Inside Of A Dog Part 12

NON-HUMAN.

The study of dogs' cognitive abilities emerged from a context of comparative psychology, which by definition aims to compare animals' abilities with those of humans. The exercise often winds up splitting hairs: they communicate-but not with all the elements of human language; they learn, imitate, and deceive-but not in the way in the way that we do. The more we learn of animals' abilities, the finer we have to split the hair to maintain a dividing line between humans and animals. Still, it is interesting to note that we seem to be the only species spending any time studying other species-or, at least, reading or writing books about them. It is not necessarily to the dogs' discredit that they do not. that we do. The more we learn of animals' abilities, the finer we have to split the hair to maintain a dividing line between humans and animals. Still, it is interesting to note that we seem to be the only species spending any time studying other species-or, at least, reading or writing books about them. It is not necessarily to the dogs' discredit that they do not.

What is revealing is how dogs perform on tasks that measure social abilities we thought only human beings had. The results, whether serving to show how alike or unalike dogs are to or from us, have relevance in our relations.h.i.+ps with our dogs. When considering what we ask of them and what we should expect from them, understanding their differences from us will serve us well. Science's effort to find distinctions ill.u.s.trates more than anything else the one true distinction: our drive to affirm our superiority-to make comparisons and judge differences. Dogs, n.o.ble minds, do not do this. Thank goodness.

Inside of the Dog

Her personality is unmistakable and omnipresent: in her reluctance to climb the steep steps out of the park-but then forging ahead of me strongly and gamely; in her great spasms of running and scent rolling of younger days; in her delight at my return from a long trip-but not dwelling on it; in her checking back for me on our walks but also always keeping a few paces apart. For a dog who is in fact wholly dependent on me, she is incredibly independent: her personality is forged not just in interaction with me, but in the times wandering outside without me, in exploring her s.p.a.ce alone. She has her own pace of life.

Despite the wealth of scientific information about the dog-about how they see, smell, hear, look, learn-there are places science doesn't travel. It perplexes me that some of the questions I have most often been asked about dogs, and that I have about my own dog, are not addressed by research. On matters of personality, personal experience, emotions, and simply what they think about, what they think about, science is quiet. Still, the acc.u.mulation of data about dogs provides a good foothold from which to extrapolate and reach toward answers to those questions. science is quiet. Still, the acc.u.mulation of data about dogs provides a good foothold from which to extrapolate and reach toward answers to those questions.

The questions are typically of two kinds: What does the dog know? What does the dog know? and and What is it What is it like to be a dog? like to be a dog? So first we will ask what dogs know about things of human concern. Then we can further imagine the experiences-the umwelten-of the creatures who have this knowledge. So first we will ask what dogs know about things of human concern. Then we can further imagine the experiences-the umwelten-of the creatures who have this knowledge.

I.

WHAT A DOG KNOWS.

Claims about what dogs know are made constantly. Oddly, they tend to cl.u.s.ter around the academic and the ridiculous. The former prompts researchers to ask if a dog knows how, for instance, to count sums. In one experiment the dogs looked longer-evincing surprise-when there were either more or fewer biscuits revealed behind a screen than they had been shown being hidden there one by one-indicating that they were keeping track of number number and noticing when there was a discrepancy. Ta-da: counting dogs. and noticing when there was a discrepancy. Ta-da: counting dogs.

The other kind of claims are the far-flung: that dogs have ethics, rationality, a metaphysics. I admit to entertaining the notion more than once that my own dog seems to act ironically (whether or not she intends to).* One ancient philosopher maintained that dogs understand disjunctive syllogisms. As evidence, he gave the observation that in tracking an animal to a branching path, dogs can deduce that if the animal is neither down the first nor second of three trails, they realize, even without scent, that it must be down the third.*

Starting with an interest in math or metaphysics and working downward does not get us very far in understanding dogs. But start with their snuffling approach of the world, their striking attention to humans, and knowledge of the various means by which dogs learn about the world-and we might be able to learn what they know. In particular, we might approach an answer to whether they experience life as we do: whether they think about the world as we do. We mind our own autobiographical journeys through life, managing daily affairs, plotting future revolutions, fearing death, and trying to do good. What do dogs know about time, about themselves, about right and wrong, about emergencies, emotions, and death? By defining and deconstructing these notions-making them scientifically examinable-we can begin to answer.

Dog days (About time)

Back home, Pump gives me a perfunctory greeting, executes an unlikely pirouette, and then races off. Over the course of the day she has located all the biscuits I left around the house for her, and has waited until now to consume them, gobbling from the one balanced on the chair's edge to the one on the doork.n.o.b to the tricky one on a towering pile of books, which she delicately plucks off and spirits away.

Animals exist in time, they use time; but do they experience time? Surely they do. At some level there is no difference between existing in time and experiencing time: time must be perceived to be used. What many people mean, I suspect, in asking whether animals experience time is, Do animals have the same feelings about time that we do? Can a dog sense the pa.s.sage of a day? And, critically, are dogs bored all day, at home alone?

Dogs have plenty of experience of the Day, if no word day day to call it. We are the first source of their knowledge of days: we organize the dog's day in parallel with ours, providing landmarks and surrounding them with ritual. For instance, we provide all sorts of cues about when the dog's mealtime is. We head for the kitchen or pantry. It may be our mealtime, too, so we begin to unload the refrigerator, wafting food smells about, and making a racket with pots and plates. If we glance at the dog and coo a little, any remaining ambiguity is erased. And dogs are naturally habitual, sensitive to activities that recur. They form preferences-places to eat, to sleep, to safely pee-and notice preferences of yours. to call it. We are the first source of their knowledge of days: we organize the dog's day in parallel with ours, providing landmarks and surrounding them with ritual. For instance, we provide all sorts of cues about when the dog's mealtime is. We head for the kitchen or pantry. It may be our mealtime, too, so we begin to unload the refrigerator, wafting food smells about, and making a racket with pots and plates. If we glance at the dog and coo a little, any remaining ambiguity is erased. And dogs are naturally habitual, sensitive to activities that recur. They form preferences-places to eat, to sleep, to safely pee-and notice preferences of yours.

But in addition to all those visible and olfactory cues, does the dog naturally know that it is dinnertime? I know owners who insist they can set the clock by their dog. When he moves to the door, it's precisely the time to go out; when he moves to the kitchen, sure enough, it's time to be fed. Imagine removing all the cues the dog has about the time of day: all of your movements, any environmental sounds, even light and dark. The dog still knows when it's time to eat.

The first explanation is that dogs wear an actual clock-though internally. It is in the so-called pacemaker pacemaker of their brain, which regulates the activities of other cells of the body through the day. For a few decades neuroscientists have known that circadian rhythms, the sleep and alertness cycles that we experience every day, are controlled by a part of the brain in the hypothalamus called the SCN (suprachiasmatic nucleus). Not only humans have an SCN: so do rats, pigeons, dogs-every animal, including insects, with a complex nervous system. These neurons and others in the hypothalamus work together to coordinate daily wakefulness, hunger, and sleep.* Deprived entirely of cycles of light and dark, we would all still go through circadian cycles; without the sun it takes just over twenty-four hours to complete a biological day. of their brain, which regulates the activities of other cells of the body through the day. For a few decades neuroscientists have known that circadian rhythms, the sleep and alertness cycles that we experience every day, are controlled by a part of the brain in the hypothalamus called the SCN (suprachiasmatic nucleus). Not only humans have an SCN: so do rats, pigeons, dogs-every animal, including insects, with a complex nervous system. These neurons and others in the hypothalamus work together to coordinate daily wakefulness, hunger, and sleep.* Deprived entirely of cycles of light and dark, we would all still go through circadian cycles; without the sun it takes just over twenty-four hours to complete a biological day.

This morning I heard her barking in her sleep-the m.u.f.fled, jowl-puffing bark of dreaming. Oh, does she dream. I love her dream-barks, falsely severe, often accompanied by twitching feet or lips curled into a teeth-baring growl. Watch long enough and I'll see her eyes dancing, the periodic clenches of her jaw, hear her tiny whimpers. The best dreams inspire tail-wags-huge thumps of delight that wake herself and me.

We humans experience the day according to our ideas about what typically or ideally will happen throughout it-what meals, work, play, conversation, s.e.x, commuting, naps-and also according to the cycle of our circadian rhythms. Given our attention to the former, though, we sometimes hardly notice that our bodies are charting a regular course through the day. That midafternoon sleepiness, the difficulty in rising at five in the morning-both are due to our activities clas.h.i.+ng with our circadian rhythms. Take away some of those human expectations and you've got the dog's experience: the bodily feelings of the pa.s.sage of the day. In fact, without the societal expectations to distract them, they may be more attuned to the rhythms of their body telling them when to rise and when to eat. As per their pacemaker, they are most active as dark gives way to dawn, and markedly reduce their activity in the afternoon, with a burst of energy in the evening. With nothing else to do-no papers to shuffle, no meetings to attend-dogs nap straight through that afternoon slowdown.

Even without regular mealtimes the body goes through feeding-related cycles. Right before it is time to eat, animals tend to be more active-running about, licking, salivating-in antic.i.p.ation of food. We see this food-sense when a dog pursues us relentlessly with panting mouth and appealing eyes. Eventually we figure out it is time to feed the dog.

So in fact one can set the clock by the dog's belly. And, even more impressive, dogs maintain a clock operated by other mechanisms not yet fully understood, which seem to read the day's air. Our local environment-the air in the room we are in-indicates (if we have the right indicator) where we are in the day. Although we do not typically sense it, it is just the sort of thing a dog might notice. If we attend carefully, we might notice the gross changes of the day: the cool at the moment the sun sets, or the time of day registered in the amount of light streaming in the window-but the day's changes are infinitely more subtle than this. With sensitive machinery, researchers can detect the gentle air currents that form as a summer's day ends: warmed air pulled up along the inner walls creeps across the ceiling, spilling into the center of the room and falling along the outer walls. This is no breeze, nor even a noticeable puff or waft. Yet the sensitive machinery that is the dog evidently detects this slow, inevitable flow of air, perhaps with the help of their whiskers, well positioned to register the direction of any scent on the air. We know they can detect it because they can also be fooled: brought into a room that was warmed, a dog trained to follow a scent trail may search first by the windows when the track is really closer to the room's interior.

She is patient. How she waits for me. She waits as I duck into the local grocery store: looking plaintively, then settling down. She waits at home, warming the bed, the chair, the spot by the door, for me to return. She waits for me to finish up what I'm doing before we go outside; for me to finish talking with someone during our walk; for me to figure out when she is hungry. She waited for me to finally realize where she liked to be rubbed. And for me to finally begin to figure her out. Thanks for waiting, kiddo.

Dogs have not been tested on their ability to detect a specific length of time; but b.u.mblebees have. In one study, bees were trained to wait for a fixed time interval before sticking a proboscis through a tiny hole for a bit of sugar. Whatever the interval, they learned to restrain themselves for just that long ... and then no longer. When you're a bee waiting for sugar water, a half minute is a long time to wait. But they patiently tapped their many feet and did so. Other well-experimented-on animals-rats and pigeons-do the same: measuring time.

It is probable that your dog knows just how long a day is. But if so, a horrible thought occurs: Mustn't dogs be terribly bored enduring that day all alone at home? How can we tell if a dog is bored? Like other concepts whose applicability to dogs we are curious about, we first need to get a handle on what boredom looks like. Any child will tell you when he is bored, but dogs don't-at least, not verbally.

Boredom is rarely discussed in the non-human scientific literature, because it is one of the cla.s.ses of words whose application to animals is thought suspect. "Man is the only animal who can be bored," the social psychologist Erich Fromm declared; dogs should be so lucky. Human boredom is rarely the subject of scientific scrutiny, either, perhaps because it is seen simply as a part of the experience of life, not as a pathology to scrutinize. Its very familiarity gives us a way to define it: we experience it as a profound ennui, as an utter lack of interest. And we can recognize it in others: in their flagging energy, in an uptick in repet.i.tive movements and a decline in all other activities, and in rapidly waning attention.

With this definition, the subjective becomes objectively identifiable, in dogs as well as humans. Flagging energy and reduced activity are simple to recognize: less moving and more lying and sitting. Attention may wane straight into protracted bouts of sleep. Repet.i.tive movements include stereotyped (aimlessly and endlessly repeated) or self-directed behaviors. We twiddle our thumbs when bored; we pace. Animals kept in barren zoo enclosures often pace madly-and, thumbless, have twiddle-equivalents: licking or chewing skin or fur obsessively and constantly, pulling out their own feathers, rubbing their ears or face, rocking back and forth.

So is your dog bored? If you return home to find apparently restless socks, shoes, or underwear that have magically migrated some small distance from where you left them, or straggled bite-sized reminders of what you threw in the garbage yesterday-the answer is both Yes, Yes, your dog was bored, and your dog was bored, and No, No, at least not during one manic hour of chewing. Imagine a child complaining, at least not during one manic hour of chewing. Imagine a child complaining, There's nothing to do: There's nothing to do: that is just the case for most dogs left alone. Left without anything to do, they will find something. Your solution, for the sake of your dog's mental health, and for the sake of your socks, is as simple as leaving something for them to do. that is just the case for most dogs left alone. Left without anything to do, they will find something. Your solution, for the sake of your dog's mental health, and for the sake of your socks, is as simple as leaving something for them to do.

Even if you return to find the house a bit unkempt, a warm depression on the forbidden couch cus.h.i.+on, what is also reliable is that the dog is still alive and usually looks well. We get away with leaving them, with boring them, because they generally adapt to their situations without much complaint. In fact, dogs take comfort in habit, in reliable occurrences, just as we might. If so, then their boredom may be tempered by resignation to the familiar. And they may even know how long they typically need to stay in the suspended animation of waiting at home for you. It is one reason why your dog may be waggily waiting at the door even when you try to quietly sneak in at the workday's end. And it is why I leave more treats hidden around the apartment the longer I will be gone. I'm telling Pump I'll be away-and leaving something to mind the time.

The inner dog (About themselves)

The best scientific tool proposed to determine if dogs think about themselves-if they have a sense of self-is a simple one: the mirror. One day the primatologist Gordon Gallup pondered his reflection while shaving and wondered if the chimpanzees he studied would ponder their reflections in mirrors, too. Certainly using a mirror for self-examination-smoothing a s.h.i.+rt over belly, patting down a wayward hair, testing a coy smile-is a display of our own self-awareness. And before we are self-aware, as young children, we do not use mirrors as adults do. A short time before children pa.s.s theory-of-mind tests, they begin to consider their mirror images.

Gallup promptly placed a full-length mirror outside his chimpanzees' cages and watched what they did. They all did the same thing first: they threatened and tried to attack the mirror. Suddenly, it seemed, there was another chimp right outside their cage; this must be addressed at once. Despite the no doubt confusing result-the mirror image seemed to attack back, only for the affair to resolve without ado-their first days with the mirrors were full with social displays toward this new, glaring chimpanzee. After a few days, though, the chimpanzees seemed to come to a realization. Gallup watched as his chimps approached the mirrors and began to use them to examine their own visages and bodies: picking at their teeth, blowing bubbles, making faces toward their mirror image. They were especially interested in parts of their bodies that are ordinarily visually inaccessible: the mouth, the rump, up the nostrils. To be sure that they were thinking about the mirror images as themselves, themselves, Gallup devised a "mark" test: he inconspicuously applied a prominent dab of red ink to the head of the chimps. These first subjects in this test needed to be anesthetized to apply the mark; later researchers would affix the mark while doing ordinary grooming or medical care of their animals. When the marked chimps again stood in front of the mirrors, they saw a red-tagged chimp-and they touched the spot on their own heads, bringing their hands down to examine the ink with their mouths. They pa.s.sed the test. Gallup devised a "mark" test: he inconspicuously applied a prominent dab of red ink to the head of the chimps. These first subjects in this test needed to be anesthetized to apply the mark; later researchers would affix the mark while doing ordinary grooming or medical care of their animals. When the marked chimps again stood in front of the mirrors, they saw a red-tagged chimp-and they touched the spot on their own heads, bringing their hands down to examine the ink with their mouths. They pa.s.sed the test.

There is considerable debate about whether this indicates that chimpanzees are thinking about themselves, have a concept of self, recognize themselves, are self-aware, or none of the above*

-especially since it would be disruptive of our ideas about animals to suddenly grant them self-awareness. But the mirror tests have continued alongside the debate, and to this date dolphins (by moving their bodies to explore the mark) and at least one elephant (using her trunk) have pa.s.sed the test; monkeys have not. And dogs? Dogs have not been shown to pa.s.s the test. They never examine themselves in the mirror. Instead they behave more like monkeys do: they sometimes look at the mirrors as though it were another animal, and sometimes look at it idly. In some cases, dogs will use mirrors to get information about the world: to see you tiptoeing up behind them, for instance. But they don't seem to see the mirror as an image of themselves.

There are a few explanations why dogs might behave this way. The dogs may indeed not have any sense of self-thus no sense of who that handsome dog in the mirror might be. But as the debate over this test indicates, it is not universally accepted as a conclusive test of self-awareness; thus neither can it be a conclusive determination of lack of self-awareness. Another possible explanation for the dogs' behavior is that the lack of other cues-specifically olfactory cues-coming from the mirror image leads dogs to lose interest in investigating it. Some fantastical odor-mirror that wafts the dog's own scent while reflecting the dog's own image would be a better medium for this test. Another issue is that the test is predicated on a specific kind of curiosity about oneself: one that leads humans to examine what is new on our own bodies. Dogs may be less interested in what is visually new than what is tactually new: they notice strange sensations and pursue them with nibbling mouth or scratching paw. A dog is not curious why the tip of his black tail is white, or what the color of his new leash is. The mark needs to be noticeable, and also worth noting.

Even so, there are other dog behaviors suggestive of their self-knowledge. In most actions, dogs do not grossly misestimate their abilities. They surprise themselves by jumping into water after ducks-only to find that they are natural swimmers. They surprise us by leaping to scale a fence-which they may in fact be able to clear. On the other hand, one regularly hears that dogs don't don't know a very basic fact about themselves: how big they are. Small dogs strut up to enormous dogs: their owners proclaim that their dogs "think they're big." Some big-dog owners who endure lap sitting likewise a.s.sert that their dogs "think they're small." In both cases, the dogs' accompanying behaviors lend more credibility to the notion that they know a very basic fact about themselves: how big they are. Small dogs strut up to enormous dogs: their owners proclaim that their dogs "think they're big." Some big-dog owners who endure lap sitting likewise a.s.sert that their dogs "think they're small." In both cases, the dogs' accompanying behaviors lend more credibility to the notion that they do do know their sizes: the small dog is compensating for his small size by trumpeting his other qualities extra loudly; the large dog raised with a lap to sit on continues with this close contact just as long as he is tolerated, and then finds a large-dog-sized pillow to sit on elsewhere. know their sizes: the small dog is compensating for his small size by trumpeting his other qualities extra loudly; the large dog raised with a lap to sit on continues with this close contact just as long as he is tolerated, and then finds a large-dog-sized pillow to sit on elsewhere.

Both small and large dog are tacitly acknowledging an understanding of their own size. It might seem unlikely that this means they are thinking about the categories big big or or small. small. But look at how they act on objects in the world. Some dogs will attempt to pick up a felled tree, but most dogs with stick-carrying habits will choose similarly sized sticks at every opportunity, as though they have gauged what can be picked up and held in their mouths. From then on, all sticks in the path of a searching dog are quickly a.s.sessed: too big? too thick? not thick enough? But look at how they act on objects in the world. Some dogs will attempt to pick up a felled tree, but most dogs with stick-carrying habits will choose similarly sized sticks at every opportunity, as though they have gauged what can be picked up and held in their mouths. From then on, all sticks in the path of a searching dog are quickly a.s.sessed: too big? too thick? not thick enough?

Further suggestive evidence that dogs know their size comes from their rough-and-tumble play. One of the most characteristic features of dog play is that socialized dogs can, by and large, play with almost any other socialized dog. This includes the pug who leaps onto the hocks of the mastiff, reaching his knee. As we've seen, big dogs know how to, and often do, moderate the force of their play to smaller playmates. They can withhold their fiercest bites, jump halfheartedly, b.u.mp into their more fragile playmates more gently. They might willingly expose themselves to attack. Some of the largest dogs regularly flop themselves on the ground, revealing their bellies for their smaller playmates to maul for a while-what I called a self-takedown. self-takedown. Older, learned dogs adjust their play styles to puppies, who don't yet know the rules of play. Older, learned dogs adjust their play styles to puppies, who don't yet know the rules of play.

Play between dogs of mismatched statures often does not last long, but it is usually an owner, not a dog, who moves to stop it. Most socialized dogs are considerably better at reading each other's intent and abilities than we are. They settle most misunderstandings before owners even see them. It's not the size or the breed that matters; it's the way they talk to each other.

Working dogs provide another glimpse into what dogs know about themselves. Sheepdogs, raised from their first weeks of life with sheep, do not grow up to act like sheep. They do not bleat or scream, chew their cud, aggressively head-b.u.t.t, nor suckle from the ewe, as sheep do. Their cohabitation leads dogs to interact socially with sheep-using social behaviors characteristic of dogs. Those who study sheepdogs observe, for instance, that dogs will growl at sheep. Growling is a dog communication: the dog is treating the sheep more like a dog than like a possible meal. These dogs' only fault is to overgeneralize: not only are they clear on their own ident.i.ty, in some sense-they also think that everyone else is a dog, too. One could call this foible very human: they talk to sheep as though they were dogs, just as we talk to dogs as though they were humans.

Between play bouts, stick-retrieving, and sheepherding, do dogs sit around thinking, My, but I'm a fine medium-sized dog, aren't I? My, but I'm a fine medium-sized dog, aren't I? Certainly not: such continued reflection on size or status or appearance is peculiarly human beings' lot. But dogs do act with knowledge of themselves, in contexts where such knowledge is useful. They respect (for the most part) the limits of their physical abilities, and will look pleadingly at you when you ask them to leap a too-high fence. A dog will hop discreetly around a pile of his own defecation encountered on the ground: he recognizes the smell as Certainly not: such continued reflection on size or status or appearance is peculiarly human beings' lot. But dogs do act with knowledge of themselves, in contexts where such knowledge is useful. They respect (for the most part) the limits of their physical abilities, and will look pleadingly at you when you ask them to leap a too-high fence. A dog will hop discreetly around a pile of his own defecation encountered on the ground: he recognizes the smell as his. his. If the dog is reflecting on himself, one might wonder if he thinks about himself in the past-or in the future: if he is quietly writing his autobiography in his head. If the dog is reflecting on himself, one might wonder if he thinks about himself in the past-or in the future: if he is quietly writing his autobiography in his head.

Dog years (About their past and future)

As we round the corner Pump stops in her tracks. She moves as if to sniff something a half-step back; I slow to indulge her; and she darts back around the corner. There are still twelve blocks, a brief park, a water fountain, and a right turn until we get there, but she knows this walk. She'd been glancing up at me for blocks, and with that final turn, it's confirmed. We're going to the vet.