If I lived alone, my house could be filled to the attic rafters with varmints and I might not know it. My house issn’t dirty, but I simply wouldn’t hear an animal going about its business. The critter would put the word out to his friends and soon it would be a wildlife open house.
A zoo of raccoons, mice, birds and chipmunks could happily settle in my ceilings and sub-floors, with occasional shopping trips into my cupboards, because I can’t hear their muffled, high-pitched movements, even with hearing aids and especially at night. Much of their chittering and skittering activity would be nocturnal, because they’d be trying to hide from hearing people. How could they know that a single Hard of Hearing Human owned the place, making them less likely to be captured and deported – or worse – than their beastie chums in other houses?
“How can you not hear a mouse running along the ceiling – it’s so noisy!” asked a friend who clearly doesn’t understand hearing loss.
I respond irritably. “Probably the same way I sometimes don’t understand you, mumble-mouth.”
Now, I might hear a raccoon if it was large, say the size of Marmaduke. And I would most likely hear starlings in the attic if there were enough of them – like the entire cast of birds who munched on Tippi Hedren in Hitchcock’s The Birds. Mice I could probably hear if they wore wooden clogs and did a Riverdance on my roof.
Otherwise, I just don’t hear them – that’s the job of the hearing people in my house. Every once in a while, my husband or son will look sharply up at the ceiling and frown, listening.
“What is it?”
“Thought I heard something, maybe an animal, like a….”
“Like a what, WHAT? Large and hairy, with big TEETH?
“Nah, probably nothing.” (He turns back to the TV while I continue to strain my ears to the ceiling.)
If an animal has made its way into our reasonably clean house, we usually discover the visual evidence: a bit of rice-like mouse poop, a bag of flour with a small whole ripped in the bottom, perhaps even a faint odor in the basement back corner, suggesting that a four-legged-something has passed through. If we see anything like this, we take care of it immediately. (Don’t ask me how, that’s not on my list of household responsibilities.)
Wild animals are one hearing challenge, domestic pets are another. I would have saved a lot of money, some years ago, if I’d been able to hear Digby the Dog chew my hearing aid into wiry bits in the middle of the night. In a previous post, Laughing with Hearing Loss, I talked about this otherwise lovable mutt who woke me up to show me the really neat thing he’d turned my hearing aid into.
I’ve had cats ever since.
Lipreading a cat is difficult because, unlike dogs, cats don’t do prolonged eye contact with humans. When they do bother to look you in the eye, it usually means one of two things – feed me now or guess where I peed this
time?
Our gorgeous cats, Charlie (18 lbs, I-live-to-eat
) and Nicky (9 lbs, I’m-so-sweet), are very quiet meow-ers, unlike some of our previous feline howlers. But I don’t need to read their lips to understand them; the brilliant body language of cats is perfect for people with hearing loss. A fast-thumping tail indicates tension and that they are about to do something.
A slow-moving tail means yes, I hear you calling me, but I’m very happy where I am, thank you very much. Flat ears are signs that they’re feeling nervous, threatened or don’t like your singing.
When Charlie jumps on the floor, from any height above a foot, there’s a significant noise and reverberation that I usually feel. He’s hefty and eats like a horse, fast and noisy. When he finishes his food, he moves on to his sister’s, because she’s the sort that picks daintily at her food, wanders away for a while, and then returns for more. By the time Nicky gets back, however, the War Horse has usually finished her food. We have to be vigilant to ensure that poor Nicky gets enough to eat and Charlie doesn’t blow up.
When they play ‘chase’ on the upper floor, I can hear them from downstairs because Charlie tends to smash into walls and chairs. Sometimes my brain receives a tactile message which then prompts my hearing to listen up. For example, if Charlie or Nicky is sharpening their nails on the bedspread, the tugging sensation alerts me and then I can actually hear them cheerfully shredding my duvet cover.
Charlie at 6 weeks, before he got fat.
Both of our cats like to cuddle. Charlie’s favourite spot is on top of my morning newspaper – while I’m reading it. He won’t budge until he’s had his quota of loving, so I give in and lay my head on him, drinking in the sound of his small motor purring. My husband can hear purring from some distance; I have to be up close and personal. Cats purr at a frequency between 25 and 150 Hertz, and researchers believe that purring is likely a means of communication and a form of self-healing. But I know it simply means that my chubby Charlie is happy. And I’m happy, too, because now I can say:
I tawt I heard a puddy-tat….
Oh I did! I DID heard a puddy-tat!
