Curious Cat

There's an old dictum that is periodically dragged out, in order to warn someone not to be so inquisitive or prying into others' matters: “Curiosity killed the cat.” Its origin is so old that most people are not aware of how it came to be. It's interesting advice, but I tend to think that it's often used inappropriately. What's wrong with curiosity? Sure, we might be going too far if we're meddling in other people's private affairs, but curiosity—defined as a strong desire to learn something—is an admirable trait, for the most part.

So where did this metaphor of warning about the potential problems of being curious originate? As usual, an internet search quickly guides me to Wikipedia—wherein I find that the expression goes back to Shakespeare and his 16^th century cohorts. (Doesn't everything in the English culture stem from him?) The word used by these authors, rather than curiosity, was “care,” which, at the time, meant that something like “worry” or “sorrow” killed the cat. But then, Shakespeare's metaphors are often a stretch for modern people to comprehend. In time, the saying evolved to having the cat get killed, not through worry, but by snooping.

I discovered a very different take on curiosity recently, that is more appealing to me. Researchers at the University of California, Davis conducted an experiment which showed that people learn better when their curiosity is stimulated. Now, this result may not be all that surprising in itself, since no student can learn effectively when bored stiff. When our curiosity is piqued, however, when we are interested in a subject, it's logical that we'll do a better job of understanding it.

No surprise there. What's interesting about the UC Davis study is that the researchers were able to show why people learn better when they're curious: it's because curiosity fires up the brain's dopamine reward circuitry. In other words, the brain responds to curiosity in a similar way that it does when we yearn for chocolate and other such pleasures.

Students' curiosity was stimulated in the experiment by posing certain intriguing questions, and then comparing their brains' reactions to when rather boring questions were posed. Their brains were simultaneously scanned, to show that when when they were curious, brain activity rose in those regions that transmit dopamine signals. When questioned again at a later time, students' memories were one-third better for those questions that lit up their brains' curiosity centers, than for the tedious questions.

The researchers concluded that they were best able to boost students' memories on those questions for which they had some previous knowledge, but were then purposefully presented with a gap in their understanding. Just like going for another piece of chocolate, the study's subjects were driven to find the answer. Their curiosity pushed them to find out.

I believe that good teachers innately understand this, when they stimulate interest in their students. It's less a question of entertaining them to try to capture their attention, than it is finding ways to engender a spirit of inquiry in them... helping them to see the deeper wonders of a subject. Purposefully leaving gaps in a presentation and then asking students what bit of knowledge could fill that gap can stimulate both curiosity and learning.

Now, I don't think that cats have the cognitive ability to be stimulated by unusual questions aimed at increasing their dopamine levels. But they do seem to be constantly poking their noses into places where they have no right to. On the other hand, if they get into deep trouble, they can rely on another old dictum; knowing they have eight more remaining lives if they lose this one.

Fall Colors

A maple in its full glory.

Web Wonderings

A spider begins spinning its web by crawling up to some choice vantage perch and reeling out a test line—a sticky silk thread that a breeze will carry to a distant stationary object, to which the silk adheres. Once the far end of the line sticks to something firm, the spider slides down the silk, thickening and strengthening it as she goes. This strong line then becomes an anchor thread that will later support the web, after the spider similarly constructs a couple of other anchor lines.

It's a rather haphazard process, as the spider cannot control where the opposite end of the anchor lines will attach. Thus, the orientation of the web is determined more by fickle breezes that waft through, rather than the intent of the spider.

Smart, successful spiders try to establish their webs in locations where many tasty insects will be flying—to be suddenly trapped in the silky snare. I would assume that evolution has taught a web spider to pick a high traffic zone—otherwise it starves. I doubt that evolution, however, has yet endowed spiders with ways to manipulate the wind, so there is a definite degree of chance to the process. Specifically, the orientation of the web is not within the spider's purview. 

 

So even a smart spider may end up fashioning its web in a direction that has little chance of capturing many bugs. For example, I am sitting in my outdoor tub tonight, looking above me, and seeing a spider's web that is nearly flat against the wall. I don't think that many insects will be intending to fly into the wall tonight, so this web strikes me as one that will see minimal bug traffic. Had the breeze blown that first anchor line in another direction, the spider may have been able to orient its web perpendicular to, or protruding out from the wall—much more likely to snare passing insects. Ahh... the vagaries of the wind.

Another intriguing aspect of spider webs I often ponder is the fact that birds can see into the ultra-violet (UV) range of the light spectrum, and since a spider's web reflects UV light, a bird can see the web and avoid flying into it. This capability is an advantage to both the bird and the spider: the bird doesn't get its feathers coated with sticky silk goo and the web is not destroyed. So if birds have UV vision, I wonder why some insects—locked into a perpetual evolutionary arms race with spiders—have not also developed UV vision. There's another area of research for someone.

(As an aside, a recent development in window construction is to glaze windows with a UV-reflective coating. Birds are far less likely to fly into these windows and kill themselves, because they see the glaze and it stops them, but humans cannot see the coating and thus view the window as transparent. And some of us walk into them.)

Yet another web wondering I have: As I walk through the woods in summer, along the many paths I have created, I keep wandering through spider webs and having them splay themselves across my face or along my bare arms. I'm constantly struggling to wipe off these sticky structures. It can cause a pleasant stroll through the woods to degenerate into a yucky dance, in which I'm striving to wipe off web particles that I can't even see. I hate to destroy a carefully-crafted web, but I can't see them—not having been blessed with UV vision like birds.

This makes me ponder the fact that many of my paths that wander through the woods are also used by deer, since they are smart enough to see that it's easier to follow my paths than forge their way through the tangled underbrush. Deer must also at times find themselves wrapped in spider web strands. How do they deal with it? Does it irritate them as much as it does me? Might they get distracted by the damn spider webs and lose crucial alertness to their predators?

I would be grateful if deer were as tall as I am, since they would then clear out many spider webs for me and make my walks nicer—but they are just not tall enough to sweep away the webs at my face level. They're too short. Hmm.. I wonder if I could breed deer with giraffes, to create a tall, long-necked deer, that would clear out spider webs for me. That sure sounds like another kind of ground-breaking research that would benefit mankind... at least this man.

Farm Sitting

This week we are farm sitting for friends on a sheep farm in Virginia's Allegheny Mountains.

Mind-reading Dove

I wrote a blog entry recently on cross-species communication. I've been privileged to have a few magical experiences of this kind of interaction. Recently I encountered a mourning dove, who I imagined might be reading my mind—although he ended up by misconstruing my thoughts... or so I whimsically decided.

We have half a dozen or more resident mourning doves in our little clearing. They are a beautiful bird and are fun to watch. They have a characteristic whistling sound that their wings give off when they fly, something unique to them. A dove will charmingly waddle around the feeder tray, downing multiple sunflower seeds—stashing them in its neck pouch for later digestion.

Doves sometimes flock together and at other times feud with each other—especially at the feeder. One of these doves has recently taken to becoming king of the feeder. He chases off any dove that dares to challenge him. He will fly down and perch near or on the feeder—seemingly not interested in eating, while he patiently waits for another dove come to dine. He aggressively chases each one away, then returns to claim his kingly roost. King Dove on his throne!

Mourning doves are very skittish birds. I cannot get closer than 40-50 feet away, before they burst into the air and fly away on their “whistling wings.” In contrast, a tiny chickadee will land almost with arm's reach on the feeder and calmly choose a seed—hardly paying me any attention.

On a couple of occasions recently, however, I have been reposing meditatively in the outdoor tub, as I observed this pugnacious dove shoo away his fellows and then settle down to keep his kingly watch. Surprisingly, he tolerates my presence, rather than get spooked and leave. I like to think that my calm state of being emboldens him, as I send him mental messages such as, “Don't be scared. I'm harmless. Relax, King Dove.”

We both then settle in, each intently eying the other. If I move, I do so extremely slowly. He bravely stands his ground, as if he's sending me a mental message, “Move slowly, now. I don't really trust you and your kind, but you seem to be non-threatening.” Is he learning to trust me? Is he deciding to break new ground in the dove-human communication field?

We watched one another for several minutes and then suddenly he flew off—just when I thought we were bonding. What scared him? Was his abrupt departure a coincidence, or did I do something to spook him? I'm sure I didn't move.

Then I realized that, at the moment he flew off, my mind had drifted to a conversation I'd had with a neighbor a couple of days earlier, when he told me about some local people who had taken up dove hunting. Was that it? Did the dove read my mind and get terrified by my thoughts of shooting him and his kind? If so, he probably wasn't sophisticated enough to realize that I would never shoot him. Maybe he simply misconstrued my involuntary thoughts.

It was too late to reassure him, if he indeed had read my thoughts and flew off in fright. Maybe my thoughts of some other human gunning down a dove had set back this cross-species experiment in trust. Will he return another time and give me another chance? This research into cross-species communication requires a deep well of patience. I'll be back in the tub soon, little King Dove.

Colorful Floating Fall Leaf