The sound of one dog speaking up

Nov. 14, 2002

Dear Pat,

Our little beagle Alvie has a well-earned reputation for having a big mouth. As the dogs are about to begin their constitutional each morning around 7 and each evening about 10, Alvie announces the event with profuse baying heard 'round the neighborhood. The fraternity brothers living next door love guitars and loud parties, but I'm surprised they don't complain.

This is not mere baying. This is baying that affects others' bodies and mental states. Ear drums begin vibrating like tuning forks. "OW, OW, OW, OW, OW," he says. If we were in a cartoon, pictures would fall from walls, plaster would crack, the foundation of the house would tremble, kidney stones would be dissolved.

I am the dog feeder, DC is the dog walker. Early in the morning I can tell where they are on their walk from the sound of Alvie baying. Whenever we take Alvie to see the vet, the assistants expect a full-throated greeting. They get the full effect we do when he boards there.

"Alvie's the loudest member of the choir," one reported.

The sound seems both to disturb and excite the other dogs. All DC has to say is the word "walk" and the chorus begins. Hank and Lucy begin barking and then howling the way they do when sirens go by. Hank's ears go back and he paces threateningly, but nothing shuts Alvie up.

You have to admire that. Hank has the power to frighten men, women and children but he does not frighten Alvie.

The commotion just seems to get louder when I "shush" them, so I don't anymore. I long ago gave up the dream of making myself the leader of our dogs' pack. Hank is the top dog if not a born leader. We're a dysfunctional pack. It's good that we have an understanding den mother in DC.

Sometimes the cacophony of one dog baying and two dogs barking and howling simultaneously makes me cover my ears with pillows. Sometimes it sends me running from the room. DC just smiles and shakes her head.

Whenever Alvie's baying reverberates off the walls I remember that this is a dog who has endured much more pain than he'll ever inflict. I run my finger over the mysterious scar that stretches almost the length of one side. I caress his floppy ears, especially the one missing its end. I scratch his white belly, bloated from the incurable congestion heart worms cause.

I recall the dangerous procedure he underwent a year ago to get rid of the worms.

We humans think we're superior so we often miss the lessons animals can teach us. If I were a shaman, Alvie would be my animal spirit teacher. He showed up at our front door one day to remind us that wounds can heal and that love and bravery go together.

If a dog has a lion's heart he probably deserves the vocal cords of one.

A few weeks ago Alvie was looking more bloated than usual so we took him to the vet for a checkup. A blood test determined that the heart worms unexpectedly have returned.

So here Alvie goes again. Every day in a speck of chicken salad DC gives him a steroid, an antibiotic and a diuretic. We feed him potassium to counteract the effect of the diuretic. Alvie's medicine cabinet is stocked better than ours.

At night I listen to Alvie's labored breathing on the cushion below our bed. Each breath requires effort.

Each bay says, I am.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.