Do They Make Hearing Aids for Dogs? A Love Story With My Selectively Deaf Shih Tzu

I’ve found myself asking that question more than once, usually while standing in the kitchen, keys jangling, leash in hand, calling his name for the third time. Nothing. Not even a flick of an ear. Just a five-year-old Shih Tzu staring out the window like he’s contemplating life, the universe, and whether bacon might appear if he waits long enough.

This little guy, Mookie, is the love of my life. My best friend. My shadow. I don’t go anywhere without him—and that’s not an exaggeration. He’s logged more frequent-flyer miles than some people I know, having flown more than 50 times across the United States. Airports don’t faze him. TSA doesn’t rattle him. He settles into his carrier like a seasoned road warrior, cool as can be. And in February, he’s taking the ultimate step in his globe-trotting career: international travel to Cabo, Mexico with Nancy and me. Passport? No. Confidence? Absolutely.

He’s incredibly obedient—until he isn’t. He knows his commands. Sit. Stay. Come. He’ll follow them perfectly… as long as he feels like it. He loves people, thrives on attention, and believes every stranger exists solely to admire him. He has that Shih Tzu charm down to an art form. One look and people melt. He knows it, too.

But like most Shih Tzus, he has selective hearing. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Because there are moments—many of them—when I swear he cannot hear me at all. Call his name? Silence. Shake the treat bag from three rooms away? Instant appearance. Whisper “walk”? He materializes like magic.

It’s especially noticeable at night. I’ll say, “Time for bed,” and he looks at me as if I’ve spoken in a foreign language. But the second I turn off the light, he’s already curled up exactly where he wants to be, having somehow heard that part loud and clear.

I’ve wondered if it’s age. Five isn’t old, but it isn’t a puppy anymore either. Or maybe it’s just personality. Shih Tzus were bred to be companions, not commandos. They listen, but they also negotiate. They weigh options. They decide if compliance is worth their time.

And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.

Because whether he hears me or not, he’s always with me. He watches me like a hawk. Follows me from room to room. Rests his head on my foot while I work. Looks at me with a level of trust and love that never wavers. He may miss a command here and there, but he never misses being present.

So no, I don’t think they make hearing aids for dogs—at least not for Shih Tzus like mine. What they have instead is something far better: an uncanny ability to hear what truly matters. And apparently, my voice ranks just below bacon, treats, and the word “walk.”

Sande Caplin Photos