Don't let the dog hear you (3/31/04)

Sh-h-h-h, don't let the dog hear you.

As any dog owner knows, canines pick up a few phrases along the way.

Sure, they may be slow to come when you call them by name.

And they may require the appearance of a rolled up newspaper before it sinks into their skulls not to treat the carpet in the living room like a toilet.

But they do — eventually — learn a bit of human language.

A small bit.

With some serious gaps.

At our house, for example, we long ago passed the time when anyone could say, "Do you think the dog would like to take a walk?" We also passed the time when spelling out the magic word — W, A, L, K — could pass unrecognized.

Still, there are some moments of miscommunication.

Usually, those involve the "C" word, as in C-A-T.

We're not big on cats at our house, which is a nice way of saying that we don't poison them but do curse them when they urinate on the doormat and defecate on the front walk.

Mostly, it's just a matter of making sure they don't eat more than their fair share of birds.

And the dog's presence helps in that regard.

Spot a cat in the back yard while standing in the kitchen, say the word "cat" and Shadow, our Labrador, will come running. She may or may not be effectual when put out on her chain outside, but at least she'll be trying. A couple of self-important tours of the perimeter with her chest puffed out and one or two woofs launched into the air and she feels as if she's earned her dog chow.

Trouble is, as she grows older, her hearing's not that good.

You could say, "Drat," and she'll be on full alert. Mutter, "Rats," and she's flying toward the back door.

Sunday was a case in point.

I was minding my own business on the love seat, flipping through the channels with the remote control. Connie was painting woodwork trim in the kitchen, hoping to complete a project before summer arrives. I settled on the McLaughlin Group on PBS, one of those mid-day programs on Sunday with sometimes wild political commentary.

As you might expect, last week's comments by former White House terrorism adviser Richard Clarke were the main event on the show.

Within seconds, former White House adviser and presidential candidate Pat Buchanan was going at it with Mort Zuckerman from U.S. News and World Report and Eleanor Clift from Newsweek.

There was so much talking going on that no one could make sense of it.

And then I said the magic words: "Yack, yack, yack!"

It was intended as a modest comment on the mind-numbingly stupid level of discussion on the TV.

But the dog heard it as a call to arms.

She flew into the kitchen, slid on the tiles, scooted toward the door, tried to get control of her limbs, and looked plaintively at my wife.

"Yack, yack, yack," I'd said. "Cat, cat, cat," she had heard.

Fortunately, she didn't knock over the step-stool or my wife with the paint and paint brush.

"You'd better come out here," I was told.

"Shadow," I told the dog as I let her outside, "that's not what I was talking about."

But just to be on the safe side, I added, "Keep an eye open for Pat Buchanan. That's P-A-T, Pat. It rhymes with 'cat.'"

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