A long time ago, in a city 1,300 miles away, I lived for culture -- the theater, the opera, libraries and book stores straining under the weight of greater and lesser minds. My evenings were spent at Lincoln Center or on Broadway. Saturdays at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and MOMA inspired me. Leisurely dinners with people of opposing opinions influenced my writing and drove me to mine the depths of my soul, their soul, everyone's soul for truth and enlightenment. Mostly, I hungered to debate the issues of the day. That was then. Now, I live in Florida, where the scoop on poop (dog) is more likely the topic of conversation.
With my children grown and gone, my household consists of a husband and a cockerpoo by the name of Valentina. Val is 91 years old in dog years. My mother sometimes lives with us as well. Other times, she lives in outer space. My mom is 95. Her name does not matter. Mom will suffice, although occasionally I have referred to her with less flattering appellations. Val and mom spend a lot of time together. They have developed a close relationship, snoozing side by side on the couch, while engaged in a snoring contest of intense proportions.
Both are deaf. My mom has the advantage of expensive hearing aids. The audiologist convinced her that for quite a few hundred dollars more she would hear clouds float. From what I have observed, the only "extra" her money bought is the bone grating whistle that awakens only me at 2 am. Most nights, mom remembers to remove the hearing aids before going to bed. Some nights she falls asleep with them still in her ears. Around two in the morning, she rolls over on her side and buries half her face in a pillow. Although our rooms are a distance apart, I am awakened by what always reminds me of the air raid test sirens of my youth. Just as I begin to dive under the bed for protection, I come to my senses. How can she not hear that!!!! Val, who sleeps on the floor beside me, never stirs, not even when I trip over her on my way to wake mom and remove those damned high tech amplifiers. Come to think of it, my husband never awakens either. His hearing loss is feigned. I know he is awake, and just for spite, I do a lot of bouncing and adjusting of the covers when I return to bed!
Val's deafness is not a problem. She does just fine following my hand signals; although occasionally I get the feeling she is giving me the middle claw when my back is to her. I have often tried to catch Val in the act, but when I turn quickly, she is usually down on her haunches pushing out the remains of breakfast or dinner.
We live in a quiet little cul-de-sac in a lovely community. Our next door neighbor is an elderly gentleman some years younger than mom. Of course, mom hides a lot of her age under wigs, makeup and pushup bras. Yes, she is 95...going on 45. A few years ago, I would have said 95 going on 25, but mom assures me she has gotten more realistic of late. Coquettish might best describe her.
Like most old folks, Mr. Next Door finds minding other people's business a viable and rewarding hobby. In conversation one day, he asked why I used hand gestures instead of speaking to Val. I explained that she had lost her hearing due to numerous ear infections. While she was still a puppy, I tried clothes pinning Val's ears up on top of her head to allow for circulation, but she fought me tooth and claw. Could be some underlying hostility causing those paw gestures I sense so often.
Our neighbor must have given a lot of thought to our exchange because the next time I saw him he asked me if Val's bark was different from dogs that could hear. Truthfully, the question perplexed me, which must have been obvious from the "What are you talking about" bubble floating over my head. When I hesitated to answer, he instructed me that people who are hearing impaired speak differently than those who are not. Duh!
At dinner, I related the story to my husband, complete with some very witty canine commentary and facial expressions. Only, he did not laugh. He thought Mr. Next Door's questions were interesting and wondered aloud if there was any research on the subject. I was spurred (read: ashamed) into surfing the web to find the answer.
No, I am not going to tell you that I am now writing a heart warming canine inspired Miracle Worker story. What I am going to tell you is that urban life and suburban life is basically the same. Watch where you step. There's poop everywhere!