Intro
Owning a dog is one of the best things in our lives. It’s right up there with BC football and a good craft brew. It matters not if they’re curled up on our laps or if they’re up to some mischievous deed that’ll have us cursing them, their mothers, and the Boston Terrier breed as a while. Rocky and Happy continued where Tessie and Weezy left off; they make us feel whole. When they’re staring up at us with those intelligent soulful eyes, we know it goes both ways. We’re sure anyone with a dog will know what we’re talking about. But they may not know some of the challenges of owning a dog while hearing impaired.
Last Saturday marked the month-iversary for Happy and Brad. In honor of that, Brad wanted to share a couple of things that he has to think about being a hard of hearing (and introverted) dog owner.
It’s “Just” Rain, People!
For the auditorily challenged, the rain presents something far worse than the less-than-pleasant wet dog smell; the less-than-affordable ruined hearing aids damage.
I sat on the porch delighting in the creature comforts of modern life. It was pouring but I remained impervious to those pellets of silence. I could smell the slightly sour scent that accompanies rain. I could see the drops tap-dancing on the puddles. I could even hear the hammer-strikes the fat drops wrought on the AC. But I could not feel the dangerous life-giving substance on my skin. Not yet. As the clock ticked and tocked towards a certain time, I started to get nervous. Happy’s walk time was coming. And I’d have a choice to make: I’d either have to wait until the rain stopped or walk her without my bionic ears.
I breathed a little easier as the rain let up. And even easier still when the clouds thinned out and the sky took on the bright but hazy look of the sun elbowing her way through them. Since the first days of dog-owning is all about setting routines, I really didn’t want to put off the walk. It was a relief to see the rain stop. So, I wrangled my still-skittish dog and marched confidently out into the street.
Where I felt a faint mist descend upon on my arms and head.
Faster than you can say “jumpin’ Jehoshaphat!” I plucked my aids from my ears and stuffed them in a pocket. I walked as if the ground were thin ice spider-webbed with cracks. Being outside without my bionic ears in, makes me feel fragile. And doing so while walking a dog makes me feel as if a stiff breeze could knock me over. Happy still stops suddenly, head and right front paw cocked. She hears things I can’t hear even be-aided. When she stops so pointedly, I always look around to see if I can tell what she heard. Sometimes I even see it. Those times are nothing compared to what sometimes happens on the main street. Depending on factors I’m not privy to, she could traipse happily along sniffing bushes and trees, or she could spin like a furry little tornado at the sound of cars passing closely by. Naturally, this walk she did the twist.
As we danced our way down the street, I tried not to think about what would happen if we ran into someone. I very much dreaded that happening. It was not that she was still unsure about me, though she was; nor was it that she was in heat and meeting someone with a dog meant potential puppies if I wasn’t a skilled wrangler, though she was; it was about my not being able to have an even passing conversation with someone without my bionic ears in. I learned from my walks with Weezy, that most dog-walkers expect at least a little conversation when they happen across another dog-walker. This isn’t something people walking sans doggo do. And with that thought in mind I tip-toed through the tulips around my neighborhood. I was lucky, this time. I didn’t run into anyone on that wet afternoon.
Wet walks are sodden with the fear of running into someone, known or not. But even dry walks make me nervous.
Running into someone who’s walking a dog presents all the normal hearing challenges, speed, accent, enunciation, etc, but can also introduce another: distraction. We’re both only half paying attention to the conversation. The other half of our attention is our dogs’ interactions. At least it was when I had Weezy. I’m in the early Happy days and I’ve not allowed her to run into any dogs.
Dog ownership is one of the places where my deafness and my introversion meet. I hate small talk. I also don’t want to disclose all my sordid histories to some random dude on the street. Which means the introvert part of me really doesn’t want to run into anyone. But if I do, I know I’ll have something to talk about that’s not really small talk: Dogs. Specifically our dogs.
I’ll talk about dogs until the mountains crumble to the sea. Talking about a dog allows me to control the conversation and in so doing, I can use my context clues to make it easier for me to communicate successfully. It also shifts the focus off me onto the doggo. And the topic is deeper than the weather or traffic. Plus, if I mishear something I can always blame it on the dog. I had to keep an eye on Weezy because he thought he made a great dane look like a teacup poodle. He’d always wanna be starting something. And when the introvert in me was done with a conversation, needing to continue walking Weezy always helped me make a get-a-way. I’ll be interested to see how it is with Happy. But I’m just trying to get through her heat cycle without any surprises.
Walking a doggo for us hearing aid users, come rain or come shine, is always a challenge.
Outro
That’s a couple of Brad’s thoughts as a dog owner as both a hard of hearing person and an introvert. Would his life be easier without a dog? For sure. But that doesn’t mean it’d be better. Far from it. Easier doesn’t always mean better. Plus, the love, the comfort, the entertainment that owning a dog brings him far outweighs the frustration, the discomfort, the worry that owning a dog brings him. And he know Julie feels the same.
Our lives are full of
Rocky shores and Happy days.
Dogs are people too.
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