Not Like Other Dogs
I woke to the sound of water rushing.
For a moment, I lay there confused, not knowing what was happening.
Had I left a faucet turned on? But as I heard more intently, I knew the sound wasn't from the bathroom, but from the kitchen.
I moved stealthily in my pajamas, following the sound.
Shadow was beside the kitchen sink.
Not beside it. On it. His two front paws were perched precariously on the counter, and he was lapping directly from the faucet as he'd just turned the handle himself.
"Shadow?" I whispered.
He froze, water streaming off his muzzle. His golden eyes met mine in what seemed to be guilt. Then he moved down off the counter, padding softly to the floor.
The faucet kept running.
"How did dogs." I let it go unfinished, unable to turn off the water. The handle felt wet, as though someone had tapped it recently. But dogs couldn't turn faucets on. Could they?
Shadow lay down and looked up at me with wide innocent eyes, tongue lolling slightly out of her mouth. The picture of a typical, well-adjusted dog.
Typical dogs didn't drink faucet water. And definitely didn't turn them on.
"Are you thirsty? There's water in your bowl."
I glanced over at the bowl I'd filled the previous night. It was dry. Bone dry.
As if he'd drunk every drop and then some.
"Okay, okay, you're a big dog. You probably do need more water." I filled the bowl to the brim this time. "There. That should be enough."
Shadow looked at the bowl, then back at me. If I didn't know better, I'd say he looked. unimpressed.
"It's the same water," I told him. "It comes from the same source."
He tilted his head, looking at me as if I were the one out of place.
I made coffee and toast, not paying attention to how Shadow was staring at everything I was doing.
Most dogs would be jumping around the kitchen by now, begging for a crumb or in the way.
But Shadow just sat there, watching. As if he was writing this all down.
"You know, you really should eat something," I said to him, looking at the kibble in his bowl. Yesterday night's unopened kibble was beginning to make me nervous.
"You need to keep your strength up when you're recovering."
Shadow's gaze flicked across the kibble, back to me with what I could only guess was disdain.
"It's good stuff," I said to him as if I were protecting a human being and not an animal.
"Expensive. Top quality. Dogs love the stuff."
Shadow approached the bowl slowly, sniffed it gently, and then backed away onto his hind legs.
He gazed at the kibble, then at me, and then back at the kibble. His face was almost as close to human as made no difference.
"What's wrong with it?" I asked, and immediately felt foolish for expecting an answer.
Shadow stood up, walked over to the fridge, and sat down in front of it. He looked at me hopefully.
"You want something out of the fridge?"
His tail hit the floor once. Just once. As if nodding.
This was insane. I was having a chat with a dog. A dog that had opinions regarding the quality of food and the ability to operate kitchen appliances.
I opened the fridge, and Shadow sat bolt upright, trying to peer in. "What do you want? I've got leftover chicken, some cheese, lunch meat."
The moment the term "chicken" was mentioned, Shadow's ears perked up. He emitted a low sound—a non-bark, more of an aside.
"Chicken? Is that what they're called?"
I pulled out the bowl of leftover rotisserie chicken from last night's dinner.
"This is people food. It's seasoned and all."
Shadow's golden eyes followed the container when I moved it. When I put it on the counter, he actually stood on hind legs, front paws on the rim of the counter, trying to better see.
"Down," I said automatically, then stopped. Most dogs would have listened to that command, or at least pretended to try. Shadow completely ignored me.
He was too busy examining the chicken container like he was reading the ingredients.
I stared at him. "You understand me, don't you?"
Shadow stared me straight in the eye, and for a moment, I saw something take my breath.
Recognition.
Intellect. Not the mere alertness of a trained animal, but something more. Something that made me think of human eyes gazing out of behind that dog's snout.
"That's impossible," I whispered.
Shadow tilted his head again, and I'm not kidding when I say he had regard.
For me? As if he knew my bewilderment and sympathized with me.
I shook my head, trying to shake it clear.
"You're just a smart dog.
Some dogs are smart.
Border collies can learn hundreds of words.
German shepherds are problem solvers.
You must be some kind of cross."
But even as I said it, I didn't actually mean it. This was not normal animal smartness.
This was something entirely different.
I put some chicken in a bowl and set it in front of him. Shadow approached it cautiously, sniffed it through, then began to eat.
But not like a dog.
He was. intentional. Managed. He stripped the meat from the skin, ate around the spiciest spots.
As if he was selecting on purpose what to consume.
"My God," I breathed, watching him eat. "What are you?"
Shadow paused, a half-finished piece of chicken suspended before his lips.
He looked at me for what seemed like minutes, and I caught sight of what may have been sadness in the golden eyes.
As if he needed to say something but was unable to.
He continued eating, and the moment passed.
I sat at the kitchen table, watching as my coffee went cold before me. All of Shadow was a lie.
The way he moved, the way he thought, the way he looked at me with a face that almost seemed to understand every word I said.
Animals did not act like this. They did not lap water from the faucet or refuse good food or look at their masters with these human faces.
But if he weren't a dog, what was he?
Once Shadow had eaten, he carried his bowl to the sink.
Took his bowl, to be precise, holding the rim daintily in his teeth and setting it gently in the basin.
And then he looked at me hopefully.
"You want me to wash it?" I asked, increasingly baffled.
Shadow's tail wagged once. A single slow, deliberate movement that was less excitement of a dog and more the nod of a person.
I rinsed the bowl in a daze, my mind racing.
All I'd ever thought about animals was being turned upside down by this. thing.
Because that's what Shadow was starting to feel like.
Not a dog, but something else with a dog's body.
Something that was so much more intelligent than any animal had a right to be.
Something that was staring at me with way too much comprehension for my own ease.
When I washed the bowl, I noticed Shadow's reflection in the window sill at the sink.
For an instant, in the dark morning light, I thought I saw something else looking back at me. Something that left me breathless and had my hands shaking.
But when I went around, all I had was Shadow, sitting quietly next to the door, waiting for his morning walk like a normal dog would.
Except Shadow was nothing like normal.
And I was starting to wonder if I had any idea what I'd really brought home in that storm.