Postscript

Tags

Buck, change, dog, home

As I went about my day – which included a live radio performance, a concert, and a three-year-old’s birthday party – no fewer than seven people made reference to Buck’s sleeping habits. It appears that yesterday’s tale of a befuddled and restless dog inspired sympathy in many a reader.

Thank you, friends. I am touched that you are thinking about the emotional well being of my pet, and if he understood any of what I have explained to him this evening, he would be touched as well. (Of course, if he understood any of what I explained to him, he would have realized by now that his world has not, in fact, been turned upside down. Alas, he still thinks that it has.)

I am pleased to report that, as I write this, Buck is stretched across the floor of my closet. But he does not particularly like it.

He is on edge this weekend. I can’t tell how much of it is due to the change in scenery or to what extent he is unsettled by the noises and smells from the newly opened windows throughout the house. He routinely paces about the house, hackles raised, emitting a guttural rattle that evolves into a high-pitched whine. After making the rounds and ensuring that all is as it should be, he returns to the bedroom and paces around the edge of the bed, sniffing the bed skirt, searching for a point of entry. Realizing that there is none, he turns his gaze to the closet, inspects it with suspicion, and tentatively enters.

For the last two years, Buck has entered the double closet through the left door and laid down with his head and paws wedged between the shoe rack and the door frame. I think he took comfort in the sensation of enclosure around his head – he seemed unaware that the rest of his body was unprotected.

He finds the closet reconfiguration highly disconcerting. He has never studied geometry, and also he is a dog, so he doesn’t really understand the concept of a mirror image. If he did, he would realize that by entering the closet from the right side (as opposed to his usual left) he could assume the same sleeping posture that has brought him comfort for the last two years. Instead he enters from the left, and when he fails to recognize the familiar landscape of shoes and bureau drawers, he gingerly lowers himself to the floor with his haunches behind the door frame and his head hanging out of the right side. He can not understand how to rectify the situation, and my efforts to guide him have only resulted in frustration.

Resigned to circumstances that he can not change, he has begrudgingly taken his backwards place in the closet. He lies there with tense shoulders, staring at me from across the room. It is a small step towards normalcy, but he is clearly dissatisfied with the situation.

Poor guy. My heart goes out to him. It’s hard to adapt to change that is thrust upon you.

Security

Tags

Buck, change, dog, home

I rearranged my bedroom furniture today.

I do this every few years, or when I start to feel restless. The last time I did this – I have learned from the review of my old diaries – was in 2010 after a difficult breakup. Unsure of how to navigate my newly solo existence, I decided that a change of scenery was in order. Conveniently, my roommate at the time was going through a feng shui frenzy and throwing out half of her furniture. Consequently, I threw out half of mine and took hers in its place.

Lately, with the roommate gone, I’ve had an urge to swap the furniture in my master and guest bedrooms – in other words, to move into a new part of the house. It would be an odd choice, considering that mine is the larger of the two bedrooms, with a huge closet, big windows, and an adjoining bathroom. But part of me wants to know what it would be like to sleep in the small purple room in the center of the house.

I have not yet made the switch. There are obvious practicalities of staying in the larger bedroom and bathroom. So I decided today to see if I could satisfy my need for change without substantially inconveniencing myself.

Given the shape of the room, I don’t have a lot of options for furniture layout. But I turned my bed ninety degrees and repositioned my two bureaus against the opposite wall. I also took the time to reconfigure my closet, not so much to improve organization but mainly for the purpose of dog hair management. My closet is closed off by a double set of folding doors. A small bureau takes up one half of the closet – I hang shirts and short skirts above it. The other side is taken up by longer dresses and coats, and a haphazard pile of shoes. In the middle, behind the door frame, is an oversized pillow where Buck sleeps. Wedged in between the bureau and the wall, he has built up an impressive nest of hair and stuffed animals.

From the first day we brought him home from the shelter, Buck has been drawn to small spaces. As a puppy he used to wedge himself under the couch or between the rungs of the kitchen chairs. As he grew larger, his favorite spots were no longer accessible to him, but he continued to seek out the smallest possible spaces. This is how he came to love crawling under the bed.

The space between the box spring and the floor is approximately seven inches tall. To fit under there, my sixty-five pound dog has to flatten himself on the floor and shimmy himself in, one inch at a time. From the ages of two to seven he spent approximately twenty hours per day under the bed. I couldn’t decide if he was motivated by an intense craving for security or if it was just too damn hard to crawl out to say hello.

After a while, I grew uncomfortable with his nesting habit. My room had started to smell musty. The thought of him breathing his hot, moist breath under my bed all day long grossed me out, as did the tufts of grey hair that were accumulating on the underside of my mattress. Mostly, though, I was concerned by his advancing age. I had images of an arthritic dog getting stuck under the bed – or suffering digestive distress in the least accessible spot in the house. I was also plagued by the certainty that eventually, when he sensed that his time was up, he would seek out his most comfortable spot to die. If I was to avoid these unpleasant scenarios, I would have to provide an equally comforting and confined spot while he was still young and adaptable. So I pulled assorted odds and ends from my closets – boxes of Christmas ornaments, a folding clothes rack, and a midi keyboard I never use – and stuffed them under the bed.

That is how Buck ended up sleeping in my closet, an arrangement that has worked well up until this afternoon. I did not anticipate that the new configuration would so drastically upset his routine. All I did was reverse the closet layout, which would allow a new angle for occasional vacuum cleaner access. I carefully constructed a mirror image so that he would not be overly concerned by the change. It seems, though, that despite my best efforts, I have overestimated his ability to adapt. He spent the evening restlessly pacing around the house until he finally discovered a two-foot space between boxes and wedged himself under the bed. He is down there right now. I can feel him breathing through the mattress. He will not come out.

For some, change does not come easily.

Still Searching

Tags

blog, breakups, Buck, dog, search, travel, writing

Today someone stumbled upon my blog when they did a google search on “how to be creative with small talk.” What they found, no doubt, was my post from several weeks ago about how small talk makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable.

Sorry, reader. I don’t think you got any creative tips from me. But at least now you know you’re not the only person who has no clue what to say in response to “what’s new with you?”

Search terms are funny. Every day a few of them get logged in my blog stats – WordPress tells me what terms people have searched in order to end up on my blog.  Many of them make sense – it comes as no surprise when people search “amandaroederwrites” or “creative exfoliation.” Certain topics of mine have also generated lots of search engine activity – there have been twenty two search terms involving the name “beth delforge,” and there were also a number of “james macrostie power and class” hits a few weeks ago. “creative peanut butter brownies” has also brought quite a bit of traffic to my blog. (You’re welcome.)

But sometimes a search term surprises me because I know that my blog is not what the reader was seeking. Consider, for example, the person who was looking for tour dates for the “talk to animals band” but landed on this blog post about my dog’s efforts to learn Spanish.

I’d really like to know what was going through the head of the person who searched “cost benefits analysis in a relationship.” I imagine they had already made up their mind that the relationship was over and were searching the internet for supporting evidence that a breakup was a good idea. I wonder if they were disappointed to find that my blog post was about a dog.

To the person who searched “creative breakups” – what, you wanted to make sure your soon-to-be-ex would never forget the unusual and innovative way that you dumped them? What exactly were you hoping to find? A good “it’s not you” joke? A song and dance routine? Perhaps this is what you were looking for.

“timothy reynolds inheritance scam email” resulted in three hits on my blog. It’s nice to know that some people recognize a scam when they see one. Ahem.

No fewer than six people found my blog by searching “elvia assurance bagnolet,” and I imagine that they probably searched this term for the same reason that I did last winter: I wanted to know who was behind the mysterious charge on my credit card statement. I discovered, thanks to the magic of the internet, that I had inadvertently purchased travel insurance from Elvia Assurance, a French company that offers cancellation protection to customers of the SNCF railway. That is, unless said customers have a mailing address in the United States, which is not an option in the dropdown menu of their contact form. In that case, elles sont vissées. I hope my six readers had better luck than Eileen and me.

(On a related note, two people found this blog by searching the term “americaine stupide.” Yup. Hey there. That’s me.)

Four people found me when they searched “facebook secrets.” I don’t really know why, for I am not exactly BFFs with Mark Zuckerberg. The dude hardly tells me anything.

To a few others who were led astray and ended up here: thanks for stopping by. I may be able to help you:

“food exfoliation” – I recommend oatmeal, coffee grounds, or brown sugar.

“linguistic cartoons” – here’s one.

“email address for aer lingus” – ccu@aerlingus.com, but don’t hold your breath waiting for a response.

And after much puzzling, there still remain a few search terms that I simply can’t figure out. Either they make no sense or I just don’t understand why they led to my blog.

“la scala middleman dog”

“what’s this you slip she gnp”

“willie nelson and friends live and kicking”

“trojans’s effort is half baked”

Thoughts?

A Community of Song

Tags

Buck, dog, mother, music, Peter Yarrow

I awoke long before I intended to this morning. A fire engine was careening down our street, its siren slowly wailing up and down. Buck immediately joined in. He always does. It starts as a guttural growl and crescendos into a mournful crying. As the siren’s pitch rises and falls, so too does Buck’s cry. He doesn’t do this with police sirens – only with the uniquely mournful sound of the fire engine. He emits a howl that is in near perfect unison with the truck.

I know that howling is not a desirable habit for a dog, particularly when it interrupts one’s sleep – but I find Buck’s response to fire engines incredibly endearing. I wonder if he realizes that he’s responding to a mechanically produced sound, or does he think he is joining a chorus of howling canines? Whatever the reason, clearly his instinct is to tune in to his environment. When he senses unrest, he responds.

I know that very little thought goes into this decision. It is driven purely by an unconscious animal urge. But I still find it heartwarming and strangely admirable. We humans are driven by the same instinct, but we are sometimes disinclined to listen to it.

My mother surprised me tonight with two tickets to hear Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul, and Mary at the Iron Horse Music Hall. My mother began listening to the famous folk trio when she was in high school, and their music was the soundtrack to my childhood. From infancy I fell asleep each night to my mother strumming her guitar and singing such songs as “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “If I Had a Hammer.”

Tonight was not the first time she surprised me with concert tickets. When I was four years old my parents took me to hear Peter, Paul, and Mary at Springfield Symphony Hall. When they buckled me into the car they did not tell me where we were going. Having heard advertisements all week for an upcoming flower show, I was convinced that it was our destination. Not until the legendary singers walked on stage did I realize where we were. It was a moment that neither my mother nor I will ever forget.

I have not listened to their music in years. I tend to be drawn to songs that are somewhat more complex – I love the unexpected melodic turns of jazz, the rich texture of classical music, and even the linguistic gymnastics of rap. Peter, Paul, and Mary’s music sounds simple and almost quaint to my ears. But it may as well be encoded in my DNA, for it is just as woven into my being.

Clearly my mother and I are not the only people who feel such a connection to the music, for Peter played to a sold out house. The audience was mostly older than my mother – in fact, by my estimate I was the fifth youngest person in the club tonight – but the vibrant energy was palpable. The audience sang along with every song – Peter even invited several people on stage to close out the first set with the whimsical “Puff the Magic Dragon.”

It has been a long time since I’ve experienced communal music like this. It’s not unusual for an audience to sing along at concerts – particularly when asked to do so – but it rarely feels this organic. Peter’s songs demanded to be sung not just by the legend on the stage but by all of us. The very simplicity that made me overlook them for years is what makes them so inclusive and stirring.

Peter fostered a sense of community through his music. It was not possible to sit back and listen, for it stirred a deep sense of belonging and ownership in all who were present. It was not unlike Buck’s instinctive reaction to the siren that awoke us both this morning. We were both moved by what we heard today, and our instincts told us to sing along.

Language Lessons

Tags

Airbnb, Buck, dog, English, immigrants, TESOL

There is a Shaw’s supermarket one block from the Target International Student Center. On my TESOL class days, I have taken to doing my grocery shopping on our one-hour lunch break. I store the groceries in the faculty kitchen until returning home at the end of the day. It’s an unusual way to buy groceries, but I haven’t had much time for errands lately.

I visited the supermarket today to buy milk and bread for my new Airbnb guests who would be arriving later. With Easter and Passover upon us, I suspected that my grocery shopping options would be limited later in the weekend.

I watched as an Asian couple in their late fifties carefully negotiated the dairy aisle. In heavily accented broken English they discussed which variety of milk would best suit their needs. They carefully consulted their shopping list, peered at the labels, and looked at each other tentatively. The woman carefully formed her lips around the words “Low … fet.”

I was struck by a sense of profound admiration for this couple who had clearly made a conscious choice to develop their skills in a language that was unfamiliar to them. Surely they could have had the conversation more efficiently in their native tongue. At the Target School we had spent the morning talking about the unique needs and challenges of students at every age level. We learned that adults are set in their routines and have a harder time adapting to a new language and culture.

I wondered what circumstances had led to this couple’s awkward English conversation about lowfat milk. I silently wished them well as I proceeded to the checkout counter.

It is my firm belief that immigrants to this country should learn to speak English. I hold this conviction for the same reason that I insist on ordering my coffee in the local language when I travel. I consider it a sign of cultural respect.

Now that I have had a glimpse into the world of English language learning, I have a new appreciation for its complexity. For those who are determined to do it right and fully acclimate to their new home, it is an act of commitment and courage.

Meanwhile, Buck is working on his Italian. We have two new guests in our spare bedroom: Alessandro and Tabita arrived today from Milan by way of New York. Buck ran down the stairs to greet them enthusiastically. He only recently stopped whining outside Esteban’s door, so I think he’s happy to have new friends.

Dog-Shaped Container

Tags

anger, Buck, cooking, dog, food, Jon Stewart, Leymah Gbowee, mindfulness

I’m so pissed off today.

It’s the kind of anger that makes my pulse pound in my ears. It crowds all other thoughts from my mind as I clench my jaw and pace aimlessly.

I will resist the urge to vent my anger on this blog. I made a vow months ago that I would not write unkind words, and I’ve had a few reminders along the way about why some thoughts are best left unshared. It’s not like I will feel any better if I reveal the name of the person who so sorely needs to have the smug, smarmy smile slapped off her face.

Although I will admit that picturing it just now made me feel a little better.

A few months ago I watched Jon Stewart interview Leymah Gbowee on the Daily Show. The Nobel Peace Prize laureate appeared on the show to discuss her activism in her war-torn country of Liberia. I remember being appalled by her stories of child soldiers, rape, and senseless destruction in the midst of a bloody civil war. I also remember being struck by her philosophy on anger – so much so that I wrote her words down:

Anger is fluid, like water. If you put it in an angry container, it comes out shaped like anger.

At the time, I was still shaking off some residual anger from an ugly and protracted battle. I had allowed myself to become the vessel for the ire of a few who didn’t know where else to put it. Their toxic energy stretched me like a water balloon until it finally came spewing back out of me in great boiling waves. With the memory all too fresh in my mind, I was determined to never again become an anger-shaped container.

So today I placated myself with a mantra: “Do not react. Do not. React.” I repeated it until it rang in my ears, but all I wanted to do was react.

I poured my anger into a vacuum cleaner and chased the canine tumbleweed from every corner of my house. I pushed the couch away from the wall to reveal thirteen lost dog toys and enough fur to constitute a second dog. The fur got sucked up in the noisy growl of the vacuum. The toys went into a corner.

I was unsatisfied. I stormed around the house, stripping sheets off of beds and towels off of racks. I stomped down three flights of stairs to the basement and bullied the linens into the top-loading washer. I doused them with a caustic cup of bleach for good measure. I repeated the process two more times.

My house radiated calm and order, but my anger had not subsided.

Next I poured it into a salted peanut butter chocolate chip bar-shaped container. I decided to forgo the electric mixer and beat the softened butter and sugar into submission by hand. I mixed in the flour and chocolate chips and pressed the dough into a pan (a process that should have been far more enjoyable than it was.) The verdict: Tasty. Not quite as good as these. They tasted a little bit like anger.

(Related tangent – have you ever read Aimee Bender’s “The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake?” It’s definitely worth a read.)

Finally I poured my anger into a dog-shaped container. I grabbed eight or nine of the toys that I had pulled out from under the couch. He cocked his head and furrowed his brow. I sat down in the doorframe to my kitchen and began tossing toys, one after another, down the long hallway to the bedroom. Buck scrambled after them, scratching at the hardwood floor with his claws. I didn’t care. He came trotting back, stuffed cow between his teeth, lowered his chest to the floor, and barked.

Buck does not understand anger unless it is directed at him, which makes him the perfect container. Whatever I pour into him comes out shaped like belly rubs.

Other Plans

Tags

blog, Buck, dog, friends, writing

I missed my self-imposed deadline yesterday. I realize that I’m the only person keeping score, but I feel the need to acknowledge it anyway. This whole Creative Exfoliation experiment … I’m doing it entirely for myself. It’s about making space in my life for the things that I value. It’s about self-improvement and developing discipline in my craft.

But the reality is that if I didn’t post my writing in a public forum, I wouldn’t do it. As much as I want to make creativity a habitual practice, I am equally compelled to waste hours on end farting around on the internet. So thanks, readers, for keeping me honest.

The thing is, I had every intention of writing yesterday. I had a subject in mind and had even carved out the time to do it. But fate had other plans for me.

I spent a soul-satisfying evening at the home of some good friends. We cooked a meal together and chatted about our shared experiences as teachers. We relived memories of a joint vacation and weighed the merits of Mexico vs. Europe for our next one. We lingered for hours over a platter of pepper-crusted tuna steaks seared on the grill – a most unusual menu for March in New England. Shortly after the last snow pea had been plucked from the side of the serving bowl, my phone buzzed with a text message from Esteban:

Amanda, Buck is crying waiting for u. Just thought you should know.

I considered this information and mentally replayed my afternoon with Buck. He had been watered, walked, and fed. All of his bodily needs had been addressed. There was no apparent reason why he should be whining. I was reluctant to rise from the dinner table but ultimately caved under the guilt of a crying dog and an inconvenienced houseguest. Besides, it was just past 10:00 and time for me to write. As I walked home I began mentally composing my daily post.

Buck met me at the door with an uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm. He wiggled his butt and walked in tight circles around my legs. I took him outside, where he immediately pounced on a tennis ball and dropped it at my feet.

I stared at him, incredulous. “You made me come home for this?”

He barked expectantly. I picked up the ball and hurled it across the parking lot.

After ten minutes of play we came back inside to find Esteban in the living room. This was unusual, as most nights he stays in his room with the door closed. I settled into my customary writing position – cross-legged, sideways, on the right end of the couch, computer in my lap. It was 10:55. I would have to write faster than usual, but it was still doable.

Except that Esteban wanted to talk about his wife.

Up to this point I have known her only as a disembodied voice emanating from his laptop or a return address on his care packages. It suddenly occurred to me that Esteban misses her terribly. My next realization was that on this lonely evening far from home, he needed company.

So I set aside my computer and listened to him talk about his wife, his dogs, and the oddities of the English language. We stayed up well past midnight. Buck hovered nearby, eyeing me carefully as he tried to determine whether or not I was home to stay.

The problem with writing is that it is a solitary pursuit. Every day I withdraw from the social world for an hour or two so that I can sort out the thoughts that are swirling around my brain. I’m developing a substantial indentation on the right side of my couch, as well as a shiny spot where my thumb hits the space bar on my trusty MacBook. I’ve had to make a few sacrifices in order to keep this habit going. I even cut short a date once so that I could come home to write. (I suppose it goes without saying that it was not a love connection. That he could not understand why I would choose writing over a third drink only confirmed my suspicion.) Most of the time, the trade-offs are worthwhile.

But sometimes even a disciplined writer needs to set aside the laptop and be present for the people (or dogs) who need it.

Premature

Tags

Buck, dog, spring, teaching, travel, weather

It has been unseasonably – bizarrely – warm this week. Crocuses have pushed their way out of the soil. Birds chirp and chatter well into the evening. We’re all a little out of sorts. Last March we were desperately trying to chip ice dams off of our roofs. This week we are congregating around fire pits at the beach.

I am savoring the unexpected pleasures of iced coffee, sandals, and driving with the windows down. I have even experienced moments of heat-induced discomfort, such as the desire to hurl my toasty MacBook across the room before spending one more minute with it in my lap. Not that this blogger is complaining. Perish the thought.

When I came home from school yesterday, the air felt heavy and stale inside my condo. Buck had chosen the cool kitchen floor over my bed and was panting softly. I went around to every room and opened up the windows – except for the ones that have been sealed shut with plastic, and I found this dichotomy highly amusing. I opened up the sliding glass door to our third floor deck and left it ajar, as is my warm weather custom, so that Buck can come and go as he pleases. He stared out across the top of the neighbor’s fence and barked joyfully.

This morning at the school where I teach, the main office was crowded with seniors bearing dismissal notes testifying to their need for immediate medical care. They looked perfectly robust and vibrant to me, and some even had bikini straps peeking out from under their shirts, but who was I to argue with a parent’s dismissal note? Rumors began to circulate that it was Senior Skip Day, but we teachers were soon set straight: it was Unofficial Senior Skip Day.

This balmy weather is inspiring thoughts and encouraging behaviors that don’t usually surface for another few months. While I have been wearing long flowy skirts, the students have been sporting their summery uniform of short shorts and flip flops. They beg to hold class outside, and I am hard pressed to find a reason to say no. I find my thoughts drifting to our graduation performance, final exams, and next fall’s musical.

You will be shocked – shocked! – to learn that this summer-like weather has stirred thoughts of summer travel (although, in the interest of total disclosure, so has my new moka pot, my Facebook news feed, and my pile of dirty laundry. It doesn’t take much to get me daydreaming about my next trip.) I guess there’s just something about sitting in my sweltering hot living room that makes me say “gee, I’d really like to be sweltering hot someplace else.”

Next week’s forecast calls for mid to high thirties. I can’t even begin to comprehend it. The thought of bundling up in a wool coat and scarf is downright bizarre. How quickly we forget.

Spring Fever

Tags

Buck, clothing, dog, roommates, spring, yoga

Today is officially the first day of spring, and I have never been so mindful of its arrival.

I have no idea why I am feeling so prone to spring fever, considering that this has been the mildest winter of my entire life. There is no reason why my spirit should hunger for sunlight and green when the crocuses have already been up for weeks. But nonetheless, it hungers.

Driven by some unconscious desire, I reached for my black cotton/lyrca skirt this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever worn it to work, although it is a staple in my summer travel wardrobe. Lightweight and versatile, it pairs just as well with strappy sandals as with Birkenstocks. Its black hue shows no stains, and it comes out of the bottom of my backpack wrinkle-free to class up any outfit. I love the way it drapes over my hips and billows around my ankles. It reminds me of drinking espresso in Venice, strolling along the Vieux Port in Marseille, and shopping for chocolate in Salzburg.

Summer usually finds me in Europe, and in this skirt.

Perhaps I was swayed this morning by the sun streaming through the window, or by the abundance of Vernal Equinox references on Facebook. Whatever the motivation, it was clear that trousers and socks were simply not acceptable.

It’s amazing how lightness of fabric can translate to lightness of spirit. My whole world seemed somehow brighter this morning – the coffee stronger, the traffic lighter, the music sweeter.

Buck too has been anticipating Spring’s arrival by casting off his extra layers. At this time each year he leaves a blanket of gray, billowy hair everywhere he goes. I have to go over my bed with a lint brush – several times – before I retire each night. My daily vacuuming does little to counteract his efforts. He just keeps producing more and more fur. Recently I’ve been grooming him each morning and night, but in between brushings he still lies on his side and drags himself across the bedroom carpet, leaving streaks of black and white in his wake.

I’ve learned to accept a messier life with him, and to celebrate his hairy offerings as a harbinger of spring.

Another harbinger of spring arrived this morning in the form of an email from my frined Kelley, who left her job (and my spare bedroom) to pursue a career as a full-time yoga instructor. She’s been harnessing the power of social media to promote her classes. In honor of the equinox, she included some thoughts on yoga as a spiritual discourse, reminding her readers that spring is the perfect time to practice lightness of the spirit.

To encourage such an approach, she shared the five yamas (restraints) and niyamas (observances) of yoga. She encouraged us to take advantage of this opportunity to practice the ideals of truth, restraint, purity, discipline, and self-study.

Truth be told, it was a lot to process before finishing my morning Italian roast. But it was a welcome reminder that the seasons – and perhaps this one in particular – offer us the gift of renewal that is not to be squandered.

Él No Habla.

Tags

Barcelona, Buck, dog, language, Spain, travel

Esteban is teaching my dog Spanish.

I can’t get a good handle on Buck’s linguistic progress, but he certainly is taken with his new teacher.

“¿Qué pasa?” Esteban asks when Buck wanders into his room. Buck stares at him with his usual beseeching expression. Esteban says a few words that I don’t understand, and Buck leaps up, shakes his entire body, and playfully bats Esteban’s arm with his nose.

I figure in this economy, bilingualism can only help my dog to distinguish himself from all the other dogs competing for whatever it is that dogs compete for.

I never know what to say to the dogs that I meet in my travels. I have a passable French vocabulary, but in most of the countries that I visit, I just don’t know how to say things like  “Well, hello! Aren’t you pretty? Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

And the thing is, when you’re thousands of miles from home and missing your own furry friend, these are the kinds of things that you really want to be able to say.

I have attempted to prepare for such moments by talking to Buck in French. I thought perhaps he might respond to my tone of voice and develop some sense of what I was saying to him. He mostly seemed to think it was kind of weird.

For some reason I feel even more self-conscious talking to animals in a foreign language than I do talking to people. Other humans share the effort to come to some sort of linguistic common ground. When I talk to foreign animals, they just stare at me.

I had a similar experience with a small child when I recently visited Barcelona. Eileen and I were at a park across the street from La Sagrada Familia when we noticed a little tow-headed boy wandering out of the fenced play area. He looked to be about two years old, and he was wailing inconsolably. When no adult responded to his cries, we looked at each other uncomfortably, and then approached the child.

We immediately realized that we had absolutely no idea what to say to this little boy. We didn’t even know what language he spoke. All we could surmise from his cries of “Mama!” was that he had lost his mother.

Eileen went in search of a police officer while I stayed with the boy. ¿Hablas español?” I asked. The boy stared at me. “Tu parles français?  Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

He wiped a ribbon of snot across his face with the back of his hand and stared at me but did not respond. I realized that I had absolutely no idea what I could possibly say to console this child. How could I communicate with him when I could not even determine where our limited vocabularies intersected?

I dug through my purse for something – anything – to amuse him. The purse of a single woman is not well-equipped for such a task. I found my passport, some credit cards, and a handful of Paris metro tickets. And one tissue.

Well, that was a start.

He grabbed the tissue in his grubby hands and wiped it clumsily across his face. Then, as small children are inclined to do, he handed it back to me. We could not share a conversation, but we could share his snot.

It was at that moment that his mother breathlessly ran over, embraced him, and thanked me profusely in French. I was so thrown off kilter that I didn’t know what to say except “Ohhhhhh … français!” She smiled and nodded.

“Well come on, kid,” I thought to myself. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

I think the boy and I were both a little bewildered by the whole encounter.

Buck seems to find Spanish much easier to grasp than French. Or perhaps my good French accent is not enough to convince him, and he is just responding to the natural ease of a native speaker. Whatever the reason, his Spanish vocabulary now rivals mine.

But his accent is totally unconvincing.