“If Dogs Could Talk”

Second in a series on animal communication in The Malibu Times, March 31, 2005
By Jody Stump

I always thought, “If my dog could talk, I’m not sure I’d want to hear what he had to say.” He’s a mouthy little guy and he holds strong opinions about many things, from the roar of a leaf-blower to breakfast delayed. Some say it’s inherent in the breed.

He’s a Yorkshire terrier, one of those silky-haired “purse dogs” oftfound tucked under a female arm like a personal accessory. But don’t be fooled by a foolish exterior – the breed has a scrappy heritage. Created by Yorkshire colliers in the late 19th century to scramble their way into the mines to kill rats lurking within, these tiny warriors were so good at what they did that the miners tucked them in the pockets of their long coats after a hard day’s work and threw them into makeshift rat-baiting rings behind local pubs. There, the little dogs won a roast beef dinner for a kill. Yorkies were fearless killers in the night until the local ladies caught sight of the adorable beasts and put brushers and bows to them.

Today, most Yorkies live a more refined life, but inside the fancy wrapping lives the heart of a Cujo. Fans call the breed “the canine doorbell,” but detractors use more colorful language to describe behavior that the American Kennel Club breed standard terms an “air of self-importance.” Virtually all Yorkies are expressive when disturbed, but they are also charming, very bright, fleet-footed and amusing – and, as loving and devoted a companion as anyone could wish.

We like the breed and have had a half dozen over the years; all raised from pups the size of hamsters. All, that is, except this one. He came to us as a rescue when he was a year and half old, wide-eyed and skinny with a bagful of issues and a carload of crates and toys. We called him Jack for his long Jackrabbit legs and the strange, bunny-way he hopped when he ran. He was very sweet and responsive, but everything frightened him: driving over Bott’s bumps, whirling the salad spinner, clocks ticking and going downstairs. Two years later, his fright reactions are flinches instead of quaking fits, but it’s obvious the dog had a scary, secret past life.

Now, through the kind offices of an animal communicator who lives a thousand miles away, we are helping our little rescued orphan sort through his “issues.” Maleah Jacobs (www.maleahjacobs.com) lives in Seattle and, like Dr. Doolittle, talks to the animals. She talks to all manner of beasts from pythons to bears, with dogs and cats as her common charges. When I called her to do an interview for an article on pet psychics, she said, “Oh, that’s fine but it doesn’t really show you what I do. If you have a pet, just e-mail me a picture and I’ll do a session for you.”

All she had was a melt-your-heart Valentine picture of Jackson. No name, no history, and she didn’t know me at all. Shortly before our interview, I had taken Jack into town for a walk. A couple was coming toward us with twins in a wide stroller. Jack pulled back on his leash in terror and flattened himself on the sidewalk. I picked him up, but he cringed against my shoulder until they went past. As soon as I put him down, he bolted for home, tail between his legs, until he reached the end of his leash. For the next half hour, I carried him.

Maleah and I started to chat, Jack napping on my lap. After a few introductory comments, Maleah said, “Excuse me, your dog has something to say to you.” My eyebrows shot to my hairline, but I replied, “Okay.”

“He says that he knows it upsets you when something scares him on the street and you only pick him up to comfort him, but don’t do it. He needs to feel grounded, literally. Just let him cower there until he gets over it and then you can comfort him,” she told me. I sat, humbled, mulling over what she’d said. It was as though she’d seen the incident on the street.

Maleah went on, “Also, did he just have his teeth cleaned?” I nodded, but she couldn’t see that when she continued, “Well, he hates it! He can still taste the anesthetic and his mouth is bothering him and he just wants you to know that he hates anyone messing with his mouth.” True, even the vet can’t get his mouth open to drop in a pill.

My dog told me he preferred being called Jackson, his given name, since it “had more dignity than Jack” and he’d rather eat beef or bison than chicken “because he’s chicken enough as it is.” In all, Jackson spike for the better part of an hour and I never doubted that it was his expression coming through the voice of a stranger, miles away. Every incident, every attitude was pure, un-distilled Jackson. From the stories I knew about, like freaking out on the street to things from his prior life where, he said, he spent whole days locked in that battered dog crate, every word rang true.

His words were sweet, serious and assertive and he didn’t ask for much except a new red harness and a haircut. Still, the best part about talking to my dog was the very strange, long-lasting aftermath from our conversation. Jackson calmed down. It was as though he felt he could relax now that someone had actually heard what he had to say.