IT SHOULDN'T HAPPEN TO A DOG

By Delbert R. Gardner

"Martin, I think we ought to keep him," my wife said to me one evening when I came home from a session with a disturbed patient. "He's such a nice friendly dog, and I don't think the poor thing has a home."

The dog she meant was Vincent. He seemed to appear from nowhere. One night I had found him sitting on the front steps, heartily thumping the boards with his powerful tail. "Vincent" probably sounds like a snobbish name for a dog. I thought so too, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

He was certainly the oddest-looking dog I had ever seen--probably the result of a very unusual mixture, or perhaps an unexplainable throwback to some long-extinct breed. His body was strongly built, about two feet high and weighing nearly a hundred pounds. His short fur was a dusty black. But the unusual thing about him was his head, which was much larger than ordinary. A short snout projected at almost a ninety-degree angle from a high forehead which swept up to a broad knobby dome, between upthrust ears.

He looked so comical when I first saw him that I burst out laughing. The tail stopped wagging, and he gave me a hurt look from his shining brown eyes, at the same time making a low rumbling noise in his throat.

We thought he belonged to someone and would leave after a while, but he hung around our yard for a week, happily thumping the ground with his tail whenever my wife or I appeared. We put an ad in the paper, but no one came to claim him, so we finally decided to keep him. I thought he was going to knock the floorboards loose with his tail when we let him into the kitchen.

Vincent showed such an interest in everything that, since I was a practicing psychologist, I decided to try some tests to find out how intelligent he was.

For instance, I showed him a shoe and named it several times loudly and distinctly, at the same time shaking it under his nose. Then I laid the shoe in a corner of the room among half a dozen different objects. Coming back to the dog, I said urgently, "Shoe! Shoe!"

Vincent looked at me quizzically with his massive head cocked to one side, and stayed exactly where he was. But I persisted, retrieving the shoe and naming it, then replacing it on the pile. On the third try, Vincent trotted over to the corner, nosed among the objects, and brought back the shoe, which he dropped--a little contemptuously, I thought--at my feet.

"Good boy! Good boy!" I said, patting his head. Then I gave him a piece of meat. At that he showed much more interest, and on repeats of the experiment he was actually eager. I went to other objects, and was extremely gratified to see how quickly he caught on. What really struck me, however, was that after the first few times he began to ignore the meat reward and just sat looking at me as if he wanted me to teach him more.

Vincent never barked like other dogs. He had a collection of rumbling sounds to express hunger, approval, and disapproval. He always expressed disapproval when he was called "Blacky" or "Knothead."

This decided me to find a name that pleased him. Going through the alphabet, I recited every name I could think of. When I came to "Vincent," he acted very pleased, even pounding dust from the rug with his tail.

Vincent learned things so quickly that we used him for many different errands. Every evening Emily would send him into the study to get me when supper was ready. Once when Vincent came to get me, I was dozing. He nudged me a few times, but I was slow in waking. Impatient, he rumbled something that sounded like "Eat. Eat." I sat up and stared. "Eat," he rumbled, jumping up and down.

"My God, Emily," I shouted, rushing into the dining room, "Vincent just told me to come and eat!"

She blithely continued placing silverware on the table with her small but efficient hands. "Of course, dear. That's what I sent him for."

"I mean he actually said the word 'eat'!"

She looked at me proudly. "I thought you'd be surprised. I've been coaching him on that for a couple of weeks. From the way he made those rumbling noises, I got the idea that he might be taught to say a word or two."

"Well, I'll be damned," I said, sitting down slowly. "You're a better psychologist than I am."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, dear. I've just had more time with him than you have."

I got excited again. "Do you know what this means, Emily? We've got a talking dog! He'll be the marvel of the scientific world. We'll teach him to read and write. We'll have him giving lectures. Just wait till the Association of Psychologists learns about this!"

"Now, dear," Emily said, sensibly, "don't you think that's a little too much to expect? I've seen talking dogs on television. They say 'Mama' and 'Hello,' but that's about all."

That cooled me. "Yes, I guess you're right. I must be getting soft in the head."

Still, I couldn't help feeling enthusiastic. Vincent didn't seem to have the same kind of vocal apparatus as other dogs. And that massive head! I felt that he must be a genius.

From then on, I spent three or four hours every night trying to teach Vincent to talk. Despite what I had said, I really didn't expect much, at first anyway. He already knew from the previous sessions what the names of all the household objects sounded like. Now I'd hold up an object, like a book, and keep repeating the name over and over, till I got him to imitate the sound. It was a maddeningly slow business, but after about six months of this, Vincent was able to say the names of most of the household things. Of course, it was a guttural, rumbling sound, and probably unintelligible to the untrained ear, but I could recognize it.

When it came to ideas, Vincent bogged down. He could get the idea connected with some physical act, but abstract ideas were incomprehensible to him. This made him totally unable to construct logical sentences. His complete stock of knowledge consisted of unconnected words. It looked as though we had gone as far as we could, until I hit upon the fantastic scheme of using hypnotic suggestion. I drugged his food just enough to put him into a stupor; then I talked to him.

"You are a rational creature," I said. "Rational creatures speak in sentences." I repeated the two sentences a countless number of times without any noteworthy response, until the drug wore off.

Two nights later I tried again, and I kept up the sessions, two or three nights a week. Always I would emphasize the statement, "You are a rational creature." At the fourth or fifth session I decided to try simple mathematical propositions instead of sentences.

"You are a rational creature," I insisted. "Two plus two equals four."

Another three weeks passed without any noticeable progress, and I was nearly ready to give up the experiment, when suddenly Vincent gave a small sign of understanding.

Looking up, after regaining full consciousness, he rumbled: "Two what and two what make four what?"

I quickly got four apples and showed him. For a while, the poor simpleton thought this applied only to apples, but he finally got the idea. From then on, our progress was faster. He began to form crude sentences, and asked all sorts of questions. I had a terrible time explaining the meaning of good and bad, life and death, joy and sorrow, and other such complicated ideas.

After about a year of this, Vincent and I were actually able to converse, in a halting manner. Naturally, to an unaccustomed ear, it would sound like gibberish. Our speech was a mixture of human sounds and guttural rumblings. Vincent couldn't talk quite like a human, and I couldn't talk completely as he did, but the progress was so gradual that it seemed natural. The difference in our pronunciation was probably no more than in the case of a Frenchman and Englishman both speaking German.

My wife and I kept all this a closely guarded secret. A premature disclosure would have ruined me.

I read to Vincent for long hours from some of the great masters. He'd lie there on the floor of the study, with his great head resting on his paws, and reflect on what he heard. When he recognized a good point, he'd nod and thump the floor once or twice with his tail. When he did not understand, he'd sit up and look at me quizzically. Then I would stop and patiently explain the problem.

We took long walks at night, discussing the evening's studies. Vincent needed exercise, and I wouldn't dare be seen talking to a dog. He refused to go out in the daytime, by himself, because he didn't want to associate with other dogs, and he didn't want humans treating him like an animal. Moreover, since his education, he insisted on being dressed, and he realized how conspicuous he would be in daylight. One evening we were strolling along engrossed in a philosophical discussion, when a drunk stumbled into us. He let out a scream and ran shouting for a police officer.

"Quick," I growled to Vincent, "get your clothes off and act like a normal dog."

"Not on your life," he snorted indignantly. "Do you expect me to run around stark naked?"

"Please," I begged him. "It'll ruin my reputation. I won't be able to earn a living."

He looked interested. "Reputation? Earning a living? What's that?"

"I'll explain later. Just do this for me, will you?"

Reluctantly, Vincent complied, and just in time. The drunk came running back with a policeman.

"Sorry to bother you, mister," said the officer, panting from his exertion. "This man insists he saw a couple of monsters in clothes, growling to each other. He says one looked like a dog, and the other one must have been an ape."

I laughed. "I resent being called an ape. I was just walking my dog when this fellow bumped into us and ran away screaming. He ought to take the pledge."

The officer turned on the man with a snarl. "Buddy, I ought to run you in. Raising a commotion about monsters! If I ever find you drunk on my beat again, it's the tank for you, so help me!"

The man shivered. "Don't worry, officer. I'm on the wagon from now on," he said, as he hurried away.

Turning to leave, the policeman caught a glimpse of Vincent in the light from the street lamp. "Say," he laughed, "he is a funny-looking critter!"

Vincent lowered his head and growled: "Stop that laughing, you flat-footed boob, or I'll tear your leg off!"

The officer took a step backward. "Listen to him growl! You know, it sounds almost as if he was cussing me out!"

I patted Vincent's head, a little harder than usual. "He just growls like that when people laugh at him. He's very sensitive."

"I can see that," said the officer. "Sorry I laughed, but I couldn't help it. Well, good night."

I wiped my brow. "That was close! Vince, you almost ruined me."

"I don't care," Vincent grumbled. "I was never so mortified in my life, parading around like a naked savage, then being insulted by a stupid cop!"

"It was for your own good, Vince, as well as mine," I said, trying to soothe his wounded pride.

The strain was beginning to tell on me, however. I wasn't getting enough rest and was paying less attention to business than I should have. My clientele was dropping off--slightly, but dropping nevertheless. The morning after the episode with the drunk, I buzzed my secretary on the office intercom. "Send in Mrs. Morgan," I said.

There was a pause; the secretary came into my office, looking at me curiously. "What did you say, sir? Do you have a cold?"

"Yes," I said, loudly clearing my throat. "I'm a little bit hoarse this morning." I spoke carefully. "Send in Mrs. Morgan, please."

This was the first time that I had actually made a slip in public and broken out with the speech that Vincent and I used. "Oh my God!" I thought. "Don’t tell me I'm going to go the way of Dr. Jekyll!" I was on edge all that day, guarding against another slip.

As if I didn't have enough on my mind, Vincent was moping like a sick calf when I came home.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked, when we were alone in the study.

He sighed heavily. "Martin, I'm a misfit. I'm not human, and I’m not animal. What you've done to me shouldn't happen to a dog."

I couldn't help laughing at that, but I stopped short, realizing his seriousness. His usually shining eyes stared dully at me. "It may be funny to you, Martin, but it isn't to me. I had no worries or frustrations when I was an animal. Now that I have the power of reason, I can see the great difference between us, and I'll never be satisfied. On the other hand, how could I go back to my old way of life?" He shook his big head fiercely. "I wish you had let me alone! Why did you have to meddle?"

His bitterness stunned me. I had never thought about it that way before. I tried hard to make him understand.

"Vince, I thought you'd be happy if you could talk and think like a human. Anyway, the difference you're talking about is only physical. It's the mind that really counts, and mentally, we're on even ground. Another thing, Vince--would you really prefer to be an animal again, even though you would be carefree? Remember Socrates and the pig?"

Vincent thought about that for a long while. Then he got up and gazed through the window at a pair of dogs fighting over a female. Sitting down again, he thumped his tail emphatically. "Disgusting!"

I pressed my point further. "Just think, Vince; when your speech is improved enough so that other people can understand you, you'll be famous! Think of the thrill you'll get making addresses to all the scientific societies."

His eyes took on some of their old glow. "Say, that would be interesting. Forgive me, Martin. I hope you can forget what I said. I know you have my best interests at heart."

After that, Vincent worked long hours to improve his diction, while I got more rest and concentrated on business. Of course, little snags would come up occasionally that required my attention. Like the day my wife told me to get rid of Vincent.

"Martin, that dog struts around the kitchen all the time, as if he owned the place. And another thing--I am not going to let him sit at the table and eat with us!"

"But, honey, we're near the completion of a wonderful scientific project. If Vince wants to sit at the table, it won't hurt anything. And I'll talk to him about keeping out of your way."

After she calmed down, I asked Vince not to spend so much time in the kitchen. He looked hurt. "I only wanted to listen to Emily talk. She speaks such wonderful English that I wanted to imitate her."

I laughed. "You have the makings of a diplomat, Vince." When I told Emily, she was pleased and said that she might have been a little harsh.

Things went along very well for a while after that. Vince was making progress with his speech, and I was sure that within another few months I would be able to unveil my masterpiece.

Then, for no apparent reason, Vince began moping worse than before. Sometimes he threw tantrums, and other times he just sat, staring at nothing. I racked my brain trying to find the trouble, but he froze up whenever I broached the subject. It struck me that he was acting like some of my clients. I decided to try psychoanalysis.

I drugged his food again, and when he was in a semiconscious state, I started him talking. "She's beautiful," he sighed. "I can't get my mind off her."

"That's it!" I chuckled. "The most natural thing in the world. Why didn't I think of it before? He's in love, but doesn't want to be an animal again, so he's frustrated. I'll find out who the lucky bitch is and bring her over here."

Vince went on talking. "I love her, but I can't have her. Martin would never forgive me."

"Sure," I thought, "he's afraid I'd be disgusted with him."

"Beautiful Emily," said Vince soulfully, "I can't have her."

"Emily?" I repeated. "Funny name for a dog. Wait! Emily!? My wife?"

I bent over Vincent and spoke softly but urgently in his ear. "Listen to me. You're a dog, do you hear? Just a dog, like every other dog in the world. You are not rational; you are just a dog!"