LAST DECEMBER GUS DEALT AN AWFUL WOOF to my neighbour of 23 years, a retired Irishman who wouldn’t hurt a fly. An embarrassment, as you might imagine. Only after reflection did it come to me why: Liam had crouched beside his front steps to attach Christmas lights, wearing a dark jacket and a wool tuque pulled down to the eyebrows. To Gus he appeared furtive and sinister, like a prowler in a burglar alarm ad. Gus was protecting Liam from Liam.

Since then I have come to understand that Gus retains a quaint, almost Beagle Boys notion of what bad guys look like: guys in sunglasses and hats, particularly if the hat is pulled down; guys in motorcycle helmets; guys crouching behind walls or bushes; guys with umbrellas held down to conceal their faces.

Note that all are male, not female, and I think the crime stats bear him out.

It is also true that Gus woofs homeless guys pushing Safeway carts stacked with possessions or empties, but this is another matter: according to his former “master,” he spent his puppyhood in a backyard in Vancouver. Safeway cart entrepreneurs frequently passed by in the lane, and a property woof would elicit a beer can thrown in reply. So there’s a history of conflict, something rational to fall back on.

Not so with the comic book bad guys, and especially not so with the occasional bareheaded ordinary-looking individual to whom he takes an inexplicable dislike.

Is it the smell? Can people smell suspicious? Or do they emit an alarming frequency, inaudible to the human ear? Or can he sense something about a guy’s motivation or intention that causes concern? After all, when I see a newspaper photo of some murderous villain, it usually comes as a shock how innocuous he looks.

Gus’s ability to sense emotion and intention is certainly evident in our domestic interactions. When someone feels sad, he or she gets a lick. If I’m moody or anxious, he sticks close by. If I feel like a walk, he is at the front door before I get up from my chair. No reason to think this ability evaporates when he leaves the house.

The helmets, tuques and sunglasses are another matter. How do I teach Gus a more nuanced approach to the dress code of villainy? Should I wear a watch cap pulled down over my eyes? A mask and a striped shirt with a number on the chest?

All of which would be so much easier if we could discuss it. Given the myriad devices for extending the scope of the human voice, why not a gadget, held between the teeth, that would provide Gus with a range of speech beyond whine, growl and woof; plus a human counterpart beyond stop, stay and sit?

I was thinking this the other day as we played with his squeaky toy. A simple game really—I throw the thing against the wall, and he fetches it. In the meantime, a great deal of squeaking goes on before he presents the toy, with a plop very like a period or exclamation point. Then I do some squeaking before the next throw. Sometimes it sounds as though we are carrying on an energetic, if abstract, debate.

To sum up, I think Gus is trying to tell me something.

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