Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

My dog, Una, has an uncanny sense of memory, when it serves her. Now, Una is an incredibly friendly dog and likes to say "hi" to other friendly dogs. But she never forgets the dogs which aren't friendly.

Some people in our neighborhood aren't as careful with their dogs. One, for example, allowed his dog to be outside with neither a leash nor a fence. When we walked by, the dog charged us, looking like it meant business. Una and I backtracked immediately, walking brisky away. The dog's owner had to chase after it and grab it.

Now Una, when we reach that block, insists on crossing the road well before we reach that house.

We haven't seen the dog again since that first incident, so there's no telling whether being on the other side of the street would help. But as long as it gives Una peace of mind, I'm willing to relent.

If you try to make Una walk past a house where she previously encountered an unfriendly dog, she digs her feet in and refuses to move.

What was more remarkable was when she did the same thing on a side street where we rarely walk. In this particular case, she insisted on crossing the road to avoid a house where three dogs are frequently in their fenced in yard, barking aggressively and jumping against the fence. The irony is that this particular time, they weren't even in their yard.

She also remembers, of course, where the friendly dogs live. She gets excited as we near, pulling at her leash and straining to see into their yard. These friendly dogs get sniffed or licked through the fence.

When we take Una someplace she likes, she always seems to know a couple blocks before we get there. I don't know if she remembers the scenery or if she simply reads my body language. But as soon as we pull up in a place she likes, whether it's my dad's house or a park we've visited before, she perks up, starts barking anxiously, wanting to be let out of the car.

As good as her memory is, you'd think she'd remember that I tend to let her out when we arrive at our destination.

Sometimes I wonder how good her memory is. Does she remember, for example, the Luser, to whom she grew attached before I kicked him out, when she was just a puppy. For awhile, when she and I came home to the apartment, she would run through the different rooms, looking for him. Is that why she worries so much when I leave?

Does she remember further back, to her littermates? She is still close to the ones she gets to see: my sister has her sister, Emma, and my mom has her brother, Murray. My brother has her mother, Pulsar. But does she remember those she saw for the last time when they were fluffy puppies, too?

If she remembers things so well, why does it take her so long to learn good behaviors? When I leave the apartment for a long period of time, she likes to go into the bathroom, pull my towel down and lie on it. No matter how many times I've scolded her about this, she's continued this oddly obsessive behavior. I suppose she does remember being disciplined, but the urge is too strong to resist.

She certainly learns patterns very well. She knows The Gryphon's morning routine and hates it when he goes off to work without me. In an effort to make him stay, she whines or barks or brings him her favorite toy, a beat-up teddy bear once the favorite toy of my late kitty, Squeaky. But for some reason, when he and I both get ready to leave at the same time, she doesn't fight it. Instead of barking, she just sighs and puts her head on her paws.

Ironically, as I've been dictating this, I've been walking Una. Just now, a neighbor walked by with a fluffy poodle mix Una likes. He's one of the few small dogs she can tolerate, because he doesn't bark in her face. She sniffed him and got all excited, bouncing around.

But after we parted, just a few steps later, she insisted that we cross the road before we walked past the house where a Doberman Pinscher once dashed out at us. Can't say I blame her on that one.

All this means, of course, that there's hope Una can be broken of her towel obsession. She's going to have to do a cost benefit analysis, where she remembers the consequences as she's about to take the towel down and decides it's not worth the momentary bliss of lying on my towel.

Maybe I can hire the Doberman Pinscher to guard the bathroom. That would do it, for sure.

Copyright 2004 by Alyce Wilson

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