Ollie has selective hearing.

I know, you’re going to say dogs really don’t think beyond the moment, so saying they choose to hear only certain things and not others is stretching it.

But Ollie understands perfectly well. It’s not a matter of understanding what you’ve said, but rather if it’s in his best interest to be listening. All the dogs that have been a part of the family knew their names and responded to basic commands, including the most important of them all – “come.” “Stop” is next on the list, which must be said in a stern voice, especially when your pair of favorite slippers are about to be shredded into pellet-sized chunks of leather to disappear and miraculously reappear a day later as you fish for the plastic bag you’ve stuffed in your pocket.

Whether “come” precedes the name of the dog or follows it, the command outranks all others.

Ollie knows that. I can tell it from the way he cocks his head, glances in my direction, and just keeps going.

His message is clear: “I’m on an important mission right now. Can’t you see that? Don’t bother me.”

Ollie barely breaks stride, nose to the ground in pursuit of a scent that I imagine is that of the black cat that visits the yard before daybreak, or the fox I spotted last week casually walking up the walkway as if he owned the place. When on such self-appointed missions, Ollie’s tail is in full swing as if propelling him forward. He’ll stop abruptly, head down, nose quivering, and breathing in gulps of air that puff out his jowls.

It’s at these moments that I figure I have him.

I’ve tried the stealth approach from behind. It has never worked. I get within feet of grabbing his tail and like repelling magnets, he’s off again. Then there’s the direct approach, along with the words “come, Ollie.” Usually, I put in an explanation – after all, you never know what he understands – such as, “It’s getting dark and it’s time to go in.” I’ve even tried, “It’s time for dinner,” said in upbeat joyous tones as if we were serving filet minion. He’ll look intrigued, but when I get within feet, he’ll take off running the length of the yard.

Once on the frontal tactic, I took an entirely different approach. In a stern voice, I commanded, “sit.”

He sat, to my amazement, and I slipped on the leash. I’ve tried that since, even holding up a tasty treat as a reward. Sometimes he’s interested, lifting that pulsating nose to catch of whiff of what I’m holding. If it’s not chicken, forget it.

Carol figures it’s a matter of interrupting Ollie’s intense concentration. Instead of calling, which she knows he’ll ignore, she claps her hands. It has worked on rare occasion. He’ll look up to find her waving him toward the back door – usually not an effective ploy. The car, however, holds promise. Open the passenger door, catch his attention with clapping and he’s intrigued.

His joyful look is a giveaway.

“We must be going to Confreda fields, Gorton or Clegg Field. I wonder who’s been there. I can’t wait to get a whiff.”

On one of those recent visits to Confreda, Carol spotted an Ollie look-alike, only grayer around the muzzle and obviously an older dog. The two spotted coonhounds were instant friends, and as the dogs made their acquaintances, Carol and the woman compared notes. They agreed the breed is affectionate, tolerant of little kids pulling on its ears and tail, and loves to nap in a sunny spot. And then, of course, they got to the issue of sniffing and pursuing a scent. Her dog had gotten loose on “the hunt” nine times, sometimes disappearing for more than a day.

That outranks Ollie, although I’m sure if provided the opportunity, he’d be on the hunt every day.

Then they compared notes on commands. The woman confessed she was so perplexed by her dog’s total disregard of her efforts to get him to come when called that she brought him to a vet to have him checked for deafness.

You guessed it, he checked out fine. It’s another case of selective hearing.