Born to Bark Read online

  CHAPTER 3

  PENNY

  Many dogs would come to live under my parents’ roof, although not all at the same time. The array would ultimately include two schnauzers, an Irish setter, and two Cavalier King Charles spaniels. There would also be a cavalcade of cats including a sweet gray cat, a nasty purple Persian, and eventually four Siamese cats of differing shades and temperaments. The dogs belonged to us kids: me, Dennis, and eventually my youngest brother Arthur. When we boys no longer lived in the house, the dogs belonged to my father. The cats belonged to my mother.

  Every dog that touched our existence had its own character, with a variety of strengths and foibles. Each had a life story, and each added its experiences to our lives. During the years that I lived in my parents’ home, one special dog would set the stage for how I would think about dogs for the rest of my life. She was a boxer named Penny.

  Penny was there at times of great change and transition in my life—when I finished high school, when I began and later returned from my active military service, and through my undergraduate college years. Like all of my dogs, her job was to be my companion, but occasionally she was a therapist and teacher.

  I never understood how, or from where, my father got our dogs. Even though we had very little money, my father wanted a traditional household and didn’t want my mother to have to work, but circumstances were such that she always had at least a part-time job. By the middle of my high school years, however, our financial condition was better. My parents had their own house and enough income to meet the mortgage payments. Money was still a concern (so I worked part-time jobs to pay for textbooks, school fees, and personal things), and there was really not enough left over to allow us to afford luxuries. Certainly an expensive purebred dog would have fit in the category of luxury—yet we always had them.

  One of my uncles later told me that my father bought most of our dogs with straight labor, rather than money. Dad was a wonderful craftsman and could build or repair just about anything. Our dogs were usually purchased in exchange for his doing some kind of construction or repair job for people. This involved working weekends and some evenings with the only payment being a puppy when the job was completed. He never explained the circumstances to us, and if we asked he would just say, “The dog is here with us now and that is all that matters.”

  Penny may have been different, since when my father placed the towel-wrapped puppy in my arms, he announced, “Her name is Penny because that is what I paid for her. She is a boxer. Give her a life.” Since he usually left the naming of the dog to the son who would care for her, this was a clear difference, and although he never offered any further explanation, it seemed to matter to my father.

  My brother Dennis looked at the puppy and observed, “Her face is so flat she looks like she walked into a wall. That’s one ugly dog!”

  My mother also peered over my shoulder and laughed, “She is so ugly that she is actually cute!”

  Penny would never grow up to have the classic look of the breed. She was somewhat smaller and lighter than the norm, and her legs would not be quite as long and elegant as her body mass required. She was the classic fawn color of a boxer, though, with a white chest and white “socks,” or paws. Her face was a dark mask that shadowed the area around her eyes and muzzle, although it was not quite as square and jowly as those of show dogs. But her dark eyes were set in a perpetually friendly, attentive look.

  I thought she was beautiful. I got down on my knees, unwrapped the towel, and put her on the floor. She immediately began to sniff around, checking each person in turn, and then began inspecting the room.

  I called to her in as happy a voice as I could produce, “Penny, come!” and she immediately trotted over to me and shoved her dark face in my hand. She then sat and looked at me with those dark eyes, and if people could melt because of the warmth of a look of love, I would have turned into a puddle at that moment.

  Disaster struck a month later. Our house was on a residential street in West Philadelphia, but it got more traffic than most such streets because it was used by many people as a shortcut to bypass two busy intersections. The people who used it that way were obviously impatient and tended to travel at higher than normal speeds for such a narrow lane. This made the street too hazardous for the neighborhood children to play in.

  One day my mother was outside talking to the woman who lived next door. Somehow, Penny got out of the house, and wandered between two parked cars and into the street where she was hit by a speeding car. Fortunately, she was clipped by it and not actually run over, but she flew several yards and landed in an unconscious heap. The car did not stop, and the driver may not have even seen her emerge and might not have known that he had nearly killed my small, young dog.

  My mother rushed Penny to a veterinarian, who treated her immediately and later said that if the puppy had been older and had received an impact like that she probably would have been crippled for life. As it was, he was able to patch her up so that all that was left physically was a slight wobble in her hips that gave her a gait that looked much like someone who has had too much alcohol to drink but is trying to hide the fact by walking as gracefully as possible.

  Penny’s greatest injury, however, was psychological, for the accident left her with an intense fear of streets and oncoming cars. Taking Penny on walks was nearly impossible. She would not step off a curb to cross a street. If you tried to force the issue she would actively resist, all the while whimpering pitifully. This meant that Penny’s life became confined to our home and our small backyard. Her exercise would be a few circuits around the block, or occasionally I would drive her to a park for a bit of a romp. In all other ways she was as courageous as any other boxer. Ultimately my education as a psychologist would teach me some techniques that might have been able to rid her of her fears, but that was years away and sadly too late for Penny.

  When I got Penny, I was in my last year of high school and doing quite well academically. My personal life was orderly if not exciting, since, as the oldest child, my extended family had basically planned my future. My parents and maternal grandfather had even decided who I would marry. My father had planned my entry into the army as soon as I graduated. My mother had arranged to make sure that my scholarship for college would be held until I left active military service. My parents had also decided which university I would attend, namely, the University of Pennsylvania “because it is an Ivy League school.”

  My future career was also planned for me. My reading and interests mostly leaned toward the behavioral and biological sciences, since I had retained my childhood dream of being something like Dr. Doolittle, learning to communicate with animals and to understand what they were thinking. It was the 1960s, however, when the race between the United States and Russia for the domination of space filled the news. Physicists, engineers, and computer scientists were the heroes of the time, and psychologists and biologists did not get anywhere near the same attention or respect. My parents assumed that I’d select a profession that would involve research in the physical sciences or perhaps an engineering or technological specialization, and they exerted every pressure they could to make sure that their expectations came to pass, including continually talking about how I would become a great astrophysicist, nuclear scientist, or aviation engineer. Although I had my own dreams and desires, I was not particularly rebellious and had respect for my parents, believing that they had my best interests in mind. Furthermore, I simply assumed that this kind of control was what everyone my age experienced.

  In later years, my parents would ease their attempts at controlling their children’s lives, which would benefit my brothers, but I was their firstborn and they did not tolerate much questioning about their plans for me. I occasionally balked, but in most instances, their constant pressure made me conform. Nonetheless, my parents were not tyrants, so if I was insistent enough for long enough, they would let me take my own course of action, although they did not make it easy and would not let
me forget that I had deviated from the path expected of “a good son.”

  Under this benevolent dictatorship, I felt socially isolated. I had no confidants to whom I could talk and work out my options. My small circle of friends tended to talk about “things” and “events,” not feelings, personal goals, and futures—and never about relationships with our parents. Ultimately Penny would become the companion with whom I shared my secrets.

  I had a part-time job on Thursday and Friday evenings and all day Saturday. When I was home, I spent a lot of time in my small room studying. I had a little desk there with a goose-necked lamp on it. There was also an old rocking chair near the window. Next to the bed was a floor pillow on which Penny slept. When I would go upstairs to work, Penny would follow me, lie down on the pillow, and watch me at the desk. When I sat in the rocking chair reading she would hop up on my narrow single bed and nap. The reverberation of her gentle snoring became the comforting background music for my life, and ever since I have always found it easier to write or work when I can hear the noise of a dog breathing nearby.

  Often, when there were issues that I had to work through, decisions that I had to make, or parental decisions that I was supposed to abide by, I would close the door to my room and “discuss” them with Penny. Nowadays, psychologists have shown that it is not unusual for people to talk to their dogs in much the same way that they might talk to another human—conversationally. A lot of evidence has accumulated that such interactions between people and their dogs can be important for psychological health. For most people the bulk of their social interactions come from other humans. However, elderly people, those who live alone, or someone who was having difficulty speaking to his family about important matters (as I did) can get some of the same benefits from talking to a dog. Certainly my conversations with Penny helped me over some rough spots in my life and ultimately allowed me to make some important decisions—including some that would not please my parents.

  One scientific survey, published in the 1990s, found that 96 percent of all people talk to their dogs in this way. Nearly everybody admitted that they usually greet their dogs when they come home and also usually bid them farewell when they leave. Sometimes they will explain to the dog that some recent behavior was “stupid,” “naughty,” “helpful,” or “funny.” Sometimes they will extend the comment into a short narrative such as “It’s a good thing that I found this mess before Mom did. You would catch a lot of grief if she knew what you did.” Virtually everyone admits to asking questions of their dogs about matters they feel the dogs care about, such as “Do you want to go for a walk?” or “Do you want a snack?”

  Conversations with canine companions also include questions that the dog really can’t be expected to answer (or even care much about), such as “Do you think that there is any chance that it might rain today?” or “Do you think that Alan will forgive me for forgetting about our scheduled meeting for lunch yesterday?” Of course, this talking usually is a monologue, since the dog provides a friendly presence but no real input.

  Some “dialogues” with dogs are more complex interactions, where there appears to be some give and take between the dog and the person, even though only the human is speaking. Overhearing this kind of conversation is similar to listening to one side of a phone conversation. A snippet of it might go, “I’ve asked Sally out to dinner with me on Saturday. Where do you think we should go?” [Pause for a few seconds.] “No, I took her out for Chinese food last time. How about an Italian restaurant this time?” [Another brief pause.] “You know, you’re right, there is that new Argentinean restaurant with all the meat served from skewers.” [Pause.] “Of course! I had forgotten that on Saturdays they have that Latin band there. This could be a lot of fun. That’s a really good suggestion, Lassie.”

  In another variety of human-and-dog conversations that is familiar to many dog owners but might appear to be strange to an outsider, the person not only talks to the dog, but also provides audible answers, essentially speaking the words that he believes the dog would say in response. Parents often engage in this kind of conversation when talking to young babies: when a mother gives her child a toy, she might say something such as, “Would you like this teddy bear?” When the baby smiles or reaches, she adds (often in a higher-pitched, more childlike voice), “Oh yes, Mommy. I like that bear.” When a person provides both his own dialogue and that of his dog, however, the conversation sounds much like the often used Hollywood movie sequence where a mentally deranged individual carries on an argument among his various multiple personalities—each with a distinctive voice and character.

  Perhaps the best-known such conversations with a dog were recorded by John Steinbeck, the Nobel Prize–winning author who wrote about a trip across the United States with his black standard poodle in Travels with Charley. In truth, the book could just as well have been titled Conversations with Charley. A sample of one such conversation occurred when he found Charley simply staring blankly off into space. Steinbeck began the following bit of dialogue and provided both parts of the conversation, presumably out loud:

  “What’s the matter, Charley, aren’t you well?”

  His tail slowly waved with his replies. “Oh, yes. Quite

  well, I guess.”

  “Why didn’t you come when I whistled?”

  “I didn’t hear you whistle.”

  “What are you staring at?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  “Well, don’t you want your dinner?”

  “I’m really not hungry. But I’ll go through the motions.”

  And some quite hilarious conversations are featured in A. R. Gurney’s popular play, Sylvia, in which the dog Sylvia speaks clearly to her owner about many big and small matters, although only her owner (and the audience) understands her. Many of my discussions with Penny were like those in Travelswith Charley. I would say something to her and then give her answer in a voice that mimicked that of the Disney cartoon character Goofy. I have given every dog that I have spoken to its own unique voice. I have no idea why I chose that particular voice for Penny, especially since many of our conversations were fairly deep and personal, and many of the comments that I filled in for her in that silly voice were emotion-laden and the suggested actions often had important personal consequences. Perhaps I chose Penny’s voice because at one level I still considered the idea of intense personal conversations with a dog to be “goofy,” or perhaps to keep matters light and to remind me that “the dog’s comments” were not to be interpreted as commands or requirements for action. To an eavesdropper, such conversations would probably sound as if I had lost my mind, so I always closed the door before Penny and I “talked.”

  Immediately following my graduation from high school, I entered the army, which took me to Fort Knox, Kentucky, for basic training, and then to Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, for training as a still photographer. My coursework scores and my evaluations as a photographer were very good, and I soon found myself being sent out on various interesting photographic assignments for the army’s Public Information Office. This took me around the country and allowed me to meet a large number of interesting people and their dogs.

  According to my mother, Penny had been quite upset at my leaving. She would spend long hours upstairs guarding my room and barring entry to anyone except my mother. She refused to sleep anywhere else but on her pillow by my bed, and if her way into my room was blocked, she would set up a howl until she was allowed inside. However, matters did change a bit with a new arrival in our family.

  By the time that I returned home to restart my civilian life, my youngest brother Arthur had been born and was now an unsteady toddler wandering around the house. In my absence Penny had adopted Arthur, and her maternal instincts caused her to act as a protective shield around him. One day Arthur grabbed the electrical cord attached to a ceramic table lamp, and when he tugged, it toppled to the floor, breaking into several large chunks.

  My brother Dennis, who was in
the room, shouted, “Arthur, get away from there!” as he leapt from his seat and dashed across the room to try to keep his brother from cutting himself on the broken pottery. To Penny, however, his loud vocalization and sudden movement toward “her child” looked like an attack, so she vaulted from her position to interpose her body between Dennis and Arthur. When Dennis reached for my brother, she produced a low grumbling growl and then used her head and blunt muzzle to move Arthur toward the door, away from his larger brother. At that moment my mother entered the room, lifted Arthur from the floor, and then carried him into the next room. Only then did Penny seem to relax, as she followed my mother to monitor what was happening to “her child.”

  Penny’s relationship with Arthur was special, and she would tolerate many misdemeanors and abuses from him that would have brought out hostility toward anyone else. For example, one day when Penny was peacefully resting in the living room. Arthur waddled into the room carrying two large metal spoons. He looked across the room at the peacefully resting boxer and clanged the spoons together to produce a sharp sound while he announced “Glock!”

  Arthur then proceeded in an unsteady waddle across the room toward the dog, clanging the spoons together and with each impact he repeated “Glock!”

  “Glock! Glock! Glock! Glock! Glock!” Now he was in front of Penny, who lifted her head and looked up at him. Arthur then slipped one spoon under her chin, and took the other one and banged down across the top of her muzzle. His shout of “Glock!” was partly cut off by the fact that Penny leapt to her feet and in the process knocked the unsteady toddler off of his feet. She looked at him, shook her head as if trying to clear some fogginess from her eyes, and then walked over to the other end of the living room and lay down again.

  Arthur rolled over and pulled himself upright. With spoons banging he marched back across the room toward Penny: “Glock! Glock! Glock! Glock!”