Most people in our neighborhood have proper dogs, animals produced by reputable breeders, canines that show hundreds of years of careful breeding designed to enhance particular traits. We have Harry.

Harry's an old, dirty little West Highland white terrier my wife got from an animal shelter around four years ago. He has about every problem that a puppy mill-bred Westie can have, from chronically infected ears to bow legs. When we got him, Harry's hair had all fallen out, the victim of a genetic skin disease that left him smelling like a decaying corpse. We'll never know for sure, but it's pretty likely that Harry's mom and dad were also brother and sister. Yuck.

Harry has always been -- and I mean this in the nicest way possible -- a jerk. He's only really affectionate when he wants something, won't really play fetch, and won't come when called by anyone except my wife. He is, in fact, the worst of both worlds: a dog's body with a cat's personality.

One day recently, however, my wife called Harry to go for a walk, the one thing, and person, he normally will jump at. Harry just lay there, motionless. At first we thought he was dead, but then noticed his little chest moving up and down. My wife called out to him, louder and louder. Finally, we walked over in front of him. He looked up, saw the leash and jumped to his feet. We looked at each other. Harry, it seems, had gone deaf.

I set up a series of experiments to see if I could get his attention with sound alone. He normally ignores me, so I looked for things that have always gotten a strong reaction.

I tried asking him if he wanted a bath, a question that used to make him back away warily and sneak under the dining room table. I tried shoveling food into his metal bowl when he was turned away, a rattling noise that used to at least perk him up. I tried asking him if he wanted a piece of CHEESE, a question I already knew the answer to, in that he normally responded by hopping on his back feet in delight like a circus dog. Instead, he sat there staring into space, like he was waiting for a bus. (Just to be sure he still had a sense of smell, I put a small piece of cheese on top of his head when he wasn't looking. He instantly came to life, sniffing frantically until the cheese finally fell off his head.)

The strangest thing is that Harry seems to believe we've gone deaf, too. He no longer makes noise when he wants something. He just comes around in front of us and tries to make eye contact, then gestures with his eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders and stamping his feet, trying to communicate. It is like living with a dog who's training to become a mime.

The other morning, I got out of bed, walked by the front door, and let Harry out in the front yard. The only reason I let him out is because he was standing by the door, wrinkling his eyebrows and squirming, which I guess is mime language for "Have to pee pretty badly, pal!"

When he was done, I stood on the front stoop waiting for him to come back in. He just stood there, staring off into space. I was still in my boxer shorts, in no condition to walk out into the front yard unless I wanted to creep out the neighbors, so I just stuck my head out the door.

"Harry!" I yelled, "Get in here!"

No answer. I yelled his name again, this time loud enough to wake the dead. It was as if I wasn't there. Just then, a lady came by walking her dog.

"GET IN HERE!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. The woman looked at me as if I was crazy.

"HAAAAAARRRRY!" I yelled, so loud that people in the next town over named Harry probably stopped short. The woman with the dog stopped and stared at me. I yelled again.

Finally, Harry turned, saw me, raised his eyebrows a bit, as if to say in mime language, "Hey, how long you been there?" and trotted inside. The lady out on the sidewalk didn't say anything but shook her head and frowned, as if to say in mime language, "Boy, you need a chill pill." She walked on, rolling her eyes.

I closed the door, looked at Harry and gave him a gesture that he probably didn't understand, but it made me feel just a little better.