On the Road Again

My blind puggle, Manny, still bumps into the furniture and walls that have been in the same place for the five years during which he has lived with us, but his uncanny sense of smell is an infallible GPS system when it comes to finding the dog park.

They say that the loss of one sense results in enhanced acuteness in the remaining ones, and so it is not surprising that Manny has dragged me on the mile long hike to the dog park for three days in a row without so much as making a wrong turn. (Okay, it's a straight shot, and there are no turns, so maybe I'm exaggerating his genius just a bit.) At least it's relaxing for me once we get there; no need to make my arm sore tossing a saliva drenched tennis ball to a dog who cannot see.

Like Manny, my mother has lost one of her more essential senses -- in her case, hearing. And she has done her bit to support the theory of enhanced acuteness in the remaining ones, able to locate microscopic bits of white lint on white carpet from miles away. I think she can even see through walls when it comes to that kind of thing.

But she is eighty, recovering from a variety of broken bones, and totally deaf, and is insisting on getting back behind the wheel of her car. My brother and I, though mortified, have become accustomed to her stubborn refusal to give up her car keys. Others, however, are shocked that crazy Miss Daisy is still on the road, driving herself to get her hair done while she drives the rest of us nuts. Where is Morgan Freeman when you need him?

My brother feels it's time to stop her, so I decided I'd help support him -- a united front against my mother is always a good idea -- and did some serious research. Based upon my cursory Google investigation, I discovered not only that there is no state in our country that requires a hearing test for license renewal, but also that studies have shown that even the most dire hearing impairments do not increase ones risk of having a traffic mishap. Indeed, without the ability to carry on a conversation while driving or the compulsion to constantly flip radio stations, someone like my mother is arguably more focused and attentive behind the wheel than your average Joe with all his faculties. Not the kind of findings my brother and I were hoping for. At least we've convinced her to confine herself to local driving, the kind she could do with her eyes closed and her hands tied behind her back (oy, God forbid).

Who knows. Maybe my mother will start to compensate for her lack of hearing as impressively as Manny has compensated for his lost sight. The other night, when I took Manny in the back yard to pee, he began to stalk a loud and, I must say, obnoxious cricket that was bouncing off the walls by my back door. I was sure the cricket's wings would give him an edge over an obese dog, but alas, suddenly, silence. I looked over to see Manny licking his chops, his self-satisfied tail curled way up. Somebody was in his happy place, and it definitely wasn't the cricket.

The next day, I was walking Manny as my brother and I debated on the phone what to do about my mother and her driving. Could we, in good conscience, let the DMV's lack of concern with hearing and a handful of online articles convince us to trust our mother's judgment on the issue? I did notice, in my extensive research, that Pakistan prohibits driving while deaf, but, let's face it, Pakistan is a bit on the nutty side these days; following Pakistan's advice on public safety issues would be like asking your average Hollywood couple for the secrets to a long marriage.

Meanwhile, Manny stopped to poop. Right there, at the end of his, um, business, was a fully formed cricket, hard evidence of the enhanced abilities developed by an individual who is impaired. Frankly, I was too grossed out to pick up the poop (please don't report me), but I couldn't help feeling a bit proud of Manny's accomplishments.

We've agreed to let mom keep the keys for now, and she's agreed to only drive within a rather limited local radius. Maybe I'll go visit soon so she can further hone her sense of sight as she directs me toward virtually invisible specks on the carpet. Invisible, of course, unless you're deaf. Or just a little bit nutty.