The headline on the Yahoo News home page jumped out at me: “Majority of pet owners say they can understand … woofs.” It was a cutesy two-minute video wherein canine owners at some unidentified dog park contended that their pets understand them, and that they, in turn, understand their pets. Well, hold the presses on that one! Despite protestations to the contrary by behavioral biologists who contend that inter-species communication is nothing more than personality projection and/or anthropomorphism (could you imagine being that stupid?), those of us who are pet owners know the true story, that — hell yes! — serious communication takes places between pets and their human companions on several distinct levels and planes.  

Motivated by that video, I did something I’d long considered: I put together a list of the human/English words that my dog of 13 years, Cali, understood. Though I’m certain as I put this list together there are words that right now escape me, at this point, I figure the vocabulary my dog developed hovers somewhere around 50 words, which is more than I can say for a great many of the people I have consumed beer with over the years.

Here is a list of the words/phrases my dog has long understood, with a bit of annotation. Cali. John. Mother. (I don’t remember when/why I started referring to my wife to my dog as her mother, rather than Gay, but, there it is.) Uncle Tom and Aunt Cathy. (My brother-in-law and sister-in-law, who have functioned essentially as Cali’s godparents.) Uncle Mark, Uncle Currie and Aunt Stacy. (Three close friends of mine who were also close friends of Cali’s.) Tucker the Kitty Cat. (Our cat.) Then there were the commands. Sit. Stay. Down. Heel. Move. Look (usually in the wrong direction; she never did quite get this one down, as it was a little too theoretical). Go (used whenever she was in front of me while we were skiing and we began a downhill). Drop (as in something in her mouth). Careful (watch out for that cliff!). Close (remain within sight). Back (get behind me). Come. And, of course, no, which I was lucky enough to never have to use very often, as this dog was her whole life as close to perfect as a dog could be.

Then there was her general lexicon. Outside. Doggie (whenever there was another mutt approaching that she did not see, which started becoming more often as her vision started failing with age). Toy and New Toy (she always knew the difference). Stick. Ball. Potty (a friend once observed that I had the only dog he ever saw who would relieve herself on command). Pill (for most of her life, she was on several meds … this command always was greeted with ears down and a fuck-this look). Dinner (even if it was breakfast). Snack. Swim. Snow. Deer (Cali had seen several bears, come nose-to-nose with numerous bull elk, interacted with several coyotes, but the only animal that drove her crazy was deer. Generally, however, if I said “deer” while we were driving, she would invariably look out the wrong window.). Ride in the car. Park (as in “dog park”). Bath (though she loved to swim as much as any dog I have ever known, the idea of taking a bath caused her much in the way of consternation). Veterinarian (this one wasn’t a personal favorite). Bad girl (used only a few times when she was a puppy). Good girl (used very often, with justification).

This was not a one-way communicative street, though. My friends Rob and Heather, who own Sawatch Backcountry in Leadville, once told me that their dog was well capable of speaking to them in perfect English, but, sadly, did not sport the proper vocal-chord apparatus. Ditto Cali. She, like her dad, was always a blabber, and she was able to communicate with me using dog words as well as I was able to communicate to her using English. I mean, we didn’t dissect Shakespeare or anything, but we could certainly shoot the breeze about hiking, skiing and the overall state of out little lives as they related to a wide and often confusing world.

Cali’s inflection-laden dog-vocabulary consisted of a long, coyote-like yowl that indicated general excitement and happiness; a double-bark that was part of the play dialogue; a series of rapid-fire, short barks that meant, “What the fuck?” (like during those many times during our off-trail forays that we found ourselves cliffed-out); a loud, smiling three-bark series that could on forever that almost always accompanied one of those great-dog experiences like standing chest-deep in the San Francisco River while I tossed sticks into the water and which translated meant, “I am Cali, and I am with John in the river, and we are having fun and, wait — did he just throw another stick while I was barking?; a frustrated snorting sigh indicating irritation (such as whenever we pulled into the Dillon Dam Brewery parking lot, and she knew she’d likely end up sitting by herself in the car while I imbibed); a long high-pitched whine that she, looking for sympathy, would use with my wife whenever, as a random example, her mean old master took her to the vet, and she was saying, “And that horrible man with the cold stethoscope stuck a cold thermometer up my ass and gave me a shot!”;  and, most interestingly, a little short “woof,” that had many meanings. It could mean that I was really, really starting to piss her off while playing, as a random example, pinch the dog’s nose while I made a honking sound. It could mean that she was disapproving of the way I was driving and that maybe she should take the wheel. (See above: Dillon Dam Brewery.) And it could mean that, despite the fact that the riverbank just gave out from under her and she slid 10 feet into a pool and went completely under and came up with her entire head covered in pond slime, that, “woof”: “It’s cool. I’m OK.”

The day after Cali died, I walked by myself to her favorite local swimming hole, up on Little Cherry Creek. I have never felt that disconsolate in my life, not even when my mom died or my when dad died. And try though I might (and I did not try very hard), I could not stop blubbering as I made my way along the trail to that swimming hole, where, only three days before, I sat on a rock smoking while my beloved dog frolicked as only dogs can.

And then, just as I turned away from that swimming hole, tears burning my eyes so badly I could not see the trail, my heart so broken I could scarcely draw air into my lungs, these words came into my head in a voice that was close to mine, but was not mine. “I just want you to be happy,” that voice said. It was Cali’s voice. It always bothered my dear dog that her daddy basically made his way through life unhappily, and, however those words came into my head (don’t ask me to explain, for I cannot), they amounted to a parting gift nonpareil. And just as I came to understand that this was no trick of the mind, that I had heard those words as clearly as if someone standing right next to me had uttered them, just as I started to say something back, a man came down the trail in the opposite direction, and, as a result of that man’s presence, the connection with my dog wherever she is now was lost. Though I have many times since admonished the cosmos to give me one more chance, that was it, and I know that will be it, at least until it’s my turn to make that journey to the other side. I really wanted that short conversation to continue, because I think she was getting ready to tell me how to go about being happy. Because, if there’s one thing Cali knew more than anything else, it was how to be happy. It came as naturally to her as unhappiness does to me.

There’s this big mural in the lobby of the animal shelter in Summit County (the very shelter where I first met Cali). In that mural is an embedded poem, the exact words of which escape me. It lets people who have lost their pet know that all is well, that their dog is up there in heaven playing stick and going for swims and that, one day, your dog will look up and you’ll be walking towards him or her over a grassy hill, and he or she will bound over to you and jump in your arms and lick your face, and you will be rejoined forever in a place where the ball-throwing will never be interrupted by corporeal mundanities such as employment and yard work. That’s a vision of heaven I find appealing, though it is a vision of heaven I don’t believe. I can offer no theological basis for this, but I don’t think Cali is just running around waiting for me to arrive on the hereafter scene, where we would presumably restart our relationship as if nothing had happened. That’s a bit too anthropocentric for me. I don’t know whether that which we call our “soul” moves directamundo onto its next incarnation (if so, note to Other Side karmic HR director: I give Cali an enthusiastic recommendation) or whether the base elements of a soul dissipate and spread themselves out into the greater cosmos, where they find homes in many new venues. Either way, Cali’s moved on to her next adventure, and now she’s got bigger fish to fry than sitting up there with a stick in her mouth fretting constantly about my well-being.

After that man passed by on the trail, after Cali’s few words came to me, there was only one thing I could say in response: “Woof, old girl.” It’s cool. I’m maybe not OK right now at this very moment, but I will be. Thanks for caring. Thanks for everything.MG