Listening Doesn’t Mean Agreeing
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By Sweetie
Herald K9 Correspondent
My human has accused me of having selective hearing. This is ridiculous. My hearing is excellent. In fact, I would argue that it is one of my more impressive qualities. And no jokes about the size of my ears, please. I’ve heard them all from Snack Dad. Twice.
I can hear the refrigerator door open from another room. I can hear Snack Dad touch a bag of chips before he actually opens it. I can hear the faintest crinkle of a cheese wrapper, the lid come off a jar of peanut butter, or a cabinet door open that has even the slightest possibility of containing something I might want. I can also hear a squirrel make one suspicious move somewhere in the backyard.
I can even hear another dog walking down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street through closed doors. My humans, of course, hear nothing. They will sit there calmly as though we are not experiencing a potential security situation. Fortunately, someone in this house remains alert.
So there is absolutely nothing wrong with my hearing. The confusion seems to arise because my human mistakes hearing her for being interested in everything she has to say.
Every now and then my human will tell me to do something and I will continue doing whatever I was already doing. After a while she looks at me and asks, “Are you even listening to me?”
Well, not really.
Sometimes I even look directly at her while she is talking. Apparently this makes things worse because she knows I heard her. I am not sure why. Eye contact should at least reassure her that I am paying attention. Listening and agreeing, however, are two entirely different things.
Now, I should point out that when my human actually calls me, I come. I am very good about that. Occasionally she calls my name again before I have had what I consider a reasonable amount of time to finish what I am doing, and then I come a little faster. Not because the matter has suddenly become urgent. I simply know her well enough to realize that she is going to keep saying “Sweetie” until I appear. There are times in every relationship when it is easier to cooperate than listen to someone repeat herself.
Then there is the word “no.” My human is very fond of this word, although in my opinion she uses it far too often.
“No, you can’t come with me.”
“No, leave that alone.”
“No, you have already had a treat.”
That last one is particularly weak reasoning. I fail to see how having had a treat earlier has any bearing whatsoever on whether I should have one now. By that logic, Snack Dad should not need another glass of tea because he had one yesterday. Yet sometimes my human says “no,” I look at her, and then I continue doing exactly what I was doing. Again, she asks, “Are you listening to me?” I believe we have already covered this.
There are, however, occasions when my human communicates exceptionally well. “Sweetie, do you want a treat?” Perfectly clear. I respond immediately.
“Want to go for a walk?” Again, excellent communication. I am usually headed toward the door before the sentence is finished. My human claims this proves I have selective hearing. I believe it proves that I respond quickly when she has something worthwhile to say.
Perhaps, instead of questioning my hearing, she should examine her own communication skills. After all, I have spent years learning her words, routines and habits. I know which shoes mean we are going for a walk. I know the sound of the car keys. I know when she is actually leaving the house and when she is merely wandering around gathering things and wasting everybody’s time.
I know the difference between the refrigerator opening for a bottle of water and the refrigerator opening with actual possibilities. I even know when Snack Dad is trying to quietly eat something without attracting my attention. He is not nearly as stealthy as he thinks he is.
So I would like the record to show that I do not have selective hearing. I hear perfectly well. I simply do not believe everything I hear requires a response. And if my human believes I am paying attention to what she says more often than I actually am, well, that’s my little secret.
