Emma-dog is teaching her family Dogspeak. The other day she went up to Les and chuffed. As her cheeks puffed out she put her paw on his knee.
“Hey, you’ve already been outside; do you want out again?” He went to the door and opened it. She remained sitting, and waited. “No,” he murmured, “not out. Then what? You’ve already had your evening treat, and there won’t be another.”
She sighed, a bit disappointed in him, because she’d never ask for seconds. She knew the rules.
He returned to the chair, and again she politely tapped his knee twice with her paw and gazed into his eyes. This time, though, she glanced toward her water bowl across the room. “Ahh! Water! Sorry, Emma. I didn’t realize it was empty.”
He strode to the bowl, washed and refilled it, then set it down in her place. She sighed happily, walked to it and drank deeply. Finished, she padded past him, chuffing her thanks, and climbed onto her tall-enough-to look-out-the-window bed.
Slowly, doggedly, Emma is training Les. Each brief session consists of learning to translate subtle canine cues from her ears, eyes and delicately understated body language. Every day, human comprehension grows.
She is always patient.
And I am loved. That body English is easy to grasp. When Joe and I visit Les and Sarah, Emma moans nearly inaudibly, and greets me gently but effusively. Her long tail wags her powerful body. It’s a very moving event that lasts a long time. What an incredible difference from when we first met, when she was still so rack-thin, frightened and depressed, and always careful to maintain a safe distance from shod feet. (Emma, a rottweiler/shepherd cross, was savagely abused during her first year-and-a-half of life, then rescued by her forever family.)
She appreciates everything: a passing caress, a tossed greeting, a quick smoothing of her velvety ears. She always totes her tennis ball, in case someone might feel a sudden urge to toss it for her. Sometimes she’ll stare it down, then prod it with her nose. The t-ball obligingly rolls along the wooden floor to a chair’s dark underside. She’ll insert a paw to tease it out, or ask the Boss for help; all the while she’s bright-eyed and smiling. I never get tired of watching her interact.
Recently there’d been a curious development. When Les returned home a few days ago, Emma hung her head, wished herself Yorkie-small, tucked in her tail and tiptoed sheepishly outside, radiating a heartfelt apology. He was mystified. Had she’d upchucked in the house, or knocked something askew? Both scenarios seemed highly unlikely. But she’d certainly broken some rule. (Dogs show embarrassment, fear, guilt, glee, anticipation, sadness, wariness, curiosity, anger- but they never lie.)
He looked under the furniture, and checked upstairs to see what might be amiss, but all was well. So, what was her sin?
Sarah, who keeps a lovely home, figured it out right away. Emma had lain on the sofa, a forbidden luxury. Short black hairs betrayed her. Usually the cushions would be set upright, but that morning they’d forgotten, and she’d made herself comfortable, rationalizing that it was probably OK, because, hey, the cushions weren’t up.
Deep down, though, she knew better.
(The good news? Emma tested a rule. Though her conscience really bothered her afterward, she wasn’t afraid. It was a- ‘just checkin,’ Boss’- moment.)
After Sarah vacuumed away the sin, they both scolded Emma and reviewed the house rules, but also realized that, by forgetting to do what they’d always done, they were culpable, too.
So it’s been satisfactorily sorted. Emma works hard to ignore the sofa, and Les and Sarah try to remember to set its cushions on end when they leave for work.
Both species are learning.
Emma knows she’s loved unconditionally.
The sofa is safe. Probably.
Life is good.