Canine Cognition

I believe that my dog possesses what psychologists call “theory of mind.” I realize that some people would take exception to that claim for a mere dog, so let me describe why I make such an audacious allegation.

First, what is meant by theory of mind? It is defined by some experts as the capacity for empathy, as well as an understanding of what might be going on in the mind of others. Digging deeper, the result of that understanding is that the other (sticking for now to people) possesses beliefs and perspectives that are different from one's own.

So, for humans, it's the capacity to comprehend that another human is having thoughts that may be dissimilar from mine, yet I still have a good chance of guessing what's going on in their mind and can act accordingly. After several decades of living with my wife, for example, I have come to have a pretty good guess at what she is thinking when she finds my dirty socks on the floor and gets “that look.”

We humans are really quite good at guessing what's going on in the mind of another human, aided greatly by the fact that we use language to inform them about what we are thinking. In addition, we expect that our minds are very similar and operate in similar ways.

But what about my canine friend? She has a very different mind and cannot converse with me in my language. Well, she does in fact have a mammalian brain, which certainly operates far more like mine, than the minds of an insect or a crocodile. Thus, my dog's mind and my mind might be able to guess what’s in each other’s brain, to some limited extent.

Additionally, my dog and I have lived together for a few years—so we've had many occasions to learn, by trial and error, what the other may be thinking; just by observing each other’s behavior. We have unwittingly conducted many experiments that help us to penetrate each other's mind. We've come to make some pretty good guesses about what the other is thinking. Additionally, body language and tone of voice contain lots of supplemental information to verbal language.

So here's something she does that recently made me think that she really possesses some kind of a theory of mind. She is very quiet—she rarely barks or whines. So when she needs to go out to pee, she quietly stands at the door, looking through it, occasionally looking back at us, until we notice and let her out.

When she wants to come back in, however, she seems to comprehend that we can't see her on the opposite side of the door, so she does not simply sit and gaze at the door, waiting for us to notice her. She quietly scratches at the outside of the door, to signal us. Once again, no whining or barking—just her gentle signal which recognizes that although we can't see her, we can hear her gentle, scratchy request. Is she not comprehending that our perspective is different from hers—that we cannot see her and need more information? There is no verbal language to help her communicate with us (she can’t speak out), but she sure uses other effective forms of communication.

Communication Casualties

I value good communication. It was a key factor in my scientific career a few decades ago. If I didn't communicate clearly with fellow researchers or our sponsors, I could soon find myself out of work. The results of my findings had to be passed on to others, or else my career ground to a halt.

I no longer do scientific research. My communication these days is mostly on a personal basis, with friends, family, and various organizations. I find that effective communication is often lacking in these exchanges. I find myself frequently wondering, for example, why I have received no response to a message I've sent.

A big part of my disconnect with others, I believe, is that I'm rather old fashioned. I'm just not “with the program.” A few decades ago I mostly communicated with others (when not using the telephone) via what now is dubbed as “snail mail.” I'd send a missive in the form of a card or letter. I had confidence that the postal service would deliver my mail. I knew that my recipient would then have something tangible in hand (a letter) that would be placed on their desk, to remind them over the ensuing days to respond. I did not expect a quick response; after all, this was snail mail! Most every time, I'd sooner or later get a reply, but in the meantime, I didn't hold my breath.

Then email entered the communication arena. We now compose a message, and at the speed of light it is delivered. If the recipient happens to be at the computer (or now, smart phone) when the missive arrives, I may get a reply within minutes. So much faster! We have come to expect speedy responses.

But there's a couple of major differences between snail mail and email, that dramatically changed the game. First, my recipient's email box may contain dozens, if not a few hundred messages, bedsides mine. Thus mine can easily get lost in the crowd—as it no longer sits conspicuously and singularly on their desk, demanding attention. Second, I cannot have as much confidence that my email message will arrive and be acknowledged, as I could in the old, snail-mail days. Email is simply not as reliable. Some emails vanish in the ether. Some get sent to my recipient's junk mail box—after having been selected by some algorithm as being rubbish, with no knowledge of this action on either of our parts. We are at the mercy of algorithms!

And now many people live in the world of text messages. They make email look slow. Texts must be brief, thus they can be composed in a few moments. Send a text and people expect a response within matter of a couple of minutes.

My snail mail experiences have become virtually obsolete. My preferred means of communication are vanishing. It feels more and more as if people no longer communicate very well at all—despite all the available social media. There is a mistaken assumption that speed and frequency promote communication, when in fact, like the juggler who has put too many balls in the air, a few are bound to be dropped. The quantity of messages does not imply quality.

Wordlessness—Part 1

Words are at the core of what it means to be human. They are, by definition, speech sounds that we can make with our voice mechanism in almost endless variations. No other creature has the ability to create so many different sounds and thus build a highly complex way of communicating amongst themselves. With the invention of writing, we further extended our ability to communicate by generating visual symbols of words with which we can create a written record. Printed words are a powerful way that we learn from each other—a unique way that we pass on knowledge.

To be human is to use words. Language is the key to our intelligence. Words are wonderful. And yet, they can also cause problems. When two people use the same word, but have different mental images for it, confusion and even conflict can occur. We sometimes employ words, believing that the other person understands our usage, when in fact they may see things very differently. We might suppose that we are effectively communicating when, in fact, we may perhaps be fueling dissension. We tend to create conventions and rules for words we use and then insist, in an insular manner, that others conform to our concepts and notions.

The mere use of some words invites trouble, depending on the context and who we are talking to. These are called trigger words or hot-button words—such as terrorist, welfare, liberal, abortion, taxes, the Koran, illegal immigrants, and a few more that I don’t wish to write.

Another way we can run into problems with words is when we come to live too much in our heads. Words themselves have no material existence—they’re just abstract symbols in our minds. If we frequently remind ourselves that they are just symbols, we’re OK, but we can go too far and become out of touch with reality. If, for example, we create words for things that do not exist and then try to make them real in our mental realm, we delude ourselves. It can lead us to making up spurious stories about imagined things.

So words are wonderful tools, but they also can have a shadow side. They can lead us into discord—with others as well as with ourselves. So it can be useful sometimes to intentionally go beyond words, to experience what it means to enter wordless realms. This kind of experience can break us out of a narrow way of thinking. It can even bring us into better touch with reality—by directly engaging in life (without the mediation of words), much as an animal does.

Living without words is impossible for us, for anything but a brief moment, but it can be enlightening to delay putting words to an experience—if only for a second. The typical process that happens to us is that we have a sensation—we hear something or see something, for example—and then we immediately name it. The split second we name it, we’re also likely to categorize and judge it. We deem it good or bad, right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. We’ve instantly decided whether we want more of it or to ban it from our presence.

A similar precipitous response after we name something is immediately to decide that we know enough about it to group it with similar things that we’ve seen or labeled in the past. “Oh, that’s the same dumb bird I heard last week.” Or: “When she acts like that, she’s probably lying to me.” We thus close ourselves off to learning anything new about that bird or that woman. We’ve locked them into a rigid interpretation—not only limiting our understanding or our ability to learn more about them, but not even allowing for the fact that our perceptions may be erroneous.

It can be very helpful to rein ourselves in a little, to try to hold ourselves back from naming and labeling. Can we stay wordless for just a moment? Can we just be with the experience, without thinking or categorizing? It can open us up to a deeper understanding of life, if we momentarily pause and see what more we can learn, rather than hastily assigning the experience to some closed file cabinet in our mind; a dead-end slot where it atrophies.

As an antidote to being overly wordy, some people attempt to escape the world of words (that abstract universe in their minds) by engaging in intensive, attention-grabbing activities. A high-speed chase, or a bungee jump, or watching a horror movie can bring us visceral experiences that are beyond words, as long as our attention remains captured. It can be fun, as well as a welcome diversion from our humdrum mental images; they can be thrilling experiences, as they wrench our minds from that artificially-manufactured interior world. But the danger in going that route is that we can come to rely on external—and often imitation—means of touching reality. It can be an escape from the conceptual world of words by turning to sensational methods.

More wordless ways next time…