The Voice

Willie hardly makes a sound.  He doesn’t whine, and he doesn’t bark, though he communicates with me a great deal through eye contact, body posture, and tail wagging.  His basic states of being are: happy (to see me); excited (to go for a walk or to eat); contented (after a walk or a meal); and narcotized – his eyes at half-mast or closed with the pleasure of stroking and petting.  None of these things are communicated with any sound, and Richard and I feel very fortunate that Willie is so calm and quiet.

I’ve observed Willie during brief episodes of confusion (the first time he saw chickens, or a goat, or deer running across the road) and once, even fear (when, in meeting Willie for the first time, Ida the cat hissed and lashed out with her claws, which sent Willie running and yelping across the lawn, his tail tucked beneath him).

After three weeks together, we’ve come to understand each other’s routines, and Willie communicates his interests and his needs by appearing at my side, by touching me with his paws, or by standing on his hind legs and hopping in place like Bobo the Circus Dog.  These silent exchanges are almost telepathic, yet I realize that in my mind’s eye – or ear, as it were – I have imagined a voice for Willie, and it is definitely not the voice I heard today when he actually made a sound – a startling growl-bark that revealed a trebly, high-pitched voice as unexpected as it was jarring.  Hearing Willie confront the dog on that Brooklyn street corner was like hearing someone on helium, or like hearing a, well, a Chihuahua.

I consider Willie’s size – eleven pounds – and the physiology of his little larynx; his size means he’s only capable of producing a certain range of sounds, a certain timbre.  Try as he might – the sounds Willie does make will never be deep or resonant; if he were a wind instrument, he’d be among the smallest in the orchestra — a flute instead of an oboe.

Or maybe more like a kazoo.

Still, the sound Willie made, and that surprising, split second display of his pearly, pointy teeth, were enough to make the larger dog roll to its back and then grovel in a posture of submission – a posture Willie ignored as he walked on, head-up, chest out, his tail waving like a flag.  I knew from the dog books I’ve been reading that Willie was displaying the classic alpha dominant posture.  You want a piece of me?  I may be only eleven pounds but I am a bad ass and I will mess you up!

Or maybe it’s something more like Speak softly and carry a big human