PICARD HAS GONE DEAF
Last Sunday I realized that my dog Picard is deaf. There have been little changes in his behavior of late, but I attributed those changes to some very logical explanations:
· He no longer gets up to greet me at the door when I come home because he’s sleeps so much more frequently and deeply, now that he’s twelve years old. He doesn’t get up because he can’t hear me enter.
· He no longer comes when I call him when he’s off leash because I stopped working on recall once we moved to a farm — let him enjoy the freedom to explore on his own terms. He doesn’t come because he can’t hear me call his name.
· He now wants to be in whatever room I’m in at all times. He can no longer hear that I am in a nearby room (on the phone, watching TV, banging around the kitchen). He only knows I’m there if he can see me.
The first signs that made me suspect he might be losing his hearing started a few weeks ago with the sound of fireworks (or gunshots; I live in a rural area where neither are uncommon on a Saturday night). Typically, this would trigger Picard to bark anxiously for several minute after each explosion. Now, no reaction.
But the true test came when I uttered the words “Little Greenie” and Picard had zero response. In the past he would react as if a squirrel had just entered the room with a tray of chocolate-covered steaks. I said it again, looking right into his eyes. Nothing. Time both stopped and sped up. I thought I could not love and cherish him any more than I already did — until that moment.
Fortunately, much of our communication already depends on visual cues, since Picard cannot speak. He won’t miss hearing my voice, but I’ll miss him hearing it — rather, I’ll miss him reacting to it:
· The little dance he does when it’s time for a Little Greenie!
· The rush to the door when it’s time to go for a walk!
· The tail-wagging, face-burrowing-into-a-pillow when I’m gonna getcha! (said holding hands up next to my face in fierce-tiger gesture).
I’m grieving the loss of our aural relationship. And I’m angry. I’m angry that he’ll never hear me whisper “The Good Boy” when I hug him. Angry that he’ll never hear me say his name in a thousand different ways with a thousand different meanings, each of which he understood as no one else could. Angry that if I’m crying in the next room, he’ll never again seek me out and place as much of his body in contact with mine as possible, as if to absorb my sadness (and lick my tears). Angry he’ll never hear the songs about him that I make up and sing when we’re out on a bike ride together.
I’m learning to replace cue words with grander physical gestures, and ironically — and fortunately — had already been working on hand commands with him for the past six months, after reading an article about hearing loss in aging dogs. And Picard is already well-adapted to his new reality. Unlike humans, dogs don’t feel self-pity when something is taken from them. They don’t pine for what was. They get on with each day anew, as if it’s the only day. Which it truly is. Once again, I should follow his example. He’s always been a most excellent role model.
