Casey John, one year old

He bounded joyfully into our lives, leaping gracefully like a porpoise from a metal cage into our hearts. Powerfully muscled and strikingly white, Casey was a sight to behold. His excitement literally flattened us as he greeted us individually with flying kisses. It was as if he knew instinctively that he had found his family, just like we knew we had found our dog. An instant love match, a friend called it.

What drew us to Casey was the very thing that had put him in the shelter and prevented his adoption. Casey, like Brian, has been deaf since birth. Dogs like Casey are routinely euthanized by breeders who believe deaf pups are dangerous, unadoptable, and destined for a miserable life. Educated human beings say inconceivable things. “Responsible breeders NEVER knowingly sell, place or give away deaf pups to pet homes. Deaf pups should ALWAYS be humanely destroyed by a veterinarian. In the event that a deaf pup is inadvertently placed, it should be replaced with a hearing pup”. Shelters do their best to place those who are allowed to live, but the general public is unable to see beyond the disability and the unfamiliar to the delightful dog within.

He came to us serendipitously, as many things will, if we let them. In an effort to make him more adoptable, his shelter sent him to a school that trained veterinary technicians. There, he learned basic obedience by working with a student who knew some signs. That student was my cousin, and through a series of events I came to know of him.

The first pictures I saw of Casey were taken on a cell phone camera, grainy and blurred. He focused on the person taking the picture with a familiar intensity in his eyes, an intensity I feel in my own. It makes people uncomfortable, when they aren’t used to it. His expression was one of curiosity; it wasn’t imploring. There was clearly nothing insecure about Casey, nothing nervous or timid. Certainly nothing threatening. He emanated confidence, intelligence, and a curious sense of fun.

And so we brought him home, all 60 pounds of him cradled like a tiny pup in his new Daddy’s arms. He rested his head on Brian’s shoulder in cautious contentment as I drove, occasionally looking up to peer behind him at the many faces of his new family. Through the cities, through the countryside, down the interstate we went, heading into an adventure much bigger than we imagined.

He’s opened our world in surprising ways. People take notice of him for his carriage and presence; when they learn he is deaf, they are fascinated. I think, maybe, that I know why. There is a simple wisdom in Casey. His world is what it is. He doesn’t care what it’s not. He’s happy. He makes no apologies for who he is. Of course, he is different. We can’t call him to come, but we can shine a flashlight or stamp our feet to get his attention. Then he’ll come—if he feels like it. He can sleep through chaos and noise, and would hardly deter a burglar unless the burglar tapped him on the shoulder first. He can’t go on the road by himself, but then, what dog should?

What we see as unique about Casey is not his deafness, but his intelligence. He responds to subtle visual cues to which there is no equivalent in the hearing world. He knows that a jerk of the head means he should go to the other door to be let in. He awakens me by standing on my chest, jowls and ears flopping, a running shoe dangling from his mouth in a subtle hint. He'll pre-emptively offer his paw to request a snack, knowing he'd have to do it anyway before he'd get the treat.

But he's just a dog. At night, he lies diagonally across my bed, stretched out like a racehorse crossing the finish line. He naughtily stands at the kitchen counter helping himself to food. He chases cats. He thinks dirty diapers are a snack. He’ll offer his paw to shake, if you politely sign “friend” first. He lies patiently as children crawl over him, but he later exacts his revenge by stealing a coveted toy or snack. He's even participated quite willingly in a conga line. Finally, at the end of a long day of playing, running, chasing, being chased, and doing naughty puppy things, he collapses into an exhausted white heap of dog and falls asleep to the gentle pats of 5 small hands.

Deaf pups should ALWAYS be humanely destroyed by a veterinarian. Or maybe some veterinarians need to meet Casey.