Roger, The Talking Poodle

Roger, the Talking Poodle

by Mavis Moog

The famous American humourist and cartoonist, James Thurber, once began a story about a talking poodle. The story 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 a grown-up and seems to have the reasoning and intellectual power of a bright young adult. He does not believe in God and does not have a very high opinion of George W. Bush.

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 Bill was not a fitting name. He was not actually talking at that stage, you understand.
It was a telepathic message.

There is a respected conjecture that artificial intelligence will never out-strip humans in terms of consciousness, whatever that is. In other words one cannot have awareness in a black box. One of the proponents of this idea is the famous mathematical physicist, Professor Sir Roger Penrose of Oxford University. So we named the dog Roger. I thought Roger was the perfect example of consciousness inside a black box. He is a black standard poodle of exceptional pedigree. His Grandfather, Montravia Tommy Gun, won Best in Show at Crufts in 1985.

I have kept dogs all my life, but Roger showed that he was no ordinary dog right from the start. 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 up to 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 sprint off, ears a-flapping, 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 Roger's 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. Once he had caught up with the object of his fascination he would dance around it, tongue lolling like a scarlet streamer. 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 prospect. 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 black plastic collar with a small black box attached. A handset with a radio range of up to a mile radius could make the box on the collar beep or, in extreme circumstances, administer an electric shock to the dog.

I had tied the collar around my own wrist and experienced the shock for myself. It was not pleasant but it did not leave scorch marks.

The results were instant. Next time the woolly bullet fired himself in that determined trajectory, all I had to do was shout "No!" and press a button. Roger stopped with a screeching of claws in gravel, he shook his head and ran straight back to me for reassurance and cuddles. I praised him and gave him a piece of beef jerky. Our problems were over.

One morning I was preparing to take Roger out for his first walk of the day.

"I promise I'll be good if you don't use the collar." Said Roger.

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 definitely 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?"

"Yes."

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

"That argument is clearly flawed because here I am - speaking" he growled. Naming him after a tower of logic had clearly had its effect. "Now come on let's get out, I have a turtle's 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 kept his promise and 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. Roger obliged by speaking on command for my husband. Nick and I sat in stunned silence for the first day or two. Roger seemed oblivious to the shock he had given us. One of the first issues raised, was what would be his mode of address for us. I was touched when Roger suggested, Mum and Dad. He is quite capable of extending my title to "Mummeee" when there might be an advantage to be gained by so doing. We are grateful that he does not chatter incessantly and he never speaks 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.

One major change to our routine has been that we can no longer lodge Roger in Kennels when we go away. He was very quick to tell us about the torments of such places. Over-worked and under-paid kennel maids (or Nurse Ratchets, as Roger referred to them; he is a keen fan of Jack Nicholson's) became litte short of Sweeny Todds when it came to grooming him. And they never feed the dogs with the food one provides or request. Roger said that mealtimes were somber affairs involving dry pellets and small bowls of water. He now has a passport and did quite well at picking up French last time we were in Brittany, telling me that the waiter had called me a joint of roast beef, a common expression reserved for English tourists, I have since discovered.

Not surprisingly (give a dog a good name) Roger's main interest is pseudo five-fold symmetry. He sometimes dictates letters on the subject for Professor Sir Roger Penrose and I dutifully post them. To date Sir Roger has not responded; I am sure he would if he knew who his correspondent was, but somehow, I cannot bring myself to explain to the great man. He would think I was insane.

We 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.

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~~~~The End~~~~

If you would like to read more about Roger, try his international anthem, just click here,

Youtube film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Upvv9rWbpzA

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