“While you're doing the shopping, I’ll bring Teresa
over to my house for lunch. Bas will be here in four more days. She
and I can spend some time together before he sets himself up in the
spare room.”
“Who, or what, is a Bas?” Ken asked,
suspiciously.
Janey's voice turned excited, “Sebastian, my big
brother. He recently finished his twenty years in the Navy and
retired last week. He's taking care of business in New Jersey, then
dropping in to stay with me for a few months while he decides what
he wants to do next.”
“Big Jerk, you mean. Bas the Ass,” I added. I
couldn't keep the dislike out of my voice.
“He is not,” Janey scolded. “It’s probably been more
than ten years since you last saw him. He grew out of his
womanizing man-ho phase a long time ago.”
“Man-ho?” Ken choked out the words around a
laugh.
“Yep. If it had boobs, he'd nail it where it stood,”
I clarified. “Talk about indiscriminate. It’s a wonder he didn't
end up with VD. Ha! He probably caught something more than
once.”
“Oh stop, he wasn't
that
bad. Give him a
break! He was twenty-six when you walked in on him and Sherry.
You'd think he had women strewn across the room, the way you
reacted. Let it go already.”
“I was scarred for life. Eighteen and the first time
I’d ever seen a naked man was walking in on him having sex with
Sherry Dangerfield. On the kitchen counter of all things! Didn't he
realize food was prepared there?” I didn't mention to Janey her
brother was hung like a horse (I mean, ewww, you don't tell your
best friend such intimate facts about her brother).
My mind easily recalled the scene: Bas bowed over the
woman's splayed body, one large hand cupped around her jaw. I must
have made some noise, or maybe Bas happened to glance up and see me
frozen in the doorway. I can still see the smirk on his face when
he lifted his mouth from Sherry's neck, slid his hand down as if he
was holding her restrained by the throat, and then, staring
straight into my eyes, he pistoned his hips harder into her. I fled
and managed to avoid him for the remainder of his military
leave.
In my inexperience, I assumed all men were equipped
like Bas. It took years before I screwed up enough courage to lose
my virginity. His size, coupled with the aggression in his face and
body, had scared me. Intimidated me. Fear contributed to the
dislike I'd felt for him over the years.
Bas would be thirty-eight now. Last time I’d seen
him, he was tall, blond, and built like a minor deity. Broad
chested and beautifully proportioned, Sebastian Declan embodied the
physically ideal man, and he knew it. Muscles pulled tautly over a
huge 6'3” frame which moved with an unexpected fluidity. Even when
he was at rest, he radiated an alertness which suggested he could
snap into action from a perfect standstill. That threat of action
made me nervous even casually being in a room with him.
His eyes were more gray than green, and twinkled with
devilment. I'd always argued he was up to no good, but a more
generous person would've probably said his eyes were lit with the
joy of life. Yeah, whatever. Amiable when we were younger, as we
aged he and I barely tolerated each other – I thought he was a
man-whore, he thought I was a prig. We were both right. The only
thing we had in common was our love of Janey – so, we got along,
usually by avoiding each other.
Our mutual strategy had managed to keep us out of
each other’s path for a good twelve years, excluding incidental eye
contact at family gatherings. With luck, we could continue to avoid
each other for another dozen. Eye contact would certainly not be an
issue anymore.
The puppy was still calmly curved against my torso.
It struck me as somehow against the character of a young dog to be
so still, but I was thankful not to worry about dropping him. His
warm weight felt comfortable, but he was already a good-sized dog
and wouldn't be able to climb into my lap for much longer. My left
arm was curled around his body so I ran my right hand softly over
the face tucked against my neck. My fingertips learned the length
of his muzzle and the contrast between the softness of the fur
around his face and ears, versus the coarser ruff over his chest.
His ears were large and strong, already held at attention and
tilted forward at the top of his head. I couldn't resist stroking
them and leaning forward to tease, “I bet you get great reception
with these things, Dru.”
In my mind, I heard a snort.
“Aren't you the
comedienne? And it's Red.”
“What's Red?” I asked aloud, confused.
There was a slight, pause, in my mind,
“My name is
Red.”
“Holy crap!” I told the room at large. “The dog
talks!”
** Morning, Tuesday – July 8
th
**
“I thought you said she was off the painkillers,”
Janey retorted drolly, obviously to Ken, as her voice was aimed
away from me.
“Yes, but she may have bumped her head on one of
those imaginary protuberances she obviously believes are located
all over the house,” came the equally droll response. “It would be
logical for there to be imaginary voices, too.”
“Har har, you two. Seriously, the dog told me his
name is Red, not Dru.” At least, I don’t think I imagined it.
“And, why would a black dog call himself Red?” Janey
asked, stressing the logical, or in this case, illogical.
Whispering loudly to Ken, “Has the fish been talking also?” Janey
referred to the betta, Murphy, on the kitchen counter... well, I
assumed Murphy was still there.
“I only know what he told me, not his intelligence,”
I defended with no small amount of wonder. Scratching the pup
thoughtfully under his chin, I decided the best way to find out,
and make sure I wasn’t imagining things, would be to ask him. “So,
the peanut gallery and I want to know why a black dog is named
Red.”
“
That's what Janey called me. Maybe we should be
rating her intelligence, hmmm?”
Red's words didn't have a
distinctive voice in my mind like you'd associate with, for
example, Sylvester Stallone or Tom Cruise. Nothing instantly
identifiable as a specific person, age, or nationality. His voice
was more emotions and attitude – like when you talk to yourself in
your head. Oh, Oh... I didn't like the direction my thoughts were
taking here. Those were the kind of smart-ass things
I
would think or say.
Tentatively I relayed, “He says that's what you
called him, Janey.”
There was silence before Janey softly verified, “I
call all the puppies by their yarn color. Since it's up to the
owners to name their dogs, it’s easier. I've never called him Dru,
or Druid.” Another pause, “You do know how this sounds, right? You
admitted, out loud in front of witnesses, the dog talks.”
Conceding with an affirmative nod, “Yeah, you're not
the only one questioning my sanity. I already realized he speaks
like I talk to myself, in my head. Hard to distinguish between the
two, but there's a subtle difference.” I leaned back so I could
tilt my dog's face up and thought to him,
“Can you hear me?”
There was no response, so I asked out loud, “Can you hear me when I
think words to you, Red?”
I swear he hrumped at me.
“What? You think I'm a
mind reader?”
Yes, there was a definite trace of sarcasm there.
“I was as surprised as you were that you could understand my
thoughts, but I don't hear yours. Other people don't seem able to
hear me. I just now tried to talk at Janey but it didn't work with
her.”
I could feel laughter in his next comment,
“Now who
has reception like a radar dish?”
I chuckled.
“What?” Ken asked, clearly intrigued by my slim grasp
of reality. Probably wondering to himself how could he have missed
the signs?
I chuckled again at my new train of thought, but
brought myself back to Ken’s query. “I teased him about the size of
his ears earlier. He just retorted by pointing out I'm the one with
reception like a radar dish as I am receiving the signals, rather
than him. I have a smart dog!” I said, proudly.
“What you have is a loose screw,” Janey corrected,
gently.
I bit back my exasperation. Obviously, we don't want
to upset the crazy girl, so we must use a soft voice and guide her
gently back to the real world. What? She thinks, simply because I'm
potentially crazy, I won't recognize she just insulted me? The
temptation to do something wildly outrageous flitted through my
mind. Mental sigh. Must be nice to my friends. I'll save the crazy
display for a later date, and more appreciative audience.
“Hey, Pal,” I addressed Red, “how's Orange doing?”
Janey'd never told me if the smallest puppy survived, so I figured
this would be a good way for all of us to determine if I was going
nuts, or not. There is no way an imaginary voice could know the
answer.
“
Janey called him Little Guy. She brought him back
from the vet all doped up and he went home with a man, later the
same day.”
Red let out a soft, rumbling growl.
“Please tell
me neutered doesn't mean what I think it means,”
he whined.
"I can't tell time very well, so I don’t know how long ago this
was. I think the man said something about Valentine's Day?”
I mock-covered Red's ears, and spoke toward Janey.
“Neutered? You had to talk about that in front of my dog? He's
traumatized!” I exaggerated. Tilting my face down toward Red, I
added, “And yes, it means what you think it does.” Facing Janey
again, “Red says you called the sable 'Little Guy' and a man picked
him up around Valentine's Day; the same day you had him fixed.”
“Holy shit, Teresa.” Janey murmured, reverently.
“Your dog talks!”
The next half-hour passed in a blur of excited
questions, and laconic answers, as Red proved to be an intelligent
companion with a biting wit and endless patience.
“How did you learn to talk?” I inquired at one
point.
“
I learned words from listening to Janey, the
radio, and TV in the kennel."
Red informed me.
“Can you 'talk' to other dogs?” I asked.
“
No,”
he replied.
“Can other dogs talk to their humans?” Janey chimed
in. This question was followed by a short silence as Red stirred
himself, from his position snuggled under my chin, to look toward
her.
“
Is English not her first language?”
he asked
rhetorically.
“If I can't talk to other dogs, how would I
know?”
We all laughed over his comment.
“You're not even a year old, how can you communicate
so well?” I wanted to know.
“
I know I don't think like people do, but I
understand a lot of what you say. I have never tried to 'speak' at
anyone before. Sometimes words are really confusing because what
people say doesn't always match their body language. Dogs rely on
body language more than words. When you made the comment about my
ears, I knew what you meant and thought back at you. There are some
words you say, and I don't know what they mean, and sometimes you
say sentences which don't make sense to me, even though I know the
words. What is a peanut gallery anyway?"
What followed was a discussion of slang and
context.
“Do you have a favorite dog food?” I asked,
curious.
“
I only know about the food Janey gives us. Food
is food. Some food smells more interesting. I like chicken because
it smells and tastes really nice. Bread is good too.”
Red's weight became too much to hold comfortably so I
placed him on the floor. I could feel him settle at my feet,
leaning against my foot and chair leg. His weight felt warm, and
reassuring. My heart was utterly full; I was amazed by the
completely unexpected feeling of completion. How like Janey to
recognize what I had been unable to pinpoint since my accident.
Ken was topping off coffee when I asked Red, “How
good is your sense of smell? Can you smell emotions, or
sickness?”
Red seemed surprised when we explained humans
couldn't pick up on scents like anger, nervousness, and illness. He
informed us how changes in odor from sweat and (what we all assumed
were) hormones or pheromones, combined with body posture, gave dogs
a pretty decent indication of what people were feeling. He wasn't
able to clearly associate many scents with words because he hadn't
been around a person he could smell to associate the scent to a
particular term.
Red told me there were smells which indicated stay
away, leave, or come closer. Also males and females definitely had
specific aromas (hence our assumption regarding hormones) but some
odors didn't have any association to words yet. Red wasn't sure
about recognizing sickness as he hadn't been around any sick
people, except Janey when she had a cold a few months back.
“There was a smell, kind of sour and ‘wrong,’”
he attempted
to describe.
I drank deeply from my newly refilled mug. The
constant talking over the last thirty minutes, translating
mind-speak (as Red and I decided to call it) to my friends, was
hard on a woman's throat. Ken made the best coffee, I thought with
a contented sigh. He insisted the secret was a little pinch of salt
on top of freshly ground beans.