The famous American humourist and cartoonist, James Thurber, began a story about a talking poodle. The story really excited me because it made me realise that my experience was not so far-fetched and that, maybe, there were others in my situation.

You see, my poodle talks.

Roger is just three years old but he reckons he is adult and seems to have the reasoning and intellectual power of a bright young adult. He does not believe in God and thinks most dogs would talk if they felt that they would be listened to. He was eight weeks old when he first came into our lives. We were going to call him Bill after my father but when we looked at him he seemed to tell us that his name was Roger. He was not actually talking at that stage.

Training him to stay with us when we were out walking was the first big challenge. He simply ignored our pleas for modest behaviour and was obsessed with meeting as many dogs as he could manage. This would involve running anything upto a mile to rendezvous with a dog we may have passed as much as an hour earlier. There seemed no safe time-lapse between passing a dog and letting Roger off the lead. As soon as he was free he would dash off in the direction from which we had come to meet the fascinating collie, labrador or pomeranian that he did not get to meet properly while tethered to my wrist. We tried carrying meaty treats and using whistles and clickers but all to no effect.

One day I was reduced to tears. I had chased after the little blighter, calling sweetly so as to disguise my fury, for at least half a mile and all I could see was Rogers fluffy tail bouncing ahead of me in the distance. He showed no sign of stopping and returning to my care. I slowed to a walk and sobbed as I continued, in a Rogerly direction, hoping he would catch up with his target soon so that I would be able to recapture him as he danced enthusiastically around the bemused celebrity. There was always the worry that the recipient of Roger's hero-worship would be aggressive and that my sweet-natured, if disobedient, baby would get bitten. The other dog's human was also an intimidating concern. Often they would berate me, tell me to get my mad dog on a lead and ask me if I had not heard of dog-training classes. I would explain that he was only young and that he had to have some free running time but that we were trying to overcome the problem. Eventually we decided that action had to be taken.

We spent £200 on a remote trainer. This was a collar that had a rechargable unit and two electrodes attached to it. The handler had a handset which could be used to make the collar beep and administer an electric shock to the hound. The severity of the shock was controlled by a dial on the handset. There was a very thorough video, which came with the device to explain how to use it. The emphasis was very much on not letting the dog connect the sharp pain with the handler. The dog would return to the handler because it was seeking comfort. The device could also be set to beep-only. This allowed one to warn the dog that if it did not run back or stop, whatever undesired behaviour it was indulging in, a shock would follow. It worked like magic.

I had tied the collar around my own wrist and experienced the shock for myself and felt satisfied that it was not too extreme. Roger would stop in his tracks, shake his head and run straight back to me. I praised him and gave him a piece of beef jerky. Our problems were over.

"I promise I'll be good if you don't use the collar." Said Roger one morning. I will not let you imagine my amazement: I felt a sudden rush of blood to my head, my mouth became dry, there was a crawling sensation up the back of my neck. I could hear my heart thumping. I looked at Roger. He was gazing up at me; button-eyed and innocent. I bent down to strap the collar around his neck. "I promise. I don't like the collar because it is heavy and uncomfortable. Please don't put it on me." I dropped the collar and stared at him. He had opened his mouth and his tongue had definitaly worked hard. I had seen it forming the words as he, sort of, growled the sound from the back of his throat.

"Roger did you speak?" I stuttered.

"Yes" came his simple reply.

"It is impossible for a dog to speak." I reasoned.

"That argument is clearly flawed because here I am - speaking" he growled. "Now come on let's get out, I have a turtles head developing and need to relieve myself." I slipped the chain around his neck and leaving the collar on the floor I took him out.

He was true to his promise and he galloped around me always within twenty yards . He behaved respectfully and waggingly when he met other dogs but obediently trotted on, with me, after a few seconds. He was silent. When we got back home I looked warily at him and asked him to say something.

"What do you want me to say? The Leith police dismisseth us. Will that do?" This was a phrase I would sometimes use to my husband to prove that I was fit to have another glass of wine. Roger's growly voice sounded surprisingly smooth when enunciating the tongue-twister with no fault.

That was the beginning. I told my husband all about it and Roger obliged by speaking on command for him. We two humans sat in stunned silence for the first day or two. Roger seemed oblivious to the shock he had given us. We were grateful that he did not chatter incessantly and he never spoke in front of visitors.

He is a thoughtful dog. I find he considers his words and opinions very carefully and I truly value his input on many subjects. My husband and I are quite relaxed about it now, especially after reading Mr. Thurber's unfinished story. The only difficulty is when we are chatting to friends; "Roger said...", "Roger told me..." or "Roger asked..." sometimes slips out and the friend smiles indulgently and shakes her head,

"Oh you do love that dog of yours, you treat him like a child." she'll
say. We do not treat him like a child; he would be very insulted.

© Copyright 2004 Mavis Moog. All rights reserved.