Not once in her life did Ganja ever hear me lovingly speak her name.
You see, Ganja was deaf … or functionally deaf, I guess I should say. She could hear extreme noises — such as fireworks explosions or the loud backfire of a car— but mostly her world was silent. The few sounds that she could hear disturbed her immensely, setting off a round of panicked barking to make the strange sensations stop.
I think that’s at least part of the reason that I sometimes said I had five dogs plus Ganja. She and the others got along with each other and even showed affection at times but mostly she stayed apart. The others would chase each other and play but Ganja just looked on or ignored it entirely. My guess is that long, long ago she had unpleasant encounters with other dogs because she couldn’t hear their signals: “Grrrr, you’re in my territory!” or “Grrrr, I want to eat what you have.”
So keeping some distance would have been a wise strategy in her life.
That’s not to say that her life was lonely. She was around all the rest of us day and night. She’d follow us around the yard, keeping an eye on what everyone was doing. She and Xica took turns at night sleeping on my bed with Ribsy and me. The other dogs would often join her outside to bark at the evil fireworks so they would go away.
But, still, she remained in her own world in many ways.
It took me a while to figure out that Ganja couldn’t hear (mostly). Most dog owners are familiar with their furry beasts’ selective hearing: they can detect the sound of a tiny morsel of food dropping on the kitchen floor from the other end of the house but they can’t hear you yelling ”No!” to avert some misdeed when you’re three feet away.
Thus, at first, I assumed Ganja was just ignoring me at times for mysterious canine reasons of her own. When I finally got it, our communications worked much better. Dogs are adept at reading our facial expressions and they are also one of the very few animal species that innately understand human pointing.
So, Ganja interacted with me differently than my other dogs. She looked at my face much, much more frequently to see if things were all right and that I approved of whatever she was doing or preparing to do. We established a few hand signals for basic instructions that I give the other dogs verbally: come, sit, no, and so on. I quickly learned that I needed to get in her line of sight if I wanted something; fortunately, dogs’ enhanced peripheral vision and phenomenal sensitivity to movement ensured that she noticed my signals.
Ganja’s silent world was different so my world with her became different as well.
Several times per day, the other dogs and I walk down to the river, a straight shot of about ¼ mile, and then walk east or west along the bank a ways. I remember the first time that Ganja joined us on the walk (well, only for half of it) about two years ago — I almost keeled over from the shock. Since then, she came with us only a few other times and even then she came along only on the initial straight part, where she could look back and still see home.
That’s because Ganja was a house dog. I don’t mean she stayed inside; I mean the most important thing in her life was her house. She wouldn’t leave sight of it — as though it might disappear if she didn’t keep an eye on it. She would wander around outside, but always very nearby — to the neighbor’s yard or across the street but always within sight of home.
Whenever we went to the vet a couple of blocks away, as soon as we turned the corner and Ganja couldn’t see the house any longer, she would stop, sit, and refuse to budge. I would have to carry her the rest of the way. When it was time to leave the vet and return home, she would happily walk the entire way … going home to her precious house was not at all like walking away from it.
Who really knows the mind of a dog? But I’m sure her obsessive attachment to home was because she had been abandoned at least twice in her life. Some college kids who lived next door found her on the streets and adopted her … but when they moved away, they simply abandoned her again. So, this last time, now that she had another home she darned well wasn’t about to let it slip away from her.
Before the students moved, Ganja was already an honorary member of our pack. When the students were out all day, Ganja would come inside my house and contentedly wait until they returned. It might not have been her official home but it was close enough.
So the transition to living with us full-time and permanently wasn’t too big a change in her life. Robert Frost wrote “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in “ and I’m pretty sure Ganja knew all along, even before the students left her behind, that I would always take her in. I like to think that this time she knew she would never again be homeless and the feeling of belonging gave her happiness during her six+ years living with me.
Her name was bestowed by the students, fans of the smokeable herb. It was fitting in one way at least — Ganja always had the munchies, ever in search of tasty morsels.
When the students moved away, a new family moved in. Unlike just about everyone in our village, they didn’t have dogs. So, around dinner time, they would often set out some scraps or leftovers near their kitchen door for my dogs. It took about three seconds for all of my dogs to catch on to this scrumptious bounty appearing nightly.
Ganja was the most determined forager of them all though. Every evening, she would start scratching the door to be let out, go next door to see if any culinary delicacies had been proffered, then come back and scratch to be let in again. Five minutes later, the scenario would repeat — for hours, either until she found some food or finally decided the neighbors were not handing out treats that night.
Every evening when the ritual would begin, I would tease her as if she were Cartman, the gluttonous little boy on South Park who constantly snacks. I would open the door and say something like “Time to search for Snacky Cakes, Ganja?” or “Ah, the mighty huntress begins stalking her elusive prey, the Cheesy Poof” [in my best NatGeo documentary voice].
She didn’t hear me but even a dog with full hearing wouldn’t have understood the words. Still, they can tell when we’re being playful and affectionate and I am sure Ganja knew I was doing something that meant “Yes, you’re my good and funny girl.”
I never changed her name. She’d lost her home and her sense of belonging at least twice in her life; taking away her name seemed like it would be piling another indignity upon her, even if she had never heard her own name. So Ganja she remained.
Ganja started losing weight rapidly at the end of March and was diagnosed with cancer at the beginning of April, a large tumor on her liver. Her early years are a mystery but the vet’s best estimate was that Ganja was about 15 or 16 years old. At her age, the odds of surviving major surgery, not to mention the difficulties of recuperating from such an operation, were very slim.
I love every one of my dogs, in different ways and with appreciation of their various personalities and quirks. Ganja was just as important to me as any of the others and under her particular circumstances that meant I had to let her go. It would have been cruel to subject her to a long traumatic ordeal and then die anyway. No, I wanted her final weeks or months of life to be as happy as possible — and indeed they were, because I fed her “real” food (beef, eggs, soft cheese, etc) instead of dry food like the other dogs eat, to stave off some of the wasting away. For a dog, that’s living the good life.
Mercifully for her — and for me — Ganja didn’t experience pain during her rapid decline. She grew weaker as she wasted away but was content to repose and watch the rest of us. The time came when she neither ate nor drank and I knew I needed to summon the vet to gently help her run ahead to the Rainbow Bridge. She peacefully departed life today with not even a sigh, sheltered in my embrace in the familiar comfort of her beloved home.
Ganja‘s death was like her life, encountered in silence. Ganja is gone and the silences in my life will always remind me of her.
Unlike the other dogs who gambol in the meadow together, I imagine Ganja seeking out a quiet corner and there finding what she really wants, a lovely little home of her own, with the words Casa de Ganja embossed over the door (she was Argentinian so it has to be in Spanish!). She won’t be alone though because Betty — the pup I lost two years ago — and Blue — a sweet and ancient stray I took in for his last six months in life — will welcome her and perhaps snuggle up with her from time to time.
Ganja will be happy there, content to sit in her cozy home and watch the other dogs, and I will know just where to find her when the time comes. And maybe, just maybe, her hearing will be restored there and she will — for the first time — hear me lovingly call her name when I come to take her with me.
¡Que te vaya bien hasta que nos vemos, mi querida amiguita! (May you fare well until we see each other again, my beloved little friend)