For ten years I have been convinced my dog will start speaking Italian. She will just roll up one day, stand on hind legs, and speak so fluently it will be like an exchange student from Milan has entered the living room.
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment I became convinced of my dog’s Italian heritage. As far as I know, her breed, the Australian silky terrier, has zero roots from Italy. But as I reflect on the past decade, I’m drawn to the period I borrowed cookbooks from the local library. The titles were something like 101 Simple Italian Dishes for the Whole Family or Cook Like Nonna: Home Made Pasta Made Easy. And from these books, I attempted to expand my repertoire in the kitchen.
I stirred the bubbling pasta sauce around the ceramic pot, and I could hear the light patter of paws running along floorboards. It may have been the garlic aroma filling the house but she entered the kitchen each time. She would sit and observe patiently while I fumbled my way through various Italian recipes, her eyes fixed on the stove, with a knowing expression on her little face.
“Do you like the smell of this?” I would ask. And while she stared back in silence, I imagined her giving constructive feedback like, “have you considered adding more oregano?”
I soon became anxious about the prospect of her talking Italian, like I do about most things in life, because I don’t speak Italian. They only taught us French in school, and a bit of Japanese, and I failed both. It probably didn’t help that I answered the exam question of Where did Akako say she lived? with Japan.
What are the odds your dog suddenly starts talking? It would be just my luck, that when my dog inevitably started speaking, it would be in a foreign language I didn’t understand. I attempted to push my fears aside and embrace Italian culture – just to be prepared.
She would sleep beside me on the couch, while we had movie nights. She never paid much attention until I delved into the likes of La Dolce Vita, Ladri di biciclette, and La vita è bella. Her face turned to meet mine, while her eyes displayed a sadness I had yet seen, as if she was acknowledging the tears rolling down my own face, and saying “How could Roberto Benigni break our hearts like this?”
Come February, her excitement for walks spiralled out of control, as our city held an Italian street festival, Festa Italia. Her small snout sniffed the air, basking in the various aromas flooding surrounding streets. She strutted with increased swagger. She helped herself to a cheeky lick of my gelato while we sat in the park together and reflected on how good life was. By June, we listened to Andrea Bocelli passionately singing Con te partiro. She watched with amusement as my face violently contorted in disgust as I forced chinotto down my throat to commemorate Festa della Repubblica.
She is thirteen now. I have been waiting ten years. While we make the most of each day, our time is closer to the end than the beginning. I’m not sure what is holding her back, and my anxiety builds with each passing day. I can’t help but wonder. Wonder if I’ll ever get to see her turn to me, wag her tail and gently say, “Grazie di tutto. Ti amo.”