Doggie Talk By Ronnie Bray

I cannot in all truth say that I imagined for one moment that they did not know I was within earshot, because my dogs know everything that goes on in our home, and where everyone is at any given time.

I settle for believing that they probably thought I wouldn’t be interested in what they had to say, or else that I would not understand their peculiar form of speech.

Both these positions proved false. I could not only hear them, but I was fascinated by their conversation and understood every word perfectly.

It was Belle who began. Her face not only has the requisite ‘inquiring look’ of the Groenendael, but her mind is in constant inquiry mode. Both doggies were laid down, facing each other with their front paws crossed delicately at the wrists as is their custom.

“So,” began the Beautiful Belgian, “How come we are sisters? We don’t look anything like each other.”

Frankie received her question with her normal patience and, after licking her chops in a single sweep of her near-dry pink tongue, made her response.

“It’s the adoption thing.”
“The adoption thing? What’s that?”
“Moms and Dads collect us, take us home, and that’s called adoption.”

Belle paused to let this intelligence sink in. “Adoption,” she mused. “Adoption. That sounds like a good thing.”
“It depends,” said Frankie. “I have been adopted twice. The first time was horrible. I wanted to run away”

“Did you run away?” asked Belle, intrigued.

“No. I didn’t get the chance to escape, but if I had – if they had left the door open – I would have run as fast as I could as far as I could until they couldn’t’ find me.”

“Was it that bad at your adoption?” quizzed Belle.

Frankie didn’t answer her direct question but continued.

“No dog should ever be treated like that. My Mommy’s name was Michelle. I was just a little puppy, and they adopted me because I was cute and beautiful.”

Belle licked her paw, ignoring the opportunity to flatter her sister.

“Because I am a Border Collie,” explained Frankie, “I have to keep on the move.”

“Why?” asked Belle, her interest piqued. “Do you mean all the time?”

“Yes. All the time. It’s as if I have an engine inside me that is always running and it makes me run around looking for things to take somewhere.”

“Looking for things?

“Yes.”

“What things?”

“Basically,” said the older sister, “Anything that moves, and some things that don’t move. I have to round them up and deliver them. It’s called an instinct.”

“Instinct.” Echoed Belle without grasping the concept.

“Yes, instinct. That is when you just have to … I mean really REALLY HAVE to do something but you don’t know why. That’s what the engine makes you do.”

“Do I have an instinct thing?” asked the velvet headed one.

Frankie rolled over onto her back and laughed, her head thrown back as far as it would go. Belle waited quietly. She was becoming almost as patient as Frankie.

“Okay, Sis,” said Frankie, her laugh break over and returning to the upright Sphynx position, “You know when Daddy throws a ball down the hall?”

Belle nodded. She knew. “Well, when he throws the ball what do you do?”

“I run and get it!” Belle grinned. She liked to talk about her toys almost as much as she loved to play with them.

“Why do you run and get it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about ‘why’ I do it, I just do it.

“Well, next time he throws it, don’t go after it. Just look the other way and drop your head between your paws and look cute.”

“Do you think I’m cute?” asked Belle, fishing for the compliment she denied to Frankie.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re cute alright, but we are talking about your instinct for chasing balls.”

“Instinct? Instinct? Huh?”

“Yes. You have to go after that ball, and if you don’t chase it, you get that old knot in your tummy that doesn’t go away until you go and get it.”

“How did you know … “

“I’m a doggy too, Sister. Never forget that.

“Yeah, a doggy, you’re a doggy.”

“That ‘MUST-DO’ thing in your tummy is instinct, and my instinct is what drives me to herd other dogs, animals, and small children.”

“My instinct doesn’t make me herd.”

“It used to. You come from an old family of sheep herding dogs, but now you are used mostly as guard dogs and protectors. It’s your instinct that makes you protective and territorial.”

“Okay, but what has all that to do with your first adoption thing?”

Frankie took a deep breath. She was about to do some serious talking to someone who was actually listening, and that made a welcome change.

“Well, I was a cute little bundle of black and white fuzzy fur that was irresistible … ”

“Get over yourself” thought Belle without vocalising the put-down.

“ … and so they adopted me and took me home to Eureka in Montana.”

“I remember Montana … “began Belle, but Frankie cut her off at the pass …

“They were good to me until I was six months old, and by that time my instinct to herd had kicked in and I was on the move all the time. I herded the cat and the baby, and they didn’t like it. They told me to stop running around, but you can’t stop an instinct, and so they started tying me up for hours at a time.

“That sounds terrible!”

“It was. But when they let me loose I just had to go right back at running and herding.

“What did they do?”

“They hit me with newspapers, magazines, threw the baby’s toys at me, and even put a special collar on me. I hated that. It really hurt.

“What kind of people would do that to a doggie?”

“People who don’t understand dogs. We Border Collies are not meant to be house pets. We are working dogs. We can run up to one hundred miles a day, herding sheep, cattle or anything else, and work all by ourselves without always having to be told what to do.”

“I see,” said Belle, staggering under the weight of information that her usually taciturn sibling was sharing. “So, what happened then?

Frankie resumed her discourse. “They finally grew tired of shouting and cursing at me and shocking me with their special collar, put me in their truck, and drove me to Libby where they turned me into the dog pound.

“They unadopted you?”

“They did! And they paid five dollars to do it, and said it was money well spent.”

“At least you were out of the mad house.” Belle offered.

“It was out of the frying pan and into the fire,” vented Frankie. The curl of her lip showing how distasteful the whole thing had been to her.

“Not a good move, eh?”

“Oh, no. Not a good move. I hope you never have to go into that place. The cages … “

“Cages?” interrupted Belle, who had seen cages but never been in one.

“The cages,” continued her sister with a resigned air, “were cold, dirty, smelly, and the place was noisy, and the people there were hard and cruel. I saw dogs beaten to death with baseball bats and metal pipes to save money on death fees, and dogs that were going to die didn’t get fed so they could save a few cents.

It was like all your nightmares in one little place.”

“I am so sorry,” Belle stretched out and kissed the side of Frankie’s muzzle, then licked what looked suspiciously like a tear from the corner of her walnut brown eye.

“I hated it. It was worse than Momma Michelle’s house.

Belle lifted her head and took in three big gulps of air, sighing them out in her long groan. “So how did you escape from there?”

“I didn’t escape, I was rescued. Momma and Daddy came to see me at the pound.

“Our Momma and Daddy?”

“Yes, ours. They came to see me. I was scared. I didn’t know what they would be like. They came and stroked with me, and seemed to like me. They smelt nice – you know – doggy – and so I thought this could be good. But they took me back into the pound and off they went in their rig. I listened as it drove away, and I thought, ‘Well, that’s that!’”

“And was it?”

“No. They came back about a week later. This time they had a huge dog with them. His name was Shep, and they let us meet inside the office. He was a nice dog, a bit old, and looked as if he hadn’t been herded for a long time. I thought, ‘Wait until I get you home, my lad, and I’ll show you what herding is!’”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“He did. First he gave me the sniff test. I passed that, and then he looked into my eyes. He could see how scared I was, but he whispered in my ear.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said, ‘Don’t worry little doggie, these are good people.’”

“I wish I could have met Shep.”

“You would have liked him. You were his replacement. He got old and died,” said Frankie, anticipating the next question.

There was a break in the conversation because Belle had to sit up and scratch the back of her elbow.

Frankie inspected the back of the settee so as not to be doing nothing at all while Belle relieved her itch.

“So, what was it like when they got you home?”

“The first thing that happened was I was chained to a tree in the front garden. I didn’t even get my paws inside the house first! I sat there thinking, ‘Now what?’”

“Then what?”

“After about ten minutes Daddy came out of the house and took the chain off me. It never went back on. He walked with me round the garden so I could get used to all the little places, and then we went inside.”

“Were you excited?

“I had a mixture of excitement and cold fear. People can be so different. Some are nice and some are not, and you can’t always tell which are which by looking and sniffing. However, they turned out to be good people. Mind you, for the first three days they didn’t enjoy my high-speed chasing through the house and doing Mach Three figures of eight in the living room.

“What did they do?”

“When he saw I had the gotta-be-moving instinct, Daddy put a collar and lead on me and put the lead’s loop round the table leg.”

“Huh! Did you try to wriggle out of the collar? I found early on that if I walked backwards and pointed my head down the collar would slip over my ears and I was free. Did you do that?”

“No. I am what is known as pathologically obedient, so I just lay down and waited until I was let off.

“What did you do when they let you off the lead?”

“Zooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!, said Frankie.

“Zooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom?, asked Belle, musically.

“Zoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!, repeated Frankie emphatically.

“Back at it, huh?”

Frankie nodded her assent.

“Then what happened,” said the Belgian

“I could not believe what happened next.” Belle’s eyes widened expectantly. “Whenever I Zoomed around, Daddy would call me softly to his side, rub my ears and tell me I was a good girl.”

“No shouting?”

“No shouting!

”No hitting with newspapers?”

“No hitting with newspapers!”

“No electric shocks?”
“NO ELECTRIC SHOCKS! It was wonderful. Momma and Daddy were so kind and gentle, and I learned to trust them. It was a completely different world than I had known for my first year.”

“That’s a good adoption thing, yes?”

“Yes, it is. I couldn’t be happier. They let me sleep on their bed whenever I want to and don’t mind if I get on the furniture.”

“You don’t get on the furniture. That is, other than on the bed.”

“I don’t, but I could if I wanted to.”

“Right. So, how long have you been in this adoption thing?”

“More than three and a half years. And I have never been happier.”

That’s longer than I’ve been alive. I am two years and a month old. I have been in this family for almost two years.”

Frankie’s ears needed straightening, so she shook her head vigorously from side to side, her silky ears cracking like, whips. She had answered a lot of questions from her little sister. Now she would become the interrogator. She cleared her throat.

“What’s your story, Belle?”

“I was in Idaho.”

“I know. I came with mom and pop to get you from the Lindsay’s Rescue Place.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. Well, I was just a little baby when I was taken out by one of the kids in the house. He met some friends and they took me behind some buildings in Coeur de Lane and they kicked me from one kid to another as they would kick a football.”

“That’s awful. What had you done?”

“I hadn’t done anything. I was a baby. I was only two weeks old and shouldn’t have been away from my Doggy Momma. When they were kicking me, all I could do was cry. They broke one of my ribs and it hurt, but they wouldn’t stop. Every time I cried out in pain and fear they laughed and kicked me again. I thought I was going to die.”

“How did you escape?”

“I didn’t escape. I was rescued. Some big boys came to see why I was crying and they shouted at the kids and took me from them. I had my collar on but no tags, so they couldn’t find my home. I didn’t want to go back there anyway. Their kids were cruel and vicious!”

“What did the big boys do with you?”

“They knocked on some doors but no one recognised me. Then they took me to Mary Ann and Jim Lindsay’s Aussie rescue place at Hayden Lake, and they loved me better.”

“Yes, I remember meeting them when we came to collect you.”

“Yes, and I remember you peed on the floor in their living room!”

“Do you know why I did that?” Frankie looked serious.

“No.”

You have to remember that I was in that place in Libby Montana with all those poor dogs, and they treated them so bad. I thought all dog places were like that, and I didn’t know that Momma and Daddy weren’t there to turn me in again, so I was scared.”

“I can see how you would be. I would have peed myself if I were you.

“The first time Daddy took me to the Mesa dog park I peed on the floor outside the gate!”

“You thought it was a pound?”

“Yes. I was terrified. I thought, ‘How could they?’”

Frankie took a moment to think about how she had since lost all her fear of ever being abandoned again – “Well,” she thought – “Almost all.” Her musing done, she resumed her interrogation.

“Has your early experience affected you? Are you, over it?”
“I don’t trust feet. I am never sure if feet will kick me again and hurt me some more. That’s why I always try to lick feet. It is my way of telling them that I won’t hurt them, and that I don’t want them to hurt me.”

“I always wondered why you did it, but I can see now why you do it. Do you have any other hang-ups?”

“No. Daddy says I am remarkably well-adjusted. I think he means ‘cool’ but you know how these old guys talk!”

“So, do you like this adoption thing with Momma and Daddy Bray?”

“More than woofs can say! It’s perfect. When I was at Mary Ann’s I was treated so well, but there were hundreds, maybe thousands, of other dogs there so I wasn’t always in the spotlight. Here I am in the spotlight” .

“Yeah, I’ve noticed!”

“You’re not jealous, I hope?”

“No. I get almost all the attention I need, besides which I can always get it by tapping a leg with my dainty paw. That always grabs them by the heart strings.”

“Right. I can’t get my legs to do that, but I just look them right in the eyes and cock my head slightly to one side, and they’re mine! They are pushovers!”

“They are, and I’m glad of it. I have to tell you that every time you chewed something up I thought they’d take you to the pound and turn you in.”

“I never thought of that. I just have to chew. It must be what you said … “

“Instinct?”

“Yeah, instinct! That means I can’t help it, right?”

“Somewhat, but you shouldn’t push it.”

“I thought they passed the test with flying colours. Don’t you?”

“I was being serious!”

“Me too, Frankie, but they did swallow whatever disappointment they might have felt at my destructive chewing?”

“You’ll never know how close you came to being put permanently in the dog house, so to speak.”

“I wouldn’t have been in their bad books for long. I repent quickly and I am cute and appealing too.”

“Yes, but chewing up Daddy’s Florsheims, his socks, the ties of their quilt, the corner of the settee, two of the cushions, Momma’s wallet, Daddy’s prescription sunglasses, assorted chair legs, the end stops from the tubular glider, the plastic nut on Momma’s wheelchair, unstuffing all your soft toys, eating the squeakers, gnawing plastic dishes, stealing Momma’s tablet bottles, digging holes in the lawn and garden and unplanting tray after tray of bedding plants, not to mention finding and devouring the spaghetti sprinkler lines, and the outside electric feeder cord.

All that could be construed even by good doggy people as a tad too much to be forgiven, even in the case of someone as cute and appealing as you!”

“I take your point.”

Listening to the litany of her destruction had tired Belle a little. She shifted uncomfortably and looked repentant. Frankie wasn’t done.

“Then there are the puddles.”

“The puddles?”

“Yes. It wasn’t a matter of you establishing control of your bladder, but of you getting to understand that doggies pee outside.”

“Doesn’t it hurt the grass?”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t do the carpets any good either, and grass is easier to fix than carpets.”

“I see. But I am doing better.”

“Daddy told Momma that it didn’t matter what you do, he was never going to get angry with you.”

“He said that?”

“He did. And from what I have seen he has kept his word.”

“Yes. He is doing better than I am. I still get the urge to dig, root up, and chew.”

“And you give in to those urges.”

“Ah, yes. I do give in, but I am trying not to. Those, um, er … ”

“Instincts?”

“Yes. Those Instincts are hard to overcome.”

“Even I cannot overcome my strongest instincts.”

“What do you mean, ‘Even you?’”

“Well, I am sure you know that Border Collies are far and away the most intelligent breed in the whole of the Dog World?”

“What!”

“It’s true. Ask Daddy. He knows everything, and he told me that. Not that I needed telling. It is glaringly obvious.”

Belle needed time to get this one internalised, and to cope with its implications. She shifted, un-comfortably one more time before addressing her sister again.

“So, where do Groenendaels come in this intelligence league? Somewhere close to the top I should think.”

“Yes, Belgian Sheep Dogs are also highly intelligent, but not as … “

“Careful. Remember my sensitivities! We must be close to Borders in intelligence?”

Frankie paused for a millisecond before responding.

“Yes. Very Close to the Top. Really Close to the Top.”

Belle received this news with a self satisfied smile, not a million smiles away from Smugville, and Frankie imparted it with her own sub-text that exclaimed, “Yup! Borders are smart, the smartest, and they are also highly diplomatic!”

It was a ‘win-win’ moment.

There followed a pause as each of our Doggy Daughters considered their lot in life and their places in our family.

“It’s pretty good here, isn’t it, Frankie? We have fallen on our feet and into a bed of roses. Ain’t life grand!”

With that, Belle rested her head on her paws and fell straight asleep.

Frankie was already snoring.

Copyright ? 2006 Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

UPDATE:

Frankie is now virtually blind and completely deaf in one ear with some hearing in the other one. She turned 14 years last Thanksgiving Day 2015, but is still the same sweet doggie she has always been, although her herding days are over.

Belle turned 12 years on Saint Valentine's Day 2016, and she is still a puppy at heart and as loveable as ever.

At age 81 I shall not be having any more doggy children.