A recent survey showed that the average dog has the language comprehension level of the average 2-year-old.
A middling mutt—a solid C student—can learn 165 words. Those in the top 20 percentile can learn 250 words. Border collies are brilliant; Afghan hounds are deemed downright dim.
A large vocabulary is impressive, but what I really need is a dog that can conjugate French verbs. I’ve always wanted to read the mother-tongue version of “Madame Bovary.” Still, a dog that can understand “parboiled” or “hedge fund” is nothing to be sneezed at.
Our pride and joy is Nicky, a Jack Russell terrier we adopted from an upstate rescue. We’re convinced that God created her for us and us alone.
She is quiet, smart, polite, affectionate and canny--she knows very well from whence her kibble comes. We, her alleged masters, are lumps of clay in her clever little paws.
After just a week or two of training, Widdle and I learned to anticipate her every whim and happily do her bidding. When she yawns, we all go to bed. When she sneezes, we fret about drafts and dampness. If she shakes her head, we promptly put expensive medicine in her ears. Let her glance at the front door, and we knock each other over jumping up to let her out. We are her minions, grateful just to be in her orbit.
Take last Tuesday, for example. Nicky looked at her breakfast and (instead of dive-bombing the bowl as usual), sighed and slumped dramatically to the floor—Sarah Bernhardt in a flea collar.
I immediately telephoned Widdle in a tizzy. “Babygirl won’t eat. Did you upset her?” I demanded.
“Stay calm,” he counseled. “We gave her treats right before bed last night. Maybe it affected her appetite. Wait a few minutes. I’ll hold.”
I wrung my hands. “She’s in a funk. Something’s wrong,” I moaned. “What if she has another seizure?”
“She certainly will if you keep yelling and crying,” he said grimly. (Nic had a 40-minute seizure last year, with Widdle 300 miles away. Not a good day.)
In a moment, Nicky stood up and began picking half-heartedly at her meal.
“She’s… snacking,” I reported. “Sort of.”
“Be patient,” Widdle said.
Finally, our 15-pound, four-legged queen shed her sluggishness and gulped her food as usual, which is to say with joyful yips and squeaks.
“She’s eating! She’s hungry! Hallelujah!” I cried.
“That’s good,” Widdle sighed. “Kiss her and call me later. Bye.”
How I wish I had fabricated even one word of the above scenario, but no. We are that in love with a stinky-mouthed, squint-eyed dog. But in our defense, Nicky IS amazing. It’s not so much what she does as what she never does: Dig, chew, yap, bite, beg, eat garbage, stain carpets, run away, climb on furniture.
People who don’t like dogs ask to hold her. People who do like dogs want to steal her.
Just last night Widdle motioned to me as she lay snoozing in his lap. “Look,” he mouthed. “She’s dreaming.”
Her paws twitched, her eyelids flickered and her undocked tail thrashed merrily from side to side.
He rubbed her ears. “Lucky dog,” he said.
Nicky might flunk a vocabulary test, but she’d get an A+ in love.
Julie R. Smith, who spends too much time talking to her dog, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.