Monday, March 31, 2003

SAWIN’ LOGS When your dog

SAWIN’ LOGS

When your dog weighs 100 pounds - or when mine does - there are bound to be a few curious noises in your life.  The occasional rumble, whistle, squeak or - god forbid - oilcan clunk followed by splash: these are the auditory gifts that all our canine friends bestow freely on us.  Eventually we wonder how we managed without them.  But Coz has a cinderblock instead of a skull, a cinderblock full of teeth and hydraulic fluid with a hard marble of grey matter bouncing around in it.  And this creates a sound sensation that, as far as my experience with the species goes, is unique to Cosmo.

Like many dogs, Cosmo sleeps.  We have him come back to the master suite with us when we retire of an evening, and he goes obediently to his fleecy bed opposite ours.  As I lie in my bed I can hear him breathing, his exhalations outrushing in his nostrils, regular and soothing. 

But then, much later in the night, when we’re all sleeping and even the cat has crept in to join us, he begins a distinctive and cacaphonous conversation. You could say that he’s snoring, and that would be accurate, but insufficient to describe what he’s doing.  It’s not that he snores loudly - not all the time, anyway.  He can crank out a bone-rattling snore, but it’s not his style to stick with it.  His snores constantly change, going back and forth in tone, pitch, duration and intensity.  It’s like his snores are having a conversation.

I wake up without opening my eyes, knowing that it’s 1:45 a.m. and the room is dark and still.  The thing that awakens me is a sharp retort, like one old friend greeting another.  It’s a snore, but it seems to say, “Hey!”

I lie waiting for the response that comes with his next breath.  This one is protracted and ascending in tone, as if asking a question - “How’s it going?” Another short snort replies, “Fine.” A long snore - “Do you think they’re asleep?” And from here the alternating snores become quite expressive: “Yup!” “Should we wake them?” “Sure!” “What should we do?” “Dunno.” “I think we should sing.” “Can’t.” “You’re not trying.” “Make me.”

At this point I reach down to grab a shoe or sock or notebook at my bedside - anything - and rustle it about, trying to suggest that, if the dog doesn’t wake up and shift positions, I’ll have to toss something at him.  He bestirs himself moderately and curls up in a new spot.  The room is quiet for a few minutes.  My mind relaxes, I sense sleep returning, dream images arise from my subconscious for my amusement and delectation. 

“You still there?”
“You betcha.”
“Wanna play a game?”
“Which?”
“Twenty questions.”

I have to toss a sock at the dog.  He sits up with a start and a single rifleshot snore.  This wakes up the cat, who jumps onto Kelly, all four feet landing in a two-inch square area just below her navel.  Kelly awakens, displeased.  The dog, alerting to the cat, comes over grinning and wagging his tail.  The cat complains.  It’s so nice when we can all be together like this. 

MORAL: Sometimes it’s better to let snoring dogs lie.