Domesticated Friends’ Feelings—Part 2

People notice that when they're feeling down, their dog will often come to them, put its head on their knee, and appear to offer comfort. Is this empathy? They do sense when we are down (or most any other mood we have), but again we do not know what's in their head. We must be careful not to project our emotions onto them.

Do dogs feel fear, panic, or grief? Yes, they appear to display these emotions, but probably not the same way we do. They are most likely to experience “isolation distress,” given that they are social critters. They often don't feel safe alone—especially if they had an abandonment episode as a puppy. They feel distress mostly in the moment, but it can turn to long-term anxiety, if it's repeated.  Cats—having descended from an African wildcat—are solitary creatures. They are not as social as dogs and do not need the comfort of closeness, as do dogs.

A big question we humans often have about dogs is, what is their sense of time? There is a belief that if a dog is home alone for an hour or six hours, that it cannot tell the difference. Once again, we cannot get inside their head to be sure, but their response to the passage of time is based more upon the routine that they experience. If a dog is left alone—outside its daily routine—it may panic, after some time has passed. This response seems to be tied to their gradual loss of your scent. 

Dogs do have an exquisite sense of timing when it comes to their being fed. If feeding time is very regular, their digestive system will sync with that schedule, and they will know when a meal is due—almost to the minute. Cats are more content to be on their own. They want to be aware of their owner's presence, but they rarely long for absent owners, the way dogs do.

How good is the memory of a dog or cat? That's a hard one to test. Traumatic experiences are remembered. Dogs especially settle into a routine, that seems as if it's driven by memory. Cats and dogs retain memories—but they are primarily episodic in nature. They retain memories that help them to keep away from trouble or that help them to gain an advantage, but we have little understanding as to their long-term memories.

Do dogs feel rage? They have the same mammalian limbic system that we do, so they have the same four responses to a threat: (1) fight, (2) flight, (3) fawn, or (4) freeze; and those behaviors can be readily observed. What causes them to choose to fight? Fear is the driver, and they show it by panting, lowering their tail, and laying their ears back. Different breeds respond differently.

What do dogs and cats seek in life? Dogs are focused on (1) somewhere to live, (2) something to do (especially working breeds), (3) someone to get close to, and (4) something to look forward to (although they seem to have little concept of the future). Cats share some of these same needs, but mostly they appear to want just to be safe and happy.

Researchers have been able to learn more about the feelings and emotions of dogs than cats, because a dog can be placed in a laboratory setting and will cooperate with activities there. They have even been trained to lie still inside a noisy MRI machine, as their brains are being scanned… no way with cats. Cats are territorial and self-possessed (even rather imperious). They are not likely to cooperate in a lab—away from home. Cats follow their own nature. The ancient Egyptians responded to the lordly attitude of cats by worshipping them.

So those are some of the results of current research of emotions of dogs and cats. We may not be able to talk with them about their emotions, but scientific studies are breaking into new territory that is increasingly delving into the minds of our four-footed friends. The results of these studies can help us verify some of our beliefs about their thoughts and emotions, as well as help us to discard our erroneous impressions. That will help us to better understand these critters—and understanding is a main pillar of love. The more we understand each other, the better we can focus our care—which leads to healthier relationships.

Domesticated Friends’ Feelings—Part 1 (2/3/22)

Most people who have chosen to dwell with a non-human friend have selected a dog and/or a cat. While there are many other kinds of pets that people have—and some of them are pretty bizarre—it's our canine and feline friends that are the overwhelming favorite. People develop very close and loving relationships with their dogs and cats. The impact of COVID has often deepened those ties, as many people who have spent more time at home have opted to get a pet. They find their lives increasingly intertwined with their four-footed friends.

Thus, many people have been pondering their relationship with their cat or dog, as those pets have come to play a major role in their lives. They are asking questions like, I love my dog, but does he love me? I remember cute things he did as a puppy... can he remember them? Does my cat feel grateful for my care? It seems that Fluffy has been subdued lately... is she depressed? Fido's antics make me laugh at times... does he think of these things as funny, or does he have his own way of chuckling over them? Around meal time Fluffy gets real friendly... is she cozying up to me because she loves me or to be sure she gets fed? Fido seems to be rather reserved since I scolded him for chewing on my shoe... is he feeling guilty? I've been feeling down ever since I had some bad news about my brother... is Fluffy hanging around to console me?

These and many similar kinds of questions have been pondered for ages by humans about their four-footed friends. Since these animals cannot talk to us and express their feelings, we have little idea of their thinking processes. It's tough enough to figure out how another human being is thinking. There certainly is a lot of wishful thinking about the feelings and thoughts of animals, so we tend to project onto them our emotions; but is there any validity for doing so? Some of these questions are currently being examined and answered by researchers who conduct increasingly clever experiments on animals. 

A lot of insight has been gained about how humans are thinking, by employing various kinds of brain scans. These experiments do not need to rely on people explaining their thoughts and feelings—and that's helpful, because people's explanations of their feelings are often biased or in error, due to their subjectivity. That complication can be avoided by going straight to brain scans. These same kinds of scans are being used on animals—especially mammals, whose brains are rather similar to ours. A leading dog neuroscientist says that humans and dogs (and presumably cats) share seven mammal emotions: fear, rage, lust, seeking (what do they want?), panic/grief, care, and play. So, what are some of the insights coming from this research about how dogs and cats think and feel? 

Dogs love to amuse us. They like it when we laugh and smile, but can they understand what's behind our joy? It seems to us as if they are laughing when they are panting and playful; when they do, their stress level does decrease, and their tail wags. Do they smile, if not laugh? That's an unknown. Some people think they can see their dog smile, but that’s a breed-specific thing. 

Does our dog care about us and love us? They certainly do not have the same emotions as we do; or their intensity. For example, when a dog is rehomed, it quickly adapts to its new environment. It may be attached to us, but not so attached that it cannot take to a new owner. Yet research has shown that a dog gets and oxytocin hit from close, cuddly contact—just as we do. They also care very much for shelter, care, and food. The bigger question here is not so much what loving emotion may be in their head, but what's going on in ours when we observe them. 

Cats will follow us around, rubbing against us and emitting cute sounds. Is this love or care? They may want to be close—even to sleep with you, but they rarely want to be picked up and hugged. Yes, they can be very friendly, but it's most often about getting fed, not displaying love.

More on cats’ and dogs’ feelings next time…

Cat Recapitulation—Part 2

So that's one data point: an article on the likelihood of cats of responding to their names. In a second article, this time in Slate magazine, a writer explored the fact that cats seem to be less responsive than dogs to human requests. He contacted an animal researcher at a university in Hungary, who is well-known for his expertise on cats and dogs, who claims that dogs are far more tuned into humans; that they can learn hundreds of words, are capable of abstract thought, and even appear to comprehend what is going on in the mind of their human companions! It seems that cats can't really be bothered with these deeper types of connections with humans.

The intrepid Slate investigator also contacted another animal expert at an Italian university, who has experimented with cats, dogs, and even fish. The Italian professor said that, in trying to evaluate the cognitive abilities of all three critters, cats come in last. In fact, fish were much easier to study and train than cats. Furthermore, he felt that the attention span of a cat is shorter than that of a fish!

Finally, back to NPR, in an article titled, “All Right, Some Cats Do Fetch.” It is well known that dogs are naturally inclined to fetch—which has endeared them for millennia to human hunters. Dogs want to please their human companions, so even though what sometimes appears to be a dog's mindless behavior to chase a thrown ball or stick and retrieve it (again and again and again), the fetching of food was likely crucial to the survival of ancient peoples who bonded with dogs.

In a query sent out by NPR, some cat owners testified that they were able to train their cats to fetch. One cat person noted, however, that indeed, his cat did retrieve, “... but only when he wants to.” That seems to sum up a cat's service to their human companions: they may be trainable in some sense, but only when they wish to be.

As far as the retrieving game goes, it should be fairly noted that cats often bring dead animals that they have caught and dispatched, almost as if in offering a gift. This is not a process of fetching, however. Additionally, most cat owners do not relish discovering a lifeless or partially eaten mouse or bird on their doorstep. It may be a demonstration of a cat's affection, but the gift is not something one desires as part of a human meal, much less enjoy the sight of a mutilated, dead animal deposited on the porch.

And so I wrap up another examination of the contrast between cats and dogs and their relationships with humans. Even though I do my best to maintain a balanced view, it seems as if my inner bias towards our more advantageous connections to dogs is verified by ongoing research by the world's prestigious universities. Sorry, cousin, but I guess that the truth is not on your side.

Cat Recapitulation—Part 1

Once again I return to the subject of domestic cats and their connections to humans, as compared to dogs. As I've written before, there are cat people and there are dog people. Each type tends to be predisposed to the characteristics of either canines or felines, and often glare at each other across a wide divide—something akin to Democrats and Republicans, or right wing versus left wing. The political polarization dominating American politics is reflected in the often antagonistic divide among cat and dog lovers.

I wish not to occupy either extreme position here, and will once again declare that I've enjoyed the companionship of both kinds of critters, but I will confess to relating more closely—in the sense of bonding—with dogs, than cats. That's a full disclosure statement—just to be forthright in my feelings, but also to concede to a cousin of mine that, yes, I favor dogs a wee bit, but also appreciate the unique qualities of cats (though my cat feelings are a little subservient to my dog sentiments).

So, with that disclaimer introduction, let me pass on to readers three recent articles about cats—that come from very reputable journalistic sources (two of them from National Public Radio, an honorable source of news and information); all three of which take a close look at the qualities of cats, relative to dogs.

One article summarized the results of a meticulously-planned Japanese experiment that examined to what degree cats are able (or inclined) to recognize their name. It is well known that dogs quickly learn, are attentive to, and readily respond to their name. Speak a dog's name and it is fully heedful of your next utterance. Most people, however, would not expect a cat to be as responsive. That's why the Japanese researchers wished to explore the issue more deeply.

Well, right out of the starting gate, Japanese cats did not do well. Felines who were invited into the lab seemingly were oblivious to the sound of their name. Undaunted, the Japanese researchers reasoned that a more trustworthy test would be to go into the homes of the cats, where they'd be more likely to respond, while in their comfortable habitat. The human experimenters found that cats, in their own home, do sometimes react to their name, by twitching their ears or moving their heads. Unlike dogs, however, who wag their tails and tend to respond with love, cats showed little more reaction than that twitch.

The Japanese experimenters felt that they'd demonstrated cats may indeed recognize their name, but the question arises, do they really identify with it, or do they simply associate the word with food or getting petted? A noted animal expert in a university in Budapest—not associated with the experiment—noted that humans began to train dogs much longer ago than they tried to do so with cats, so maybe that time difference may account for some of the divergence?

More on cat responses next time...

Coping With Copperheads—Part 2

So, might we find a way to allow and encourage snakes to assume the duties we once assigned to cats? If we had no cat, I believe resident snakes would be thankful, because cats perceive snakes to be an enemy. I've watched our cats harass a snake and even kill baby snakes. This animosity makes some sense, given that cats and snakes prey upon many of the same critters. They are in competition and the natural instinct is to eliminate your rival.

Most of our snakes are harmless to humans. We have black racers, milk snakes, ring snakes, garter snakes, etc. But there is one species that puts fear into the hearts of humans in these parts: the copperhead. It's poisonous. It's venom is potent. Most of our neighbors who've lived here all their lives regard copperheads as “nasty,” and will quickly kill one with no remorse at all. I have seen a few of them around here over the years, and have quickly retreated, when I spot one. They can be aggressive and appear very threatening. They know that they possess a potent weapon.

So, if we choose to forgo getting another cat, while hoping that snakes will do the job we need done, what do we do about those copperheads? Is it ethical to encourage the presence of black snakes, while attempting to eradicate a copperhead? Can we learn to cope with copperheads?

In an attempt to answer some of these questions, I once again turned to the vast resources of the internet. The copperhead's scientific name is Agkistrodon contortrix. It is a pit viper (like its more formidable cousin the rattlesnake), which means that it has two heat-sensing pits located between its eyes and its nostrils. I love its alternative names: chunkhead, dry-land moccasin, highland moccasin, pilot snake, red snake, and death adder. (Yikes to that last one!) They inhabit rock outcroppings, wood piles, and compost piles. That last place is where I consistently see one. When I go to turn the compost piles and throw back the tarp covering them, I very often bring to the light of day a copperhead sitting imperiously atop the pile, disturbed that I have blown its cover, and daring me to advance. I then proceed to delicately shoo it away, to let me continue my work.

Copperheads are one of the few snake species that give birth (in late summer) to live babies, rather than deposit eggs that later hatch. The mother incubates the eggs inside her body and then releases up to 14 squiggly babies—each one some 8-10 inches (20-25 cm) long. They are mostly nocturnal—preferring to lay around during the day and hunt at night. That helps to make encounters rare, as we humans tend to be active in the day and lay around at night.

Unlike rattlesnakes, copperhead bites are typically not fatal. In fact, the bigger problem, if you get bit, is that their venom can cause local tissue destruction, where secondary infection can set in. The greatest number of snake bites in the US is from copperheads. That said, one of these snakes would prefer to escape, when it encounters a human. It is only when they feel cornered that they will strike out. So there's no need for me to regard a copperhead as a perennial enemy—only if I blunder upon one, unmindfully. And mindfulness is an attribute that I have learned goes a long way toward making one's life in the woods safer and more enjoyable.

So, if copperhead snakes behave themselves—or, rather, if we stay mindful and don't stumble heedlessly into their habitat—and we can encourage other harmless snakes to proliferate, will our serpent friends fulfill the function of our past cats? The serpents come at no financial cost, are natural inhabitants around here, and already may be in balance with other critters. Time will tell. We will hold off on acquiring another cat and see how this experiment plays out. Maybe I could even learn to welcome a snake cuddling up on my lap.

Coping With Copperheads—Part 1

In a previous blog (“Failing Feline,” posted on 8 August) I reported that our aging cat died recently. As he was slowly wasting away, we discussed how and when to find another feline to replace him. For all of our more than three decades of life here in the woods we've had a cat, for a couple of reasons: First, I like a cat that curls up on my lap, forming itself into a warm, fuzzy ball, especially on cold winter nights. Second, a cat can be a useful control on rabbits and rodents. Our garden has been partially protected by resident cats over the years.

But to be honest, cats also have a couple of disadvantages for us. The biggest problem is their propensity to kill songbirds. We've done our best to discourage their predatory action against our feathered friends (primarily by keeping our cat indoors during the day), but we still lose half a dozen birds each year. Another problem is expense. Veterinary bills can get very pricey these days—especially if you spay or neuter the cat, or if you have the bad luck of acquiring one whose genes promote various diseases.

Then there's the issue of acclimating and training a new cat to be a good citizen in the household. That's another factor that we have little control over, when we acquire a cat. Will it be a good mouser? Will it ignore mice and go after birds? Will it care at all to curl up in my lap? Cats for us are not mere cute pets. They have a job to do—just as any member of the family does. To what extent would a new cat fulfill its duties?

As I pondered the question, I began to wonder if we really needed a cat. What if a new cat scorned all these duties? There goes a primary reason for having one. We might incur several cat-related expenses for nothing.

So, is there an alternative? It occurred to me, as I thought about it, that snakes provide many of the same services that a cat does. Snakes prey on rodents and large insects like caterpillars, as well as birds. Oh oh to that last one! Overall, it seems that snakes can offer many of the same benefits that cats do; and they come with no vet bills or commercial food to buy. Furthermore, they are a natural resident of the area. In that sense cats (as well as we humans) are an invasive species!

Hmmm... could snakes do the job (for free) that cats have done for us in the past? During our first few years here, I possessed the typical human animosity towards snakes. We humans have a deep evolutionary repulsion of snakes. The book of Genesis biases many us, by blaming the snake for our eviction from the Garden of Eden. That predilection is most likely inherited from even more distant ancestors of ours.

Furthermore, it's hard not to flinch when we humans spot a snake. They seem to be the essence of a threat. They slither. It almost makes one's skin crawl to observe that sneaky slink. And only the most foolish or brave person would dare to touch a snake! In short, an undulating serpent appears revolting.

Or so I thought, for many years. Gradually, however, I've come to accept—and even appreciate—snakes. I've never had one attempt to lure me into evil, by talking me into biting into an apple. I've never had one bite me—let alone even really threaten me. Over the years I've learned to understand where a snake might be residing, and thus not to blunder into its territory. (In a similar vein I've learned the habits of stinging wasps and bees, and how to avoid invading their space.) In many ways, life out here has been a series of lessons of how to share space with creatures that I once deemed pests and could only imagine them as foes. I may not have yet come to see them as cuddly buddies, but I can appreciate how they fulfill a role in this small ecosystem.

More on snakes next time...

Failing Feline

Our homestead cat Cecil seems to be, as the saying goes, “on his last legs.” His age is uncertain, because we selected him as an adult, at the local animal shelter, over 11 years ago. He might be 15? Maybe more. That's a reasonably long lifetime for a feline. Over the last couple of years he's been demonstrating that his time is running out. He's been failing at his homestead duties: keeping rodents at bay. His cognitive abilities—never very impressive—have been failing also.

He appears to be suffering from some kind of feline dementia, among other possible ills. He wanders about the house aimlessly, frequently pausing, as if he's lost his train of thought. Was he about to eat, or scratch, or lie down, or go outside? Wandering across the floor, he'll change his direction suddenly, as if an opposing thought pops into mind. I'm trying hard to avoid calling him a dumb cat. 

We humans adopt a wide variety of critters whose minds are quite diminutive and then project onto them cognitive abilities that are far beyond what they're capable of. For example, a few decades ago some people even wanted to ascribe emotions to their pet rock.

So our resident feline has been delivering the message that his health—both physical and mental—is failing. As we would do for any member of our human family, we've tried to do for Cecil: allowing his increasing eccentricities to be. The process has often tested our patience—as well as his. He recently crossed a line that saw us choosing to designate him as a full-time outdoor cat—primarily in an attempt to preserve our sanity, as he demanded to go out or come back in, for what seemed to be more than a dozen times a day. Shortly after crossing through the doorway, he'd look around in confusion, and quickly demand to go back. In addition, he'd occasionally decorate a corner of the house with a deposit of cat poop. The urge probably came upon him too quickly to take it outdoors. It simplifies things for all of us, if he remains outside.

Cecil is slowly wasting away. He eats a fraction of what he once consumed, sleeps most of the time, keeps close to the house, and gets skinnier each day. We pet him to comfort him, noting every protruding bone on his scrawny body. His coat is disheveled and dirty looking. He's loosing hair. He no longer does much grooming. Fortunately, he does not exhibit any signs of pain. He simply looks confused. His meow—once loud and insistent—is now soft and pleading.

In other words, we have been engaged in a kind of death watch—hoping that Cecil, with the assistance of Mother Nature, will soon decide to let go and peacefully pass away. He's taking much longer than we expected. (Longer than we wished?)

As another incredible example of Cecil's decline, last evening I looked out the window, noting that he was in his current favorite position: lying on his side, dozing on the patio. When we see him recumbent and lying so still, we often pause to see if we can discern him breathing... to see if that spark of life is still present. What caught my eye at that moment was a bird—a titmouse—furiously pecking away at Cecil's back. How bizarre! A bird assaulting a cat? Was this bird expressing some sort of death wish? I quickly saw that the bird was collecting nesting material, as its bill was getting crammed with cat fur. My God! Cecil had died, and the bird was the first scavenger to come calling!

I went outside for a closer look, just as Cecil demonstrated that he still possessed a spark of life. He suddenly awakened, and turned around startled, as the bird flew off with a beakful of cat hair. Cecil looked at me, slowly turned back, and again fell into deep sleep. I guess his demise will wait for another day... and maybe another nesting bird.

[Postmortem: Cecil did finally pass away a few days ago. He died in our arms, peacefully.]

Cozy Cats, Dutiful Dogs

I have written a couple of times in this blog about the contrasting qualities of cats and dogs, and the joys and tribulations of living with each type of critter. For several decades I have had both of them as household companions, and enjoy each of them for their unique habits and charms. I have poked fun at my sister and a dear cousin—both of whom are dedicated cat loyalists—while (I think) not fully appreciating the qualities of canines. So I've found it necessary to correct their bias a couple of times.

One more fascinating piece of evidence that feeds cat/dog comparisons was recently uncovered in an English science lab, as researchers were examining the genome of the domestic cat. What they may have discovered is the likely process by which cats were domesticated, some 10,000 years ago in the Near East. It seems as though some people back then discovered that a few less-wild wild cats could be coaxed into being stroked—that some of them grooved on being petted and then being offered a treat. Over time, people were more likely to adopt the milder wild cats and gradually bred them to become increasingly tame.

Fascinatingly, the British researchers were even able to determine the timing of the taming process through DNA analysis—finding genes in the brains of domesticated cats that are associated with feelings of reward and pleasure, that are not found in the DNA of today's wild cats in the Near East. In other words, domestic cats have acquired unique genes that make them want to be stroked, and DNA analysis shows that the split from wild cats that encouraged these genes occurred about 10 millennia ago. Ain't science grand?

Thus it seems kitty cats first came to us because they wanted to get caressed and fed. They saw humans as a soft touch, who would fondle them and give them goodies to eat. They ain't dumb! They deigned to allow us to tend to their pleasures and needs; in return we get a ball of warm fur cuddled in our lap. This appears to have been primarily a sensual exchange. But on occasion we do get the added benefit of our cat friend snatching an annoying mouse.

Dogs, on the other hand, domesticated themselves far earlier in human history. They came to us from wolf packs as long as 50,000 years ago and maybe even earlier. They too realized that humans could be a source of easy food, but dogs had more to offer us as part of the bargain. They are more sociable critters than cats, so they interact more naturally with us. They are expert and cooperative hunters with a superb sense of smell, so they became excellent hunting companions. Finally, dogs love to guard their dogdoms, which our vulnerable hunter-gatherer ancestors appreciated.

I don't mean to add any more fuel to the incessant cat-vs-dog debate, and I doubt that the English researchers intended to either, but I can't help but notice that dogs seem to have had more to offer us, when they sought to become our companions—at least a little more than allowing us to tickle them behind the ear. But let me quickly add that I do love my cat, lest I piss off my cousin again.

I'm reminded of a quote attributed to Grouch Marx: “Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.”

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.

Dumb Dogs

I posted a blog (1/4/10, “Dumb Cats”) that poked some fun at my sister and her blind fondness of cats. I cited the results of an impeccable English research team that concluded that dogs are smarter than cats. I got surprisingly little flack from my sister for that posting (I guess she either agreed with me or forgivingly tolerated my assault), although another family member vehemently objected. Oh well, you can fool some of the family all of the time, all of the family some of the time, but there’s always a clinker in the closet.

Intelligence—being a very subjective and even somewhat arbitrary measure—is a topic few of us can agree upon (which is why I referred to the scholarly study of the Brits). Your cat may be dumb but mine is the epitome of perspicacity. My cat even leaves your dog in the ditch.

Granting that intelligence is a relative thing, I will acknowledge—in an even-handed, broad-minded manner—that dogs can be pretty dumb too. (Although mine is very smart.) I recently had a lesson in the difference in cognitive power between dogs and coyotes. It is a fact that domesticated critters are dumber than their wild counterparts. Long ago humans selectively bred a few animals—dogs, cats, cattle, sheep—to become docile, malleable, submissive, and calm… i.e., dumb.

Coyotes have been smart enough to avoid being controlled by humans—they hang around, just out of sight, and do pretty much what they want to do. Now, some people might argue that dogs (formerly wolves) are more intelligent, since so many of them have humans fawning upon them and pretty much doing their bidding. That, however, is mere selfish manipulation. Not intelligence. That’s pretty much what cats do… it’s sort of a devil’s bargain. The dog may get pampered, but the manipulation goes both ways. Leave a dog in the wilderness and it’d be helpless.

What is my acid test that coyotes outshine dogs? I’ve heard a few coyotes barking on a quiet night. They have a call that at first sounds rather eerie, but as I listen, I find it quite melodic and beautiful. Their yip is uttered only occasionally, it is variable in quality, and it’s almost as if they are singing. I get the feeling that some kind of communication is going on.

A dog’s bark? Well, so many of them are boringly repetitive. It’s just “ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, …” They can’t seem to stop. They sound very stupid and dull, with no imagination or attempt to communicate, other than, “Here I am… dumb old me. Ruff!” These canines are more like a machine than a sentient being.

Dumb Cats

My sister and I have had a running repartee for many years, about the relative smartness (or dumbness) of cats and dogs. She insistently contends that cats are way better than dogs, when it comes to cerebral acrobatics. Cats look smart, behave regally, are extremely wily, can read your mind, are fetchingly clever, etc. Her list of intelligence adjectives seems endless.

Since she’s my older sister, and I was taught to respect my elders (mostly by her), I have rarely refuted her extravagant claims—not really agreeing with her, but not really arguing either. I’ve nobly held my silence on the matter.

My experience has been quite the opposite, however. For some 40 years my household has been continuously inhabited by both feline and canine critters. I have found my dog buddies to be considerably cleverer than the resident cats. Dogs learn faster and easier than cats do. Dogs better understand and respond to the spoken word. A dog wants to be trained how to be a contributing citizen, whereas, although you may be able to demonstrate the tiniest bit of schooling in a cat, it will cooperate only if it gets exactly what it wants. One may call that intelligent, but I call it just devilish manipulation.

Nor have I wished to ardently proclaim my dear sister to be wrong. I have been willing to concede that there just might be a cognitive difference between West Coast cats and those here in the Shenandoah Valley. Just maybe they have a subspecies of feline out there that enjoys prodigious amounts of gray matter. I’ll grant that there’s a chance it’s possible… though exceedingly improbable.

But now comes proof of my sister’s bogus belief; and from no less an authority than a professor at Canterbury Christ Church University in Kent, England. We all know, of course, that the Brits are very erudite and trustworthy folks. Psychology Professor Britta Osthaus (note this is coming from a woman, Sis) says cats just do not understand cause-and-effect connections between objects. “They performed worse than dogs,” says Dr. Osthaus. “If we know their limits we won’t expect too much of them, which in turn is important for their welfare. I am not trying to say cats are stupid, just they are different”

Sorry, Sis. I’ll try my best not to rub it in.