Our dog is terrified of loud noises. Whenever there’s a thunderstorm, she whimpers, trembles and has to be held until the booming stops.

Fireworks are especially tough. We get ready for the New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July meltdowns by taking Channell for her nightly walk before dark.

On New Year’s night while on her nightly walk, she growled when an especially loud firework went off. Once inside, she slept right through two hours’ worth of “Auld Lang Syne” noises.

We’d been wondering if our 13-year-old buddy was having trouble with her hearing, and her ignoring the fireworks was worrisome.

In the past, if we said the word “squirrel,” she raced to the back door and jumped up and down until we opened the door.

These days, we say the word “squirrel” and she doesn’t budge from her comfortable spot on the carpet.

I’d be more worried if she didn’t show signs of hearing what she wants to hear.

The rattle of the dog food bag.

Food accidentally hitting the kitchen floor.

The grandkids unwrapping a piece of candy.

Because I grew up in a family with seven kids, I conditioned myself to hear what I wanted to hear:  the ice-cream truck and hidden messages in The Beatles songs when played backwards.

In a three-bedroom house with nine people, one had to learn to listen for important sounds and to tune out the worthless noises like my sister banging on our bedroom door, demanding to be let in.

Being a mom fine-tuned my hearing. When the boys were babies, I woke up if I heard them turn over in their crib.

If they cried, I bolted out of bed and was picking them up in seconds.

As they got older, I learned to ignore most noises, including the refrigerator being raided at 2 a.m., the beeping Mario theme from the Nintendo system and full body-slam wrestling matches.

They ignored my yelling “cut it out.” They turned deaf ears to my final warning:  “I’m not taking anybody to the emergency room today, so if you get hurt, deal with it.”

The boys could find hidden money in my purse but they couldn’t find the commode when they were nauseated. I was an Olympic sprinter when I heard “I have to throw up.”

There were sounds I could hear in a deep sleep:  The sound of the window slowly being raised at midnight, a door being opened just enough to let a teenager squeeze through without setting off the house alarm and someone taking money out of my wallet.

Our sons never remember hearing me say “clean up your room.” They thought I said “live in a pigsty – it’s okay with me.”

They never heard the phrase “bring back the change.” Everything either cost the exact amount of money I gave them or I owed them $5 more.

I can’t blame them; they were simply being kids. In reality, they get their selective hearing honestly from their grandmother, my mother.

At the age of 88, we’re always watching for signs she’s slowing down. One day, I told her about needing to go to the grocery store. Later in the conversation, she asked me if I was going to the store.

“Mom, I already told you that. Do we need to have you checked?” I asked.

There was a short silence and then her answer.

“Denise, I’m not senile. I’m just not that interested in everything you have to say, so I don’t always pay attention,” she said.

That’s selective hearing at its best.

It seems Channell has picked up a few tips from the grand master.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.