“This has got to stop,” my husband said after my dog nearly propelled both of us into cardiac arrest when she lost her shit during an episode of The Closer. “I just saw stars. There’s something dripping down the side of my face. Is there blood coming out of my ear? Why does she do that? Why can’t she have a regular ruff-ruff bark like other dogs her age?”
“God, I wish I knew,” I said, wiping the spray of fruit punch Crystal Light that had flown up onto my forehead and eyelashes after Maeby’s bark stabbed my brain like a shard of glass. I wiped a far-flying droplet from the side of my husband’s head. “Nothing bad has ever happened to her as a result of the doorbell ringing. If we had an idea of what freaks her out so much, maybe we could get her to stop.”
And as if In Dog We Trust was listening to me from up above, the following week I got the new issue of Bark, a magazine about dogs, in the mail. Always excited to see it, I opened up the issue immediately and was doing a preliminary flip through when something caught my eye. It was an ad for a “dog translator,” which said it could analyze my dog’s barks, determine her emotion, and then deliver a sentence about what my dog’s bark meant. It was touted as one of Time magazine’s greatest inventions of the year. I wasted no time in going to the website and buying it right there on the spot.
Now, I know it seems foolish to believe in such a thing, especially considering that earlier that year I had swabbed the inside of my dog’s mouth with a giant Q-tip, carefully placed it inside a sterile plastic tube, and mailed it off to get her DNA analyzed. And that wasn’t the most ridiculous part of the equation. That had come when I went to the website and paid this DNA lab seventy-five dollars to send me the kit.
I need to explain here that I got my dog at the local pound, so her gene pool is rather murky, at best. She’s fluffy, tan and white, and has one blue eye, one brown, and a speckled little nose. All paws pointed to Australian shepherd, that part was obvious, but it was the other half that had me wondering, especially when she was diagnosed with a form of lupus that affected her skin, nails, and that speckled little nose. If there was a breed that was more susceptible to that kind of illness and it could be identified, that might help prepare us for other directions the lupus might take in the future. Most likely, her mystery portion was golden retriever, but curiosity was eating away at me to find out for sure.
That reasoning aside, the truth of the matter is that I thought it would rock to have my dog’s DNA tested, and I really am that kind of asshole who would write out a check for the amount of her weekly grocery budget in order to attain that bragging right.
But when I mentioned to the girls at the doggy day care how excited I was that I’d ordered the DNA kit, they advised me not to include a photo of my dog, as the kit encourages you to do, despite the claim that it’s to attach to the photo area on your dog’s Certificate of DNA when the results are returned to you. The girls informed me that according to their other clients—who were also apparently big enough assholes to write out seventy-five-dollar checks and rub a giant cotton swab all over their dogs’ mouths—when the results came back, the dogs with photos enclosed were determined to be of lineage very much in line with their appearance. The kits that were returned sans photos, however, had results that were all over the map. A toy poodle was determined to be 50 percent German shepherd. A German shepherd was relayed to be 76 percent cocker spaniel. A corgi was actually a Siberian husky. I held back on the photo and trusted that we had not eaten spaghetti with butter for the last week in vain.
I have to say that, despite the reports of DNA testing run afoul, I still had hope when I ripped open the envelope that I wasn’t a mark, a sucker, a rube, and that Maeby’s heritage would be mapped out very clearly for me across the page. Sure enough, there it was, the document that detailed how my fluffy tan-and-white dog with her huge sweeping tail was mostly Doberman, and whatever part of her wasn’t Doberman was boxer. After the report, I wasn’t allowed to make any household decisions aside from blue or red Charmin for a very, very long time (and this may be insignificant to some, but we’ve been told that certain friends look forward to parties at our house because of the quality of our toilet paper. I’m not sure what that says about my snacks of celebration or hostess abilities, but if you want a smooth transaction after you’ve been drinking and eating finger foods, you know where to go).
But when I had to tell my husband that I’d ordered the dog translator, I knew things had to be different than they were with the DNA test.
“I think we might be able to crack the code of the hysterical bark,” I insisted, showing him the ad as he frowned at the spaghetti dripping with butter that he’d twirled around his fork. “The website says that ‘the Animal Emotion Analysis System analyzes the bark and determines the most accurate translation.’ It’s one of Time magazine’s inventions of the year!”
When it arrived the following week via UPS, there was no containing me. I brought it into my office and dove into the package, ripping it apart like it was a meal. This magnificent invention—the one that was going to save me from answering the door armed with an apology every single time—was right at my fingertips and was anxious to help us reach a solution. The package came with an instruction booklet, which somehow flipped out of the box and slid under the elliptical machine, where I would have to get up to reach it.
Well, now, that’s a shame, I thought as I looked at it for several seconds, knowing it was gone forever. “I bet that would have come in handy.”
I moved on to the shiny red parts of the package, which looked like a little walkie-talkie, and then another small oval piece, which looked as if it had something of a microphone embedded in it. From the look of the box, the oval part slid onto the dog’s collar, and the walkie-talkie was the receiver and translator.
I wasted no time and got right to work. I attached the microphone to Maeby’s collar, put the receiver in front of me, and waited.
“Maeby,” I commanded her. “Bark!”
Maeby looked at me for a moment, then put her head down and took a nap.
When my husband came home, I was very excited to show him our problem-solver, and he looked it over skeptically.
“How is this supposed to tell us what she’s barking?” he asked.
“After she barks, it transmits to the walkie-talkie, and the translation pops up on that screen,” I informed him. “Does it work?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “She hasn’t barked all day. Everyone in the neighborhood and their dog has walked by our house today, but a little miss I know needed beauty sleep.”
“So this expensive, useless thing doesn’t work,” my husband asserted. “So much for the Animal Emotion Analysis System.”
“I didn’t say that!” I cried, and snatched the walkie-talkie out of his undeserving hands. “She just hasn’t been pulling her emotional end of the deal.”
My husband went up to Maeby, who was still draped over the end of the couch, looking at us.
Quietly.
“Maeby, bark,” my husband suggested.
She looked at him and then looked away, as if she was bored.
“Show her,” I proposed. “Bark at her. Maybe that will encourage her.”
“Ruff!” my husband said.
My dog was clearly insulted.
“Get closer to her, show her what you mean,” I instructed.
My husband moved closer to Mae, leaned down by her little doggy head, and said, “Ruff!”
My dog responded by getting off the couch and moving in front of the fireplace.
My husband threw up his hands. I shrugged. And then I noticed that on the little screen of the walkie-talkie, something was being translated.
“You have a sad face,” I informed him as I relayed what I saw on the screen. “The little dog in you said, ‘I can’t figure you out!’ ”
“Really?” my husband said, coming at me with his hand out. “It translated my bark?”
“Oh, oh,” I said, pulling my arm away. “Now
you’re suddenly interested in my useless, expensive gadget.”
“Come on,” my husband said, reaching for it. “I wanna see.”
“Here,” I said, relenting and handing it over. I walked over to Maeby and scratched her ears, then kissed her little doggy head. “Woooof!”
“Wait … wait.…” my husband said, as if he was receiving signals from the International Space Station. “Oh, really? Is that what you think? It says, ‘We’re in trouble now!’ And you have a smiley face.”
“Ha-ha!!” I chortled. “You got that right!”
Mae got up and went back to the couch, where my husband bent down and barked rather loudly into her collar.
“ ‘Where’s my bone?’ This is off. Maybe you have to calibrate it. I have no desire for a bone. And I’m still sad!” he read, as Mae climbed down off the couch again and tried to leave the room. “Maeby, stay! Maeby, stay! Oh, never mind.”
He followed her down the hall and returned in a minute with Mae’s collar in his hand. I have no idea where the dog went.
“Woo-woo-woooo!” he howled to the collar, and then laughed when he looked at the translator.
“What? Let me see,” I said, reaching for the walkie-talkie, which had an angry face that pronounced, “Something’s bothering me!”
“You are a moody pooch,” I mocked, and grabbed the collar from him, then took a deep breath and released a “Wooooooooooooooo!” that would rival the call of any pack.
“Careful who you mess with!” the translator warned my husband.
Unfazed, he snatched the collar back and released a fierce bay of his own, as in “Wooo-hooo-hooooooo!”
“Please be nice to me,” the translator said, and gave a frowny face.
“Hello, Omega!” I laughed when I read it. “Awwwww! Are the other doggies picking on you?”
“I am not the omega!” he insisted. “That is not what my call meant. My call was bold.”
“Translator doesn’t think so,” I volleyed.
“It’s wrong,” he insisted. “That was definitely an alpha call. I did an alpha call!”
“Well,” I offered. “Maybe you were an alpha barking in Chinese.”
“A-wooooooo!” my husband barked into the collar.
“And the survey says … ‘Please be nice to me.’ Again,” I said, with an odd look. “You are one pathetic, insecure dog, my friend.”
“I don’t believe you,” my husband said, pulling the translator from my hand to read for himself. “It may have been the call of a lone wolf, but it was not pathetic. And there you go. It was a wolf call, that’s why. It was clearly wolf. This translates Dog. Not Wolf. Apparently it’s not trans-species.”
He then emitted a rather ferocious bark, during which I was surprised that spittle didn’t fly from his jowls and that he retreated from the translator without leaving bite marks on it.
“Was that a wolf or a chupacabra?” I asked. “We don’t need to fight over the translator. It’s a walkie-talkie, not the hindquarters of an elk.”
“But it’s not understanding me,” my husband said.
“Can’t you see how frustrated I am?” the translator relayed. Angry face.
“Really?” I asked him. “Because I think this walkie-talkie could easily work at the United Nations.”
“No,” my husband insisted. “It’s broken. It’s clearly off. Maybe we need new batteries for it.”
“Maybe it just needs time to heal,” I suggested.
And then I saw a shadow pass by the front door, and before I could put on my cameltoe pants, rip off a bra, or become soaking wet, the first note of the mailman ringing the doorbell hit the air. This was followed immediately by the frantic scratching of lupus dog toes clawing wood floors, as Maeby came around the corner into the living room like a hillbilly with a pit crew and a sponsorship from Walmart.
And there was no preparing for it. The bark, high and shrill and real, sliced through the living room like a machete through a block of government cheese. My husband and I both winced as she charged through her excruciating symphony, her dagger bark so painful it reached up and punched me in my sinuses.
Then, as soon as it shot out of her mouth, it ended once she realized it was Dave, the postman, who is her best friend.
“Wait …” my husband said, staring at the translator. “I’m getting something, I’m getting something …” I bent in closer to see.
And there, on the screen, in response to Maeby’s bark, was “We’re having fun now!” and a big, fat smiley face.
My husband and I looked at each other.
He was the first one to say it.
“Oh, my Dog,” he mumbled quietly. “That’s her happy noise.”
“We’re in trouble now,” I replied, almost in a whisper.
“Please be nice to me,” my husband barely added.
I’m Touched
“Just relax,” Brandie said, as she reached forward to give me a hand massage. “This is going to be fun.”
It was the first time I had been to this particular salon to get my hair done, and when Brandie, the colorist, was done applying the color, she informed me that as part of the salon service I could either have a hand massage while we waited to wash my hair out or I could have my makeup consultation.
Now, the last time I had my makeup done was the day I got married, and I walked out of that salon looking less like a girl who was about to snag a cute boy for the rest of her life and more like an undercover cop who was about to go stand out in front of a cheap motel and arrest ministers. All I needed was a fur vest and a chipped eyetooth. So I wisely passed on the dolling-up and chose the hand massage instead, because I’d never had one.
I limply presented my paw, which Brandie took and started … massaging. I tried my best to ignore it.
“Just relax your hand,” Brandie said calmly.
“Okay,” I said with a little laugh.
“Are you relaxing it?” she asked me.
“I am,” I replied.
“Because it doesn’t feel relaxed,” she hinted.
“I’m very relaxed,” I said with a nod and a smile.
She kept doing more massaging things.
“Juuuuuust relax; let your hand go limp,” she said softly.
“I did,” I let her know.
She looked up at me and smiled, but even I could see that my hand looked like I had pulled it from a freezer covered by tarps in the basement of a clown’s house. And, honestly, that’s about as limp as I go.
“Maybe we should stop,” I suggested, pulling my hand lightly at first, then tugging harder, then finally yanking.
“See? It’s cool!” I said very cheerily. “Thank you very much. That was nice.”
“Okay,” Brandie said, a bit alarmed at my aggressive limb recall. “Would you like to play with some eye shadow?”
“Maybe I should have magazine time now,” I suggested.
“That’s a great idea,” she said, a little too eagerly.
As soon as my hair was done and I got in the car to go home, I called my sister.
“You wouldn’t believe what just happened,” I said as soon as she answered. “I freaked out over someone giving me a hand massage. I was forced to do that or play with makeup.”
“Was this some sort of beauty mugging?” she asked. “Are you in L.A.? You’d better check your boobs. They could have gotten six sizes bigger before you even knew what was happening.”
“No, no, no, I was getting a touch-up on my roots and it’s part of the service,” I explained. “I could either get a hand massage or I could get my makeup done. So I let someone touch my hand. It was a mistake.”
“You’re telling me!” she exclaimed. “Remember when I went on that business trip to South Carolina at that fancy resort? I decided to get a massage, because I thought it would be fun and that I deserved it because I just had a baby. Fun? A stranger touching me all over? No one deserves that!”
Apparently, as soon as the massage began, my sister knew she
was in trouble and tried to drop hints to the masseuse that it just wasn’t her thing.
“I told her I was ticklish,” my sister said. “So instead of it ending, she put lotion on me for an hour, which turned a regular old massage into a stranger caressing me. Moistly.”
“I’m establishing a ‘safe’ word if strangers ever want to touch me again,” I said. “Blueberry! Blueberry!”
“No kidding,” my sister agreed. “I gave birth faster than it took that hour to pass. Mistake? When I finally got back to my room, I felt like I’d just been involved in a long-term relationship with a sixty-year-old Yugoslavian lady. I apologized to my husband for weeks.”
Notaros, at least in our dynasty, are not huggers. We’re not touchers, patters, or embracers. We’re flinchers, jerkers, and re-coilers. We like a loooooot of space. Honestly, I don’t think that being able to lift up my arms and do one copter rotation without having my elbow in someone’s mouth is really asking all that much. We do best in that environment. When our physical security boundaries are breached, the issue will be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. If you creep up behind me in a checkout line and the alarm is sounded, I will be forced to ask if you intend to crawl up my ass, because that’s clearly where you’re heading. If you persist, I may have no choice but to challenge you to a kicking fight in the parking lot.
This has been awkward, however, because I married into a touching family that has no problem walking by one another in a galley kitchen, picking a stray leaf out of one another’s hair, or reaching over and wiping a smear of jelly or peanut butter off a sibling’s cheek. In my family, the game of “There. No, there,” is so prevalent that we played it for prizes one year at my nephew’s birthday. It lasted for so long that he burst into tears, wiped his face off with a paper towel, and left everyone in the dynasty without bragging rights.