Speak

Written by Emily Grossman
Published: October 24, 2013 at 3:54 AM [UTC]

The sun rides low in the sky these days, and with the lifting of the persistent clouds came a predictable drop in temperatures. It shouldn't have been a shock to me to see the morning's frost still clinging to the brittle brown leaves as I stepped out with the dogs after a long day of teaching. Still, the first day of winter always catches me off guard.

Chewy is five and a half months old now and just lost his last baby tooth. Being the son of our other chocolate lab, Ben, we'd kind of expected him to take after his dad, but the two could not be more opposite in personality. Not that one is better than the other: I love them both equally. It's just fascinating to see how nature embeds these genetic codes in such a particular fashion that each living creature ends up with its own identity, regardless of environmental influence. I'm sure Ben will gladly take credit for producing such a magnificent pup, though. At 75 pounds, he has already grown taller and lankier than his pop, and his feet are still ridiculously too large for him. As we walk to the field to play fetch, he reminds me of a moose--all legs and feet and neck. People will ask if he's part great dane, but as far as I know, he's pure chocolate.

Each day brings new surprises and today, a neighbor's bulldozer rumbled next to their cabin, clearing the ground for a new addition. Having never seen such a powerful orange beast, Chewy stood on tip toes, his fur bristling defensively. Tugging at the leash for a better view, he pranced. I chuckled and watched, curiously. He's a chicken, but a brave, invincible one at that! Ben wouldn't so much as raised an eyebrow, but Chewy's protective instinct is strong, and he paused, transfixed by the way this monster chewed at the soil.

"Woof!"
"Woof! Woof!" It was the first time he'd gotten to try out his grown-up voice, the first time I'd ever heard him bark. Well, hello, Chewy! His voice sounded nothing like Ben's. If some dogs yip or yap, and some dogs bawl, Chewy sang bass for Verdi. Deep and smooth and dark, like fudge syrup was his tone--and surprisingly out of place, coming from such a young, gangly juvenile. No, it sounded more like a tall, dark, handsome movie hero. "Get out of here, you pesky dirt-chewing scoundrel!" he threatened, "And stay away from my girl! Or else!" I felt so protected! Never mind he's missing most of his baby teeth, my boy's becoming a man!

I'd liked Chewy well enough since we'd brought him home in June. But I admit, I hadn't really felt much deep affection toward him. I guess we just hadn't really bonded until that moment when he spoke. But from that point on, I felt I knew him finally; I'm in love.

There's something wonderfully unique about the voice, and something even magical about the way it becomes song. I'm reminded of this throughout the day as each student greets me at the door. Little Eve is just three years old, too shy to speak for herself sometimes, but if I'm quiet and don't make any startling moves, she talks and sings and tells me stories using her violin. It's a very private world that she's letting me visit, but for a little space in each week, I'm getting to be a part of something unique and personal to her.

It's sad how we fall prey to this notion of conforming to some sort of perfection that doesn't exist. I well remember fourth grade, how the teacher ridiculed my handwriting, so I forged the handwriting of the girl in front of me, since she always got A's. We all wore the same clothes, liked the same boys, and turned our noses up at the school cafeteria's hamburgers. If I'd had my way, I'd have turned out exactly like all the other girls; I despised the sound of my own voice.

Thank God, we are incapable of erasing our identity. I can teach a dozen students the same piece, and they will all make it sound just a little different, regardless of bowing or tuning. And this is exactly why I will never grow tired of teaching: it never happens the same way twice!

You are irreplaceable. You don't need to be like anyone else. It's your voice, your identity. So Speak!

Good dog.