By Amy Palumbo-LeClaire

Professional writers are encouraged to “find their voices” when they write. Doing so is a process that develops gradually and takes time and self-reflection. We grow to write what’s in us to write, and to tell a story with structure, tone, cadence, and knowledge of language. Dogs, too, must find their voices. They can’t write notes or text their owners. “Out searching for a new stick. Would you mind grabbing me a new shin bone at the store today?” 

How do dogs survive? How do they communicate their needs?

“HELP! HELP! HELP!” Luke learned to communicate early on, at seven weeks old to be exact. “I need to get out right now!” His 3 a.m. barking frenzy reflected a primal need to survive. New people. New bed. New rules. He wasn’t having it. Where were his warm brothers and sisters and puppy scented towels?  His voice was high pitched and surprisingly loud.  My husband and I felt like new parents trying to help our infant learn to sleep through the night. “We have to go get him, Jim,” I pleaded. “He sounds terrified. He’s trying to tell us something.” 

I trotted down the stairs, my own heart beating like a nervous kitten’s. “I’m sorry, Luke. Mummy’s right here.” I shuffled to the crate door, nearly tripping over my slippers to reach him. I smelled my puppy before I saw him. Little Luke had pooped all over himself. “Ohhhhhh. Gosh. Luke!! You poor thing.” I placed my hands beneath his armpits, lifted him up, and headed for the sink. He hung limp and apologetic. “I had an accident. I used my puppy voice, but you ignored me. I screamed. I howled. I was trying so hard to tell you something. You ignored me.”

Every mother is guilty of something. This incident, a reminder of my most unheroic moment as a Dog Mom, has scarred me. Luke was trying to tell me something, but I didn’t listen. Fear not, readers. While Luke aged, I grew wiser. I learned to listen more closely to what my dog was trying to say.  

I just want to play.

Luke initiates play with a peculiar voice. Sharp and relentless, the voice reflects that of a barking seal. His playful voice has grated on the nerves of parents at the dog park. 

“My dog doesn’t like being barked at this way.” A Dog Mom expressed her disappointment to me one time. “He’s just not used to that behavior.” Meanwhile, an oblivious Luke carried on. “Let’s play! Let’s play! Let’s play! C’mon! You chase me, then I’ll chase you! The introverted hound turned his head away. My exuberant pup was learning an important lesson. The world doesn’t revolve around him. We discussed the matter during the ride home. “Dogs don’t like when you bark in their faces, Luke.” I spoke to his reflection in the rearview mirror. He popped his big head out of the sunroof travel crate and thought about it. “If dogs don’t like barking, then maybe they shouldn’t be in a dog park.”

I’m very uncomfortable with you.

Luke’s ferocious bark is the one I’m most appreciative of, especially when it happens at night. He uses a deep, magnificent roar to protect his home from predators. One night while he was in the backyard for a final check, I heard the distinct roar. 

“Who’s that, Luke?” I hoisted open the upstairs window and watched him roar in the direction of our driveway. Apparently, someone or something was lurking in a shadowy corner of our home. “Woo. Woo. Woo. Woo.” He crouched down; broad shoulders bulging, hair raised. I imagined a wolf with yellow eyes and red gums showing his teeth at my dog. “Go Away! Go Away! Go Away!” The bark was extraordinary. Even I felt intimidated.

“Luke, get over here!” Jim was less enchanted. Luke turned his head to the voice of his intolerable leader and dashed back inside. “Good boy, Luke.” I needed to praise my dog for using his voice to protect us. I rubbed his ears. He sat proudly, chin lifted. “Thank you for telling Mummy about that bad guy.’ He licked my hand. “Someone’s got to do the dirty work around here.”

The next morning, we realized that my son had left the light on in his car, casting the unusual effect that a person was seated there. Car burglaries are common. I imagined a scarfed thief scheming—right there in our driveway! Our dogs’ eyes and ears remain open to potential danger. Luke was doing his job.

I’m seriously afraid!

If only the villain of Luke’s nighttime watches could see him at the groomer’s doorstep. “I. Just. Want. To. Be. With. You.” Luke doesn’t shake at the groomers. He quakes. He tells me how he feels with a full body vibration that breaks my heart. He digs his paws into the floor so that I must drag him (sliding) from the doorway entrance. “It’s okay, Luke. You’re going to look so handsome!” I once followed him to the groomer’s table and held his paw while he had his nails trimmed. He shook atop the table like the victim of a Frankenstein science project (who also happens to be afraid of heights). I read his mind. “Cages, latches and locks. Sad faces. Noisy dogs, razor blades and scissors. This place is off.” 

He nearly knocks me over to jump back into his travel crate in the parking lot and sits like a star pupil while I pull out. “I told you I’d be right back, Luke. You do look handsome,” I say to his reflection in the rearview mirror. He gazes out the back window. The groomer’s shop sign fades in the distance. “Next time I’m about to be chopped up and sold for pedigree beef, I’ll keep my looks in mind.”

Time to eat.

I’m afraid that Luke has learned to use his intelligence as a weapon. Of course, he knows exactly when dinnertime happens and lets me know by resting conveniently beside his bowl an hour before. “Just in case you happened to forget, Mom. This is where my bowl is located.” He’s developed a second habit to further my understanding. He’ll stand over his bowl, typically after I’ve rewarded him for coming back when called inside, and stare into it like a gambling addict fixed on a number. “Show me the money. My recall is outstanding.” I toss him a few kibbles. “Good boy, Luke.” I relish the jingle of good behavior. My dog could have roamed anywhere, but he ran back to me for a few dry kibbles. Has Luke learned to capitalize on the reward system? 

“I could have run from our home to greet that cute Collie, but I stayed right here on the step.” He rushes to the foot of his dish and waits for me to pay up. He inhales the kibbles, freezes for a moment, then looks up at me. “A dog’s restraint in the space of another dog is one of the hardest learning tasks, Mom. Just a few more and we’ll call it a day.”  Perhaps Luke, indeed, has become a capitalist.

I love you.

My dog wiggles with a happy squeal, grabs his lamb and brings it to me when I arrive home. “I just want to let you know how happy I am to see you, to spend time with you and just be together. He watches me take a rare seat on the couch. “I’m so happy you are sitting down, Mom. You work so hard to help others. I see you. I feel you. I want to be with you.” He climbs up and collapses beside me. His head falls easily onto my lap.

“I love you, Momma.” Sometimes a dog says what words cannot.

Visit Luke at IG

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