By JT Santana | jtwb768

There was a time when Zayne communicated primarily through his eyes.

Those eyes could say plenty. Disappointment. Accusation. Hunger. Betrayal. Suspicion. A general sense that Human Resources would eventually be hearing about whatever I had just done.

He had the stare.

He had the sigh.

He had the strategic positioning of his entire body directly between me and whatever I was trying to accomplish.

He had perfected the art of standing near the kitchen and looking at me as though I had forgotten an important appointment.

For years, this system worked perfectly well for him.

Then something changed.

Zayne discovered his voice.

I do not mean barking. Zayne has always known how to bark. Every dog understands the basic concept of announcing that someone has committed the unforgivable offense of walking past the house.

This is different.

The dog has started talking.

No, he is not forming English sentences. I have not contacted the media. Scientists are not currently traveling to Davenport to study him.

Yet.

What Zayne has developed is an entire vocabulary of sounds, grumbles, complaints, little barks, mutters, whines, dramatic exhalations, and noises that fall somewhere between a protest and an editorial comment.

More disturbing is the fact that I know what most of them mean.

Zayne and I are having conversations now.

And I am losing the arguments.

We Have Moved Beyond Basic Dog Communication

Every person who lives with a dog eventually learns certain signals.

The bathroom signal.

The hungry signal.

The somebody-is-outside signal.

The I-heard-something-that-you-apparently-did-not-hear signal.

Zayne has those.

He has simply decided they are insufficient for the level of discourse he wishes to conduct.

He does not merely tell me that he wants something anymore. He offers commentary on my response.

I can say, “No.”

Zayne responds.

I repeat myself.

Zayne responds again.

At some point I realize we are no longer dealing with a request.

We are negotiating.

This is particularly obvious when he wants food.

Zayne has long maintained very strong opinions regarding cookies. The distinction between cookie and cookies remains one of the central legal doctrines governing our household.

One cookie is not cookies.

This is not negotiable.

Apparently, somewhere in the invisible Zayne Household Code, the plural form constitutes a contractual obligation requiring a minimum of two units.

I learned this after foolishly saying something like, “Do you want cookies?”

I gave him one.

He stared at me.

I explained that he had received a cookie.

He stared harder.

Then came a noise.

Not quite a bark.

Not quite a growl.

More like:

“Urrrrooo?”

I knew exactly what it meant.

You said cookies.

I tried reasoning with him.

“You got a cookie.”

Another noise.

Singular.

“There is nothing wrong with one cookie.”

Another noise.

Then perhaps you should have used the singular noun.

At that point, I gave him another cookie.

The disturbing part is not that Zayne won.

The disturbing part is that I think his grammatical argument was sound.

He Corrects Me Now

Zayne correcting me has become a regular feature of life.

I will tell him it is not time for dinner.

He looks at me.

I look at the clock.

He makes a noise.

I explain that dinner is at a certain time.

He makes the noise again.

Apparently Zayne rejects the authority of clocks.

This is consistent with his previous position regarding Daylight Saving Time, which he regards as some bizarre human conspiracy intended to interfere with meals.

Trying to explain Daylight Saving Time to a dog is already an exercise in humiliation.

Trying to explain it to a dog who has developed rebuttals is worse.

“Dinner is an hour later now.”

Rrrrrrr.

“The clocks changed.”

Rrrr-woo.

“I do not make the rules.”

Long stare.

That stare required no translation.

You literally control the food.

Fair point.

Zayne has never been interested in abstract systems of human governance. Congress, state legislatures, local ordinances, federal regulations, time zones, Daylight Saving Time—none of these carry much authority inside his jurisdiction.

His legal system has three primary standards.

Is Zayne hungry?

Does Zayne want to go outside?

Has Zayne been denied something he believes belongs to Zayne?

Everything else is administrative clutter.

He has now gained the confidence to tell me when my interpretation of those rules is incorrect.

I can say, “You just went outside.”

Zayne answers.

“You were outside ten minutes ago.”

Another answer.

“You cannot possibly have to go again.”

Louder answer.

Fine.

We go outside.

Sometimes he actually needs to go.

Sometimes he walks approximately six feet, surveys the neighborhood, smells one patch of grass, looks around, and heads back toward the door.

That was apparently the entire mission.

I was not taking him outside for biological reasons.

I was providing transportation for an inspection.

Apparently, He Has Complaints

Then there is the venting.

This is my favorite development.

Zayne sometimes seems to have had a difficult day.

I do not know how.

I was there.

His schedule consisted largely of sleeping, eating, walking around the house, monitoring me, going outside, demanding things, eating something else, sleeping again, then monitoring me from another location.

Still, he occasionally approaches me carrying the emotional burden of a middle manager who has just survived nine consecutive meetings.

He starts making noises.

I answer him.

He makes another noise.

I respond.

The conversation continues.

I have absolutely no idea what happened to him.

Yet his tone makes it clear that somebody screwed up.

Usually me.

He will stand there vocalizing at me with such conviction that I find myself defending decisions I never realized required explanation.

“Yes, I know.”

Noise.

“I understand.”

Noise.

“I did not forget.”

Different noise.

“I said I know.”

LOUDER NOISE.

At this point I am arguing with a dog in my living room.

The truly embarrassing part comes when another human walks into the room.

They hear me say something like:

“You already had some. You cannot seriously be telling me that you think you have not eaten.”

Zayne: “Rrrrrooow.”

Me: “That is simply not true.”

Zayne: “WOO.”

Me: “Do not raise your voice at me.”

Then I notice another person staring at us.

This is when I realize that, from an outside perspective, I may have lost control of my life.

From Zayne’s perspective, things are progressing beautifully.

He has finally trained management.

The Tone Is What Gets Me

Dogs make sounds.

That is not news.

The fascinating part is the tone.

Zayne has inflection.

There are questions.

There are objections.

There are demands.

There are sounds that clearly convey disbelief.

There are noises that have the unmistakable emotional content of, You cannot possibly be serious.

There is the irritated mutter.

There is the impatient little bark.

There is the prolonged vocalization that appears to contain several paragraphs.

Then there is the sound he makes after I tell him no.

That one has attitude.

If Zayne were human, it would be accompanied by an eye roll.

Sometimes I tell him something and he walks away making noises to himself.

That is when I know I am being talked about.

I cannot prove it.

I do not need proof.

I know.

He is walking down the hallway muttering about management.

Probably filing a grievance.

Possibly contacting the union.

I am sure the complaint reads something like:

Employee: Zayne
Department: Household Operations
Complaint: Human continues arbitrary restrictions on snack distribution.
Requested remedy: Cheese.

The Confidence Is New

The funniest part is watching his confidence grow.

At first, Zayne’s vocal communication seemed tentative.

He would make a sound.

I would respond.

Then he seemed to notice something.

I understood him.

That was the mistake.

Once he discovered that certain sounds produced predictable reactions, experimentation began.

A quiet noise near the door.

I opened the door.

Interesting.

A noise near the kitchen.

I checked his food.

Very interesting.

A particular vocalization when I walked away.

I came back.

Extremely interesting.

I imagine the canine research notes looked something like this:

Experiment 1: Make noise at human.

Result: Human reacts.

Experiment 2: Make louder noise.

Result: Human reacts faster.

Experiment 3: Combine noise with staring.

Result: Excellent.

Experiment 4: Add dramatic sigh.

Result: Human begins apologizing.

Scientific breakthrough.

Now Zayne seems completely comfortable telling me his opinions.

He does not hesitate.

He does not wonder whether his contribution is wanted.

He enters the conversation confident that everyone has been waiting to hear from him.

There is something strangely delightful about it.

The dog who once relied heavily on body language now seems determined to participate verbally in household affairs.

He has discovered that his voice works.

He intends to use it.

Constantly.

He Has Become My Supervisor

I have joked before that Zayne believes I work for him.

I am beginning to suspect it is not a joke.

Consider my responsibilities.

I prepare meals.

I distribute snacks.

I open doors.

I arrange blankets.

I provide transportation.

I maintain acceptable sleeping accommodations.

I respond to security alerts.

I accompany him during selected outdoor activities.

I conduct routine pantry operations.

I provide physical affection upon request.

I remain available for consultation.

Zayne contributes oversight.

This seems like an uneven division of labor.

I have attempted to raise the issue with management.

Management growled.

Case closed.

His supervisory technique has grown far more sophisticated now that vocal commentary has entered the system.

Previously, a delayed response earned me a stare.

Now I get a reminder.

Then another reminder.

Then escalation.

Imagine an executive assistant saying:

“Just circling back on this.”

Five seconds later:

“Following up.”

Ten seconds later:

“Per my previous communication.”

Fifteen seconds later:

“WHY IS THE DOOR STILL CLOSED?”

That is Zayne.

There is no concept of a reasonable response window.

His service-level agreement appears to require immediate action.

If I am working, he does not care.

If I am on the phone, irrelevant.

If I am writing, meaningless.

If I have just sat down after getting him exactly what he wanted, that may actually trigger another request.

Zayne operates under a simple principle:

My availability is presumed.

Privacy Has Been Eliminated

Another issue deserves discussion.

Zayne does not recognize privacy.

At all.

The bathroom?

Open meeting.

Bedroom?

Shared workspace.

Kitchen?

Obviously his department.

Living room?

Executive suite.

If I close a door, Zayne interprets that as evidence of suspicious activity.

He needs access.

Sometimes he sits outside the door.

Sometimes he announces his dissatisfaction.

Sometimes he simply waits.

That might sound patient.

It is not.

There is a form of waiting that communicates:

When this door opens, we are discussing your choices.

Zayne has perfected it.

I have occasionally opened a door to find him sitting directly outside.

Not wandering nearby.

Not sleeping.

Waiting.

Then comes the look.

Where were you?

What were you doing?

Why was I excluded?

Who authorized this?

I find myself giving explanations.

“To use the bathroom, Zayne.”

He stares.

“Yes, alone.”

Stare.

“I am permitted to do that.”

Noise.

Apparently that final point remains disputed.

There Are Now Editorial Corrections

One of my favorite things about Zayne is his apparent belief that he needs to correct inaccurate statements.

“You are not hungry.”

Noise.

“You do not need another cookie.”

Noise.

“You cannot go with me.”

LOUD noise.

“You need to move.”

Absolutely not.

Telling Zayne to move deserves special attention.

Dogs understand many words.

Zayne understands “move.”

His interpretation of the command is simply different from mine.

To me, “move” means relocate your body so I can pass.

To Zayne, “move” means consider whether relocation would benefit Zayne.

Frequently, after review, the request is denied.

I step around him.

This reinforces his authority.

He has now learned that physical noncompliance combined with vocal objection produces excellent results.

I tell him to move.

He grumbles.

I negotiate.

He remains stationary.

I alter my route.

Zayne wins.

Somewhere along the way, my house became a tiny nation governed by a furry autocrat whose principal policy priorities are snacks and unrestricted access to me.

He Has Opinions About My Schedule

Zayne has become increasingly involved in scheduling.

He prefers that I remain home.

This is not subtle.

When I prepare to leave, he watches.

Shoes are suspicious.

Keys are deeply troubling.

Changing clothes can trigger surveillance.

Picking up certain bags constitutes probable cause.

Zayne knows departure rituals.

He may not understand where I am going, yet he understands that something is happening without his approval.

This produces commentary.

Sometimes the commentary begins before I reach the door.

I explain that I will be back.

He remains unconvinced.

“I am just running out.”

Noise.

“I will not be gone long.”

Noise.

“You cannot come.”

Major objection.

I do not know whether Zayne thinks persistence will cause me to reconsider, though I have to admit that persistence has worked extremely well in other areas.

Cookie policy, outdoor access, couch positioning, blanket allocation—he has built an impressive record.

Why would transportation policy be different?

Then I return home.

This triggers the investigation.

Where was I?

Why did it take that long?

Did I meet other dogs?

Do I smell like another dog?

Did food occur somewhere without him?

There is an inspection.

Nothing escapes scrutiny.

His Voice Has Made Him Funnier

Zayne was funny before he became so vocal.

His face alone could carry a story.

His timing has always been exceptional.

His absolute confidence that every household activity relates to him creates endless material.

The voice changed the dynamic.

Now there is dialogue.

There is rhythm.

There is escalation.

There are moments when I say something and Zayne immediately responds with a sound that lands so perfectly that I start laughing.

Then he looks at me.

He does not know why I am laughing.

Or perhaps he does.

That possibility concerns me.

Sometimes the exchange becomes so absurd that I cannot continue pretending I am the adult in charge.

I tell him no.

He argues.

I repeat myself.

He argues harder.

I laugh.

He notices that I am weakening.

Then he moves closer.

This is a seasoned negotiator.

He knows when opposing counsel has lost discipline.

Soon I am reaching for the cookie container.

Case dismissed.

Somewhere Along the Way, We Built a Language

Underneath the comedy, something pretty wonderful has happened.

Zayne and I know each other extremely well.

I know the difference between his sounds.

I know when he is asking for something.

I know when he is irritated.

I know when something outside has his attention.

I know when he wants reassurance.

I know when he is excited.

I know when he is being demanding purely for the sake of being demanding.

I know when he is complaining.

Most dog people know exactly what I mean.

Animals and humans living closely together build communication systems that make very little sense to anyone outside the relationship.

A tilt of the head.

A certain look.

A paw placed somewhere.

One particular sound.

A routine repeated enough times that both parties know the script.

We teach dogs words.

Dogs teach us signals.

Eventually we meet somewhere in the middle.

Zayne has apparently decided the middle is insufficient.

He is coming the rest of the way.

Every week he seems more willing to vocalize what he wants.

Every week I seem more capable of translating it.

That is probably how I ended up arguing about grammar with a dog.

I Blame Myself

I encouraged this.

I responded to him.

I talked back.

I treated his noises like communication.

I asked questions.

“What do you want?”

He answered.

“Do you need to go outside?”

He answered.

“Are you hungry?”

Enthusiastic answer.

“Do you want a cookie?”

Extremely enthusiastic answer.

Then I reinforced the system by doing what he wanted.

Of course he became more vocal.

From Zayne’s perspective, he has trained me beautifully.

Make sound.

Human responds.

Make specific sound.

Human performs specific task.

Repeat until human compliance becomes reliable.

Perhaps I have misunderstood this relationship from the beginning.

I thought I was teaching Zayne.

Zayne may have been conducting a longitudinal study on human behavior.

The results are troubling.

And Yet, I Love Hearing Him

I joke about the arguing.

I joke about the complaining.

I joke about being corrected by a dog.

The truth is that I love it.

I love that he feels comfortable enough to demand things from me.

I love that he expects me to listen.

I love that he comes looking for me when he has something to say.

I love the ridiculous conversations.

I love knowing that one tiny sound can make perfect sense to me and absolutely no sense to anyone else.

There is intimacy in that.

There is trust in it.

Zayne assumes I will respond.

He assumes I am his person.

He assumes his concerns belong partly to me.

Honestly, he is right.

Even when the concern involves an allegedly insufficient number of cookies.

Especially then.

The Zayne Files Have Entered a Dangerous New Era

I do not know where this goes next.

At the current rate of development, Zayne will probably be issuing press releases by Christmas.

He may start holding briefings.

I fully expect written grievances.

There could be collective bargaining.

Perhaps a formal Cookie Minimum Wage.

Two per transaction seems to be his opening position.

Three would probably represent what he considers fair compensation.

Cheese may require separate negotiations.

Chicken could trigger binding arbitration.

One thing is clear.

Zayne has found his voice.

He uses it to argue.

He uses it to correct me.

He uses it to complain.

He uses it to demand access, food, attention, transportation, outdoor inspections, and whatever else he decides has suddenly become urgent.

He occasionally uses it simply to tell me something.

I answer.

He answers back.

Then we continue until one of us gives up.

That person is usually me.

I once believed I owned a dog.

I now appear to live with a highly opinionated, grammatically precise household administrator who has discovered vocal advocacy and possesses no apparent interest in using it sparingly.

I created this situation.

I accept responsibility.

I would write more about it, but Zayne is standing beside me making noises.

Apparently there is a problem.

Judging by his location, tone, and expression, I believe it involves cookies.

Plural.

Of course.