Research has shown that the average dog is able to hear sounds that are four times further away than humans can.
What the research in my home has shown, however, is that this doesn’t mean they’re really listening.
Case in point: my dog, Riley, was lying at the foot of my bed. Here’s a dramatization of the actual event…
Me: Riley. Riley. Riley.
Riley: nothing
Me: Riley! Riley! RILEY!!!
Riley: nothing
Me (now thinking that Riley has lost his hearing): whispers “Chicken.”
That dog’s head turned around so fast that you would think he was trying out for the lead role in the pet version of The Exorcist. That’s when I knew it was true.
Dogs, like many humans, have selective hearing.
For example, if a doorbell rings on the television, they go nuts. “That’s not real!” my husband and I yell. “It’s on TV!”
But if someone is screaming their brains out on the same show, they can sleep right through it.
If a leaf falls outside a mile away, they start barking like a serial killer is trying to break into the house with a chainsaw.
But if I drop a bunch of books—which I know has to make a loud thud—they don’t come running to see if I’m okay.
And they ignore it when we call them—even if we sound panicked. One day, Riley walked into a spare room in our home. The door shut behind him, so he was effectively locked in. Brad and I spent half an hour, running through the house calling him.
Not a whimper. Not a bark. Nothing.
Finally, after we were both in complete hysterics as our dog was nowhere to be found, I saw the door shut.
When I opened it, there he was, sitting all pretty, wagging his tail and smiling—having completely ignored our cries.
But if I have my bedroom door closed because, God forbid, I would like a few minutes to myself, he will cry and scratch on the door like the poor lost soul.
Our dogs don’t just do this inside, though. Oh no. Let’s take it out into the wild.
When we let our dogs out, at least once during the day, one of us is out there screaming their names: RILEY! MAE! And sometimes the way that they blatantly ignore us makes me want to scream in a different way.
I’ll be yelling my head off for one reason or another—it’s raining and they should be in; they’ve done what they need to and are just goofing around; or there’s a truck coming down the driveway, and they need to be inside now.
Inevitably, this is the time when Riley will pick his head up from playing a game of “Look I’m bloodhound, and I think I’ve found Jimmy Hoffa!” He looks at me to prove that he is acknowledging the fact that I’m calling him. He is always sure to make eye contact.
I think this means he’s going to come in.
Oh silly, silly dog mom. Why would you ever think that?
Then, he puts his head right back down to the ground and continues smelling. As if to say, “Yeah, I heard you, but I really don’t care.”
Because our dogs teach each other inappropriate behavior rather than the good kind, Mae now does this too.
It’s like raising two furry teenagers who want you to drop them off a block away from the party or the mall or the restaurant.
And our dogs can give “side eye” like you wouldn’t believe. But that’s another column for another day.
Michele “Wojo” Wojciechowski, when she’s not being protected from the air by her barking dogs, writes “Wojo’s World®” from Baltimore. She’s also the author of the award-winning book Next Time I Move, They’ll Carry Me Out in a Box. You can connect with Wojo on Facebook or on Twitter.
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