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The man on the talk show just asked: “Do dogs recognize the sound of our voices? We’ll find out right after these announcements.”

I think I have some information about that.

I once had a dog named, “Preacher.” (Yes, I’m a minister. But she was black and had sort of a white streak on her throat.) I got Preacher for free She was scheduled to be a pure-bred Doberman, but when her dad left for the day, a black Lab hopped the fence and revisited Mom, so all the pups, no doubt some of them pure Doberman, were given away for free, owing to some nasty gossip about parental habits and tainted heritage.

Since Preacher grew into an 80-pound puppy, who remained a puppy for thirteen years, my money is on the Lab. After I spent more than $300 on dog obedience lessons, the trainer took me aside and suggested that I spend no more. “What you have here,” he said to me, “is a happy dog.”

As a brand new minister in a small apartment, I found 80 pounds of happiness on a daily basis daunting, especially after Preacher decided that the command, “Stay!” meant, “Knock-over-the- boss-and-beat-her-to-the-door.” On the other hand, Mrs. Stewart, the woman who cared for her when I traveled, insisted Preacher’s behavior was good as gold. “She learned all my rules in one day,” she said. These rules included, “No lying on the kitchen floor,” and, “No going upstairs.” Other than that, Preacher had the run of the house, and Mrs. Stewart adored her. I believe it was mutual.

Occasionally, when I was out of town for a longer time, I’d call in to see how Preacher was doing. “Good as gold,” was the consistent reply. “You ought to leave Preacher messages,” she said, “If you call when I’m out, say a few things to her on my answering machine, and I’ll play them for her. I know she’d love to hear your voice.”

I had my doubts about that, and being busy at meetings and conferences, I never did. Except once. One time, when I called, Mrs. Stewart was out. I left the message that I’d phoned and would be home tomorrow, and just before I hung up, I remembered her words: “I’m sure Preacher would like to hear your voice.”

So, feeling a little foolish, I said into her answering machine, things like, “Hi, Preacher. I’ll be home tomorrow. See you soon. I love you.”

The next day, when I came to pick up Preacher, I asked, as I always did, “Was she good for you?” Mrs. Stewart answered, as she always did, “Good as gold.” I started for the car, then suddenly remembered. I turned and said, “By the way, I left a message on your phone for Preacher, as you suggested.”

I light bulb seemed to go on [in her head], as she responded, “Oh. I thought maybe you had. I didn’t find any messages on the machine, but when I came home from the store, I saw that Preacher had gone upstairs, which she knows she’s not allowed to do, gotten into the hall closet and gone through the back wall into my office, where I keep the phone.”