It’s raining in Oakland today, and a little chilly. This morning I joined my dog Cacio on her bed in my office to warm each other up. We both just about fit if she curls up like a croissant and rests her head on my lap.
For a few minutes, we sat and watched the rain through the window. We listened to the drip, drip, drip as rainwater dropped rhythmically from the awning onto the deck. We listened to the wind buffeting the house occasionally, and in the distance a sound of sirens, growing louder.
I grabbed my field recorder and binaural mics from my desk, plopped down by the back door, and hit record. Let’s listen now.
I can hear the rain at first, but mostly the less pleasant sounds. I love the sound of the very light drizzle blowing against the window, but I could hear the sharp splash of larger drops descending from the awning.
I can hear the faint sound of a show playing from my wife’s phone as she gets ready. I’m not sure what it is, but I like hearing it. Those small sounds you get used to in a relationship; that remind you they’re there.
The familiar tippy-tappy footsteps of my dog now, perhaps coming from the bedroom back into my office. I have my eyes closed, but I can sense where she is. A few seconds later and she’s entered my office. I hear her pause, and can imagine her head tilting as she wonders why I’m sat on the floor. She’s always curious when my face is at eye level.
Today is no different, and she takes a few more steps until I can sense her right next to me. She decides, of course, that this is the perfect time to lick as much of my face as she can, as quickly and furiously as possible. Listening back makes me laugh—the sound is truly a gross one.
Suddenly a loud huff and a sniff in my ear as she gets curious about the mics in my ears. First the right ear, and—because she’s nothing if not thorough—then the left. All that’s left to do is yawn widely, apparently, as I hear the telltale squeak that comes in at the end of a good one.
She plods around a bit, has another sniff, and then I hear the sound of her sinking back into her bed, probably giving me the side-eye. I sit for a moment longer, listening to the sound of the siren grow more and more faint as it disappears into the distance. The louder plop, plop of larger drops is the only sound I hear for a while.
Slowly, the sound of the show gets a little louder, and then louder still, and then quieter again. I open my eyes, hit pause on the recording, and try to follow the sound so that I can speak with my wife.
When I find her, I tell her about the recording. The little licks, the loud sniffs, the tippy-tippy steps. I’m smiling the whole time. I love listening to these little sounds of life, and I love my dog.
“You’ll be glad you have that recording one day,” she said with a smile, and I instantly knew she was right. This small moment where our dog had done completely ordinary things had brought me joy, and yet I could experience the real thing tomorrow, and the next day.
I need reminders like this. I’ve rarely taken photographs of things that I’d like to remember over the years, and sometimes wish that I had. As I wrote about recently, though, my most sensitive sense is sound. It’s the thing that brings memories into view so strongly for me.
This silly recording, just three minutes long, is something that can bring an ordinary moment back someday and make it feel extraordinary. To remember this rainy day with this perfect dog and my wonderfully kind wife. I’ll be glad that I’ve got it, someday. I already am.