eat someone, this is a smorgasbord of what is typically available at a hominid buffet. I call Malta and report that we have four willing victims. She is beside herself with glee and preps me by phone. I am to have all the victims ready to gather when she arrives. She and Will plan to enter the house first, alone, and with intent of riling our vicious dog. Since she cannot heal what she hasn't observed, she is pulling out all the stops in this endeavor.

  A short time later, Will and Malta ring the doorbell. Without speaking, Will is first to enter the house. He is in disguise, with large dark sunglasses. He is greeted by a happy, tail wagging Honeybun. Will grabs her leash and walks around like a gangster as Honeybun prances joyfully beside him.

  “She’s on to you, Will,” I deduce as she licks him.

  Malta had wanted him to wear a poncho and sombrero to further test Honeybun’s paranoia, but all he had in the truck were the sunglasses.

  Next Malta rings the doorbell and enters. Honeybun is delirious with joy to greet her old friends. Malta approaches her rapidly, and snatches the leash from Will.

  "Sit!" she commands gruffly. Honeybun complies quickly, probably remembering the Vulcan pressure point grip.

  As before, Asherel has her video camera ready. She crouches behind the couch and smiles at me, giving me a thumbs up. I am very happy everyone is having so much fun but HELLOOOO, I would like a little more seriousness in tackling this rampaging dog issue, here.

  I receive final orders from Malta. The four victims have been anxiously waiting for the call, and are over in a flash. They seem eager. This is perplexing to me. Perhaps they are hoping for big pay-offs from the law suits…..At any rate, I make a mental note to send them Christmas cards this year.

  I give them their instructions. We decide Walt, having lived a good, long life should go before the women and kids. The victims are gathered in the front yard, milling nervously like cattle before the slaughter. Honeybun knows something is up. The elderly neighbor from next door ambles over slowly, his cane tapping like a heartbeat, to see if everything is okay at the Kaseorg’s. His concern touches me, and I add him to the Christmas list.

  The crowd assures him this is all part
of the vicious dingo training, and Komer shuffles away. I peer out, and announce to Walt it is his time. He gulps, kissing his wife goodbye. The door closes with an ominous click as I settle into position with Asherel.

  The door bell rings and both dogs spring into action. Malta instructs me to watch and learn at the hand of the master while the dogs bark to warn us all of the end of the world. Malta nods to me silently, and I open the door as she holds Honeybun’s leash. Honeybun is the picture of a dog owner nightmare- hackles hackling as she growls, barks and lunges with snapping teeth. Finally, I think to myself, opening the door to sweet Walt, my dog is misbehaving beautifully!