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…

Doggy Discernment

Living with a dog, one gets to continually observe their behaviors and quirks. Having had dogs for most of my life, I've watched their activities and noticed that each one has its own peculiarities. That is an obvious observation that anyone who's been around dogs or cats has had. Each critter has its unique personality.

But there's an additional fascinating thing I ponder, as I watch my canine friend. She will, for example, crawl into my lap for cuddling, and sometimes lie there for half an hour or more, and at other times quickly leave and go stretch out on the floor, or even spurn the comforts of my cozy lap. At other times she will select a specific toy to play with and then abruptly drop it and engage in a completely different activity.  At other times I will watch her trot towards the kitchen and then suddenly turn around and head towards her crate.

What's going on here? For myself, I know that when I become involved in a given activity I do so, because my thought process led me to do it. At times, however, another thought comes to mind and I abruptly change direction. (That seems to happen more, as I age.) I usually explain my behavior as being caused by what I am thinking about at the moment, and how a new thought abruptly changed my mind and headed me off in a new direction, toward a new task.

So, what about my doggy friend? What causes her to engage in certain activities, when she suddenly abandons them for a different plan of action? Has she had an alternative thought come to mind? Is she thinking ahead? Or is she just unthinkingly responding to the stimuli of the present moment?

I recently acquired a little help in resolving some of these questions. A group of university researchers became intrigued by the fact that some dogs, when addressed by their master in a certain way, will fetchingly cock their head to one side, as if listening or thinking intently. The scientists wondered about what the cause of this head tilting was, so they engaged in a clever study to explore the issue. They noted that when dogs were tasked with retrieving a named toy from another (out-of-sight) room, the “smarter” dogs were far more likely to cock their heads to one side (interestingly, always the same side for each dog), pause (as if thinking), and then go seek the requested toy. The less smart dogs were not inclined to cock their heads and were far less successful in retrieving the asked-for toy.

Border collies are known to exhibit greater intelligence than most breeds. In this experiment border collies also inclined their heads to one side far more often than other breeds, upon being asked to retrieve a certain toy. The researchers concluded that when a dog cocks its head, it is a sign of attentiveness and concentration. They concluded that they were indeed observing canine cognition.

I realize that it makes no sense to attribute my mental processes to a dog, based on what I would think in a similar situation. But dogs do think. They must have thoughts rolling around in their heads, although there is no way we humans can get inside those heads to find out. Moreover, they cannot talk to us and explain their cognition. So I am obliged to watch my dog and speculate on her ruminations, as I see her apparently “change” her mind. I ponder what I might be thinking about, if I were in her place.

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.

Dog Duration

There's a persistent urban legend—or, old wives' tale, as some folks might put it—that for every year a human lives, a dog experiences seven years. People can live, on average, for 70-90 years, unless they experience circumstances of deprivation or disease. In contrast, a dog lives about 15 years, depending on breed and health. Big dogs die earlier than little dogs.

So this form of urban legend has it that a dog's equivalent human-like age is about seven times that of a human. Thus, a three-year-old dog is comparable to a 21-year-old human, and a 10-year-old dog is equivalent to a 70-year-old human.

That urban myth persists, along with similar stories, such as daddy longlegs spiders being poisonous, or alligators thriving in the New York City sewer system (having been brought north as small pets from Florida and then released in toilets, when they grew too large). Similarly, the belief in Scotland's Loch Ness Monster persists, despite no real evidence for its existence. Another myth: it was once claimed that microwave ovens will harm you—even sterilize you.

The urban legend of a dog's equivalent human age being seven times its actual age was recently refuted by a research group that examined over 100 Labrador retrievers, who were from four weeks to 16 years old. The research examined the dogs' DNA methylation—a mechanism that influences one’s genes by turning them off and on. It is a kind of “epigenetic clock,” which describes the aging process of a creature.

As a result of this study, dogs actually age much faster than the seven-times-human formula when they are young. For example, when a dog is 5 years old, its equivalent human age is not 35 (7 X 5), but more like 53. They seem to be in a hurry to get old.

But as a dog moves into middle age, its rate, relative to humans, slows down. So, for example, at a dog’s age of 15 its human-age equivalent is not the old concept of being like 105 (7 X 15), but more like a human who is not quite 75 yet.

Thus scientific research debunks one more urban legend. But be careful when you sit on a toilet in New York City... one of those alligators might be waiting. Also, look out for those poisonous daddy longlegs spiders, and never go for a swim in Loch Ness… the monster awaits.

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...

Distant or Dear?

We recently had our dog—in the prime of his life—suddenly die. He was only eight years old, and the model of health. We found his body in the woods, with no signs of harm, so we have no idea of the cause of his death. That mystery leaves a huge question hovering in the air—a question that is not likely ever to be answered. That nameless cause is unsettling, if not disturbing, and at times even haunting.

Over the last couple of weeks since his death, I have gradually come to accept the loss—now only having periodic moments of deep sadness come over me, rather than the shock and mourning I struggled with during the first few days. There are many moments in each day when my wife and I sorely miss his presence. In numerous ways he was truly a family member—despite being nonhuman. His absence hurts.

I have spent much time in contemplation and meditation, working through the experience and attempting to understand my various emotions and how appropriate they may be. How long does one mourn? When does dwelling on one's loss become an unhealthy obsession? What's the difference between grieving and feeling sorry for yourself? How soon can you expect to get over the death—whatever that means? How do you put into perspective the shock of the death of a beloved dog, compared to other losses you've had? Why does the pain persist, and when will it slip below some threshold that goes unnoticed for several days or more?

In the last few days I have come to realize that my dog's death has hit me harder than the death of some family members. How is it that I miss a canine friend more than a human who is related to me by blood? Am I being callous towards kinfolk, when I struggle more over the loss of a “mere” dog? These questions sit at the back of my mind, gnawing at my conscience at times.

There are two factors involved here, I believe: the affection and the care we feel for another being, due either to blood or proximity (or sometimes both). Some people would add another factor or settle the question easily: a human being is always worth more than an animal. That may be generally correct, but I long ago discarded such simplistic and hierarchical (if not racist) beliefs. Why should I care more about the death of a person I hardly know, than my beloved dog? Why should I care more about the death of my dog than a bird who crashes into my window and breaks its neck? Where do you draw the line?

It seems to me that proximity plays a significant role in how much I care. My dog was an integral part of my daily life. I interacted with him many times a day and our lives closely intertwined. How does that compare to when a cousin dies, who lives at a great distance and with whom I lost contact 20 years ago? Yes, I feel sympathy and sadness when I hear of the death of a migrant who perishes at sea, attempting to reach the relative safety of Europe. I feel a similar sadness when I hear about the death of that distant cousin. How do those levels of sadness compare? How should they? And why does the death of my dog hit me harder than either of these examples?

Each of us will respond differently to these questions. I don't believe there is a “right” answer that could apply for all of us. The feelings of loss and grief are very personal and situation dependent. Rather than seek answers, I believe it's more important to dwell with the questions and use them to probe our motivations and values.

Present Perceptions

In a delightful book titled The Dharma of Dogs, Andrew Holocek writes about his relationship with his dog—giving several examples of how his dog, in sort of a human-dog turnabout, is often his teacher. Many people have described the special relationship they have with their dogs over the years. I have done so several times on this blog. Dogs have a unique way of seemingly mind-melding with humans. We two different mammalian species have been bosom buddies for tens of thousands of years.

Holocek describes how a dog's world is a “highly sensual one, and our senses only operate in the present. I can't smell the future or see the past. I can't taste the future or hear the past. My senses are forever nailed to the present moment.” I had never thought about my senses in this way—that they operate completely in the present moment. When I see something, it's caused by photons of light impinging upon my eyes... right now. Yesterday's photons are long gone. When I touch a fine piece of wood, the sensation it causes is right now. My sense of touch cannot lean into the future.

Given that a dog relies heavily on its senses—especially its sense of smell—it very much lives in the present. It is responding right now to the sounds and smells of its world. When we humans are in the company of our canine friend—say when our minds are lost in the past or are thrusting into the future—responding to our dog can bring us back to the present. I can't remember how many times I've been strolling through the woods with my dog—my mind fussing over yesterday's events—when his sudden dash into the underbrush yanks me back into the now. Am I out here in nature to fret over yesterday's lost opportunities, or to find rejuvenation in its beauty? Thanks, my puppy friend.

Buddhist teachings add a sixth sense to our commonly accepted five (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste): the mind. I've always liked this concept. All five “normal” senses send electrical signals to the brain, which then does a lot of processing on them, so as to interpret what those signals mean. The workings of the brain are what constitutes the mind. We need the mind to tell us what's going on around us; to interpret, process, and correlate those signals. An important part of that interpretation is also to bring memory (the past) into the process; as well as to ponder where all this may be heading (in the future).

The human mind is far more sophisticated than a dog's mind. That's what makes us so powerful. But there's a disadvantage to all this mental capability: we tend to spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the past and fretting over the future. It causes us to lose a lot of what's happening right now.

So a dog—whose mind is less developed or dominant—lives in a “highly sensual” world. It is far more likely to respond to the immediate sights, smells, and sounds of its environment than we are. And if we are in the company of our dog, it might just pull us back into the present moment—into a world that is, in many ways, more real than either yesterday or tomorrow. Thanks, my puppy friend.

Dog Deliberations

It's only been fairly recently that we humans have been inclined to allow animals to have minds or even thoughts. Rene Descartes influenced the beliefs of people for several hundred years, when he maintained that animals cannot think and have no emotions. That insidious idea encouraged hundreds of years of mistreatment and even torture of animals, due to the rationalization that they cannot feel pain or even have the ability to ponder what was happening to them. Like a machine, it was believed that an animal was simply without awareness and automatically reacted to events. You can disassemble a machine without causing it pain, so why not a dumb animal?

Fortunately we now have awakened to the fact that animals do have thoughts, have emotions, and are able to learn new things. That latter factor means they even have culture! This knowledge has led to much more humane treatment of animals—although we still have a long way to go, to improve our behavior towards them.

In fact, recent fascinating research at two universities (the University of Cincinnati in Ohio and the University of Canterbury in New Zealand) have demonstrated that even spiders have the ability to think. The researchers have clearly demonstrated that spiders have a memory, use sophisticated ways of communicating, and make complex decisions. Spiders deliberate!

The animal with whom I have the closest relationship is our dog Chompsky. (Yes, he is named after Noam Chomsky.) He's the most intelligent dog I've ever known. He understands and responds to a few dozen words. He knows the daily routine—often anticipating what's coming next, by either the time of day or by various emotional or body signals that we send. It's as if he is reading our minds, but I know it's more a matter of his acute attention to subtle cues that we display.

Chompsky has an excellent memory, which is definitely an indication of a mind. For example, when we walk through the woods he will adhere to fading trails that we've not followed for several weeks, so there can't be any trace of lingering scent that his exquisite nose could pick up. He simply remembers the way, as he leads me along. When he comes to a branch in the fading path, he pauses and looks back at me to see which direction I might choose today.

A dog does not have the ability for language, so Chompsky cannot cogitate in words, as we humans do; but there has to be some kind of mental process going on—wherein he thinks about things, remembers prior events in order to make today's choices, weighs alternative possibilities before making choices, and even anticipates future events. He deliberates!

One unique feature that dogs possess (and most animals don't) is the ability to communicate and interact extremely well with humans. That skill is what transformed wolves into human companions, tens of thousands of years ago. Those first proto-canines were smart enough to realize that pairing up with people had several advantages—such as bringing a plentiful food supply and a cozy lifestyle, as a companion to the planet's smartest critter.

One of Chompsky's more fetching qualities is his propensity to lock eyes with me and hold our gaze for several minutes. He even seems to be making a mind-meld, as if some kind of deep, wordless bond has been established between us. The other night I walked past his bed, as his eyes focused intently on me. I felt compelled to sit down, place my hands on him, and gaze deeply into his eyes.

I pondered what may be going on in his mind. Was he feeling the same emotion—call it love—that I was? I sat there, as if my mind was melding with his. I had sweet, mushy thoughts come to me, that I sent to him. I wondered if he was having the same warm musings I was. Just as I thought maybe we were on the threshold of a cross-species breakthrough that would dazzle the scientific and spiritual world, he abruptly got up and walked away! So much for a new discovery.

Dog Duty

There is a group of dog breeds that is usually referred to as “working dogs.” The work ethic in these breeds is so strong that their members are truly happiest when they have a job to do. If we humans don't keep a working dog busy, it'll find a way to create work—and that work will usually have a high degree of mischievousness about it.

Our homestead canine—named Gnome Chompsky after the venerable Noam Chomsky—is a mutt, but has a significant amount of border collie in him. Border collies are one of the most obsessed working dogs. They usually do not make good pets in an urban household, because their restlessness and urge to do something will often lead them to herd children in a rough manner, or bug their keepers until everyone is unhappy.

Luckily for us, we live in the woods, so Chompsky can roam as he wishes—seeking all sorts of forest denizens to herd, or just chase, if one of them refuses to cooperate. The main purpose for our having dogs over the years is to fend off deer and rabbits who wish to consume our garden veggies and various shrubs. Living out in the woods, we can let our dogs wander freely, so they spread their scent around the clearing (deer and rabbits have a good sense of smell and fear dogs) or merrily drive the deer deep into the woods. So that's Chompsky's primo assignment... his chief vocation.

But possessing his resourceful and compulsive border collie drive to seek work, Chompsky has created a number of other jobs to keep himself busy, and to watch him work is to know joy in a dog. Here are a few examples.

After meals, he happily provides the first washing of dishes, as his tongue assiduously cleans pots and plates. When visitors drive into our clearing he loudly announces their entrance (overloading our eardrums with his booming barking) and then runs to greet them—often causing them to reel back from his overwhelmingly gleeful reception.

Quite related to his duty of fending off deer, Chompsky does his best at terrorizing moles and voles, as he sniffs for their location and immediately proceeds to excavate major depressions in the yard—causing me to trail him around, repairing the damage.

He is exceptionally talented at learning and memorizing our daily routine, and then reminding us what we should be doing, when we forgetfully stray from the schedule. For example, when it's three minutes past time for a routine task, he plants his butt in the middle of whatever is going on and quizzically cocks his head to one side, as if to say, “I know I'm not in charge here, but haven't you forgotten something? You know, it's my job to keep you on the program.”

On walks through the woods Chompsky acknowledges that he's not in charge of which path I might choose on a given day, so he waits at each junction, looking back at me, patiently but business-like anticipating my decision. When I make a choice, he bounds off down that path, adeptly clearing the way, so I don't have to fret over any elephants or lions who might interfere with my strolling reverie. He also keeps unicorns at bay.

It's not just outdoors but in the confines of the house that our beloved canine never shrinks from his duty. I described earlier his plate-cleaning skills. When all meals are over and all visitors have left, Chompsky's work ethic never flags. In the evening he dutifully lies on our bed, warming my spot, for which I'm grateful, on these cold winter nights.

And then, in the morning,when I rise well before my mate and putter about the house, preparing breakfast, Chompsky knows the time for one of his most crucial duties is upon us. He sits before me, his whole hind end wiggling in eager anticipation, waiting for the magic words, “OK, go get Louisa!” With utter joy, he leaps upon the bed, forcing her to join us in the morning celebrations. My job at that time is to alert her to his impending assault—by a slightly elevated tone of voice—so she can hide under a protective cover of blankets, lest he tear her skin.

We have no sheep on our homestead to satisfy our part-border collie herder, but I believe, with his initiative, that we have come up with enough other meaningful jobs to make his life happy.

A Dog Duet—Part 2

So that's the first story (cones and rods in the eyes) about the similarity between humans and dogs. The second relationship between people and our canine friends is another physiological similarity that can be considered maybe to be a little disturbing.

Researchers have noted over the last few decades that the sperm count of males—both dog and human—have been decreasing. Specifically, sperm motility—the ability of sperm to swim in a straight line—has diminished. If sperm can't swim energetically and directly toward the female egg, fertility suffers. In addition, traces of PCBs and phthalates are being found in both dog and human semen. These artificial chemicals have been linked to birth defects. Whether or not they contribute to decreased sperm activity has yet to be determined.

A comprehensive evaluation of human sperm viability has so far not been carefully and consistently measured, due to the fact that the issue is so complex for humans. Dogs are simpler, so recent studies spanning a 26-year period at Nottingham University in the UK have meticulously measured the decrease in dog fertility. It is significant.

So what is the cause of the carefully documented canine reduction in fertility? No smoking sperm gun has as yet been discovered, but the likely contributors—in light of the measured PCBs and phthalates—points to the presence of toxins and chemicals in dogs' environments as the likely causes.

Dogs are our best friends. We share much of the same living space, and we are exposed to the same chemicals they are. Thus our canine buddies may be in the same sinking fertility boat that we are. Human male fertility has been measured and is definitely on the decline, although it has yet to be adequately quantified. So it raises the question: Are we—humans and dogs—headed together towards a fertility problem? Stay tuned.

In summarizing this pair of dog duet posts: The mammalian eyes of dogs and humans—although both have evolved from those tiny mammals scurrying in the dark to avoid dinosaurs—still retain the rods and cones of those long ago times—though in different proportions. We also share a declining sperm quality. In interesting ways “man's best friend” seems to be headed down a similar evolutionary path with us. Maybe we're closer than we think; maybe more than just good buddies.

A Dog Duet—Part 1

I recently read two reports (sort of a duet) about a couple of current circumstances of dogs, that say something about both the qualities of canines as well as the closeness of humans and dogs—in ways that go well beyond the typical owner-pet relationship. I would argue that the old saw—that a dog is man's best friend—has a lot of truth to it. But these two reports go well beyond just the friendship concept. They tell us that there are deeper similarities; that in some ways humans and dogs share a couple of fascinating and relevant physiological qualities. Maybe we're more than best friends. Maybe we're even some kind of distant relative?

The first report described the fact that dogs are color-blind—far more than humans, but still in a physiologically similar way. Yet dogs are not really color blind; it's more that they cannot perceive the rich panoply of colors that we humans enjoy. How so? The eyes of both humans and dogs (as well as most animals) contain two kinds of light sensory receptors: cones and rods. Cones have evolved to provide visual acuity and also to respond to color, but they need rather bright light conditions to do so. Rods evolved to provide vision at low light levels and to detect motion; they do not respond to color. While human eyes contain a high proportion of cones (we see color), dogs' eyes have far fewer. Thus we see sharply, as well as perceive all the vivid hues of the artist's palette. Dogs—with more rods—have poor visual acuity but can see better than we do at night; especially being able to note motion, as their prey try to run away.

All mammals evolved to have both rods and cones in their eyes. Back when mammals were new to Earth's animal kingdom (100-200 million years ago), they were just little critters who were dominated by the much larger and more successful dinosaurs. Mammals were forced to skitter around mostly in the dark, to avoid being eaten or stepped on by the reigning dinosaurs. Needing to see well under low light levels, mammal eyes evolved lots of rods.

Think about what you see, when nighttime comes on. You can't see color—only shades of gray. There's not enough light to trigger your eye's cones, so the rods—being “color-blind”—take over. For various reasons, dog's eyes, unlike ours, have a preponderance of rods. Maybe their wolf ancestors continued their hunting activities at night. Humans, on the other hand, evolved to have a lot of cones in our eyes. We needed them—along with our ape cousins—to locate tasty and colorful fruit in our daytime foraging. Dogs mostly needed to see moving animals to chase in the dark. To compensate for their inability to distinguish colors, dogs evolved an exquisite sense of smell. With that wonderful nose they could better sniff out their food.

[As an interesting aside to dogs' and humans' eye differences, when a human is photographed with a flash, a phenomenon called “red-eye” is often observed. It is due to the light of the camera's flash being reflected off blood vessels at the back of the eye. Dogs' eyes have something called a “tapetum,” which is a mirror-like structure at the back of their eyes. When a dog is photographed with a flash, the light reflects off the tapetum and appears blue. We get red-eye, they get blue-eye.]

More on dogs and humans next time...

Our Best Friends

Numerous scientific studies have unequivocally shown that dogs—considered by many people to be “man's best friend”—descended from the wolves. This result comes from DNA studies of wolves and dogs. The estimated date of when dogs became our buddies is as yet a little hazy: anywhere from about 13 thousand years ago to as long ago as 30 thousand years. The relationship between wolves and dogs is also demonstrated in their scientific names: Canis lupus (for wolves) and Canis lupus familairis (for dogs). We certainly are more familiar with dogs.

A tougher question about the evolution of wolves to dogs is: How did the first dogs transform from wolves? By what process did those pioneer wolves come in from the wild and buddy-up to our ancestors? The answer to questions like these cannot be investigated by DNA experiments in the laboratory, nor are there any historical documents waiting to be discovered (since no human was able to write at the time). Nonetheless, recent research is offering some insights to understand how dogs evolved from wolves.

A common belief for many years has been that dogs evolved when an enterprising hunter-gatherer encountered some cute wolf puppies and carried a couple of them home to the cave to adopt. In time the little wolves became tame and the rest of the story is history. That tale has been debunked. The lifestyle of our hunter-gatherer ancestors was too nomadic to allow them to carry out such a lengthy process. In addition, modern studies of wolves have shown that, although wolves can be socialized and even tamed, they retain a large degree of wildness, that keeps them from connecting with people as deeply as dogs do. Finally, what sane hunger-gatherer parent would allow a wild wolf to get cozy with their kids?

Research has shown instead that humans did not domesticate wolves... wolves did it themselves. Dogs are thus self-domesticated wolves. They chose us. Why? How? Very recent studies have shown that dogs are a rare type of critter who possess a kind of intelligence that allows them to interpret our intentions. They read our behavior and body language and perceive what we literally are thinking. In humans this ability is called “theory of mind.” Here's how it works: I know that I have a mind, I assume that other people do, and further, I assume that how I respond to things is similar to how other people do.

Dogs do not have this level of cognitive ability, but they do have a remarkable ability to read our intentions. It is a capability that allowed them to domesticate themselves and learn to live with us, long ago. They were clever enough to perceive that life would be much easier if they became our buddies. We would be their source of food (our leftover garbage) and rather than compete with us in hunting down animals (as have their wolf cousins), they could partner with us and benefit from our skills (and vice versa).

As an example, the dog is unique among animals in understanding that when we point at something, we are drawing their attention to it. Wolves can't do it. Even our closest relatives, the chimpanzees and bonobos, can't do it. This ability allows dogs to make inferences about our intentions and to flexibly and creatively solve new problems for themselves—things that neither wolves nor apes can do.

So we humans have more in common with dogs than we've previously thought. When we evolved from apes into Homo sapiens, we later developed the theory of mind, which has allowed us to develop a unique form of communication and to cooperate to achieve impressive things. When dogs evolved from wolves (on their own initiative) they developed a similar ability, that gives us and them a unique form of communication and cooperation. Does that not make them our best friends?

Doggone Good Cooperation

Who'd a thunk that our ancient alliance with wolves (who we quickly bred into tame puppy dogs) would be related to how our ancient European ancestors (Cro-Magnon man) out-competed the Neanderthals? It's been known for a long time that we humans domesticated wolves tens of thousands of years ago, and also that we outlived our Neanderthals cousins, who disappeared some 40 thousand years ago. But the link between these two events was only recently identified by a researcher at Penn State University. How was this connection realized?

Neanderthals had inhabited Europe some 200,000 years before Cro-Magnon man even entered the scene. Neanderthals were accomplished hunters of large herbivores such as mammoths and elk, but they also had fierce competition from European lions, leopards, hyenas, as well as wolves. It was very challenging and dangerous to bring down a mammoth or bison by spears. Once you managed to kill one, lions and hyenas would harass you and try to steal your prized meat. So Neanderthals may have lasted a long time, but they were not all that dominant—their population stayed modest.

Then about 45 thousand years ago, modern humans entered Europe. Now the Neanderthals had yet one more competitor for the hunt. Humans, however, had an ace up their hairy sleeve: they domesticated the wolf. It was a great example of a complementary relationship—two potential competitors (humans and wolves, both of whom loved to dine on mammoth meat) joined forces to make their partnership far more effective than either one could do alone.

Those early wolf-dogs had the job of tracking and harassing big game until their prey tired, but then they didn't have to close in for the kill—which could become very dangerous when they faced a cornered and aroused adversary. Instead, humans appeared on the scene and dispatched the prey with spears from a safe distance. Having cooperated for the kill, dogs and humans then shared the treasure. Together, they could also successfully fend off other carnivores who might show up. Thus was born the human and hunting-dog team... which proved to be a deadly combination.

In the meantime, the Neanderthals—having been around far longer, but who left no evidence that they ever partnered with wolves—were at a serious disadvantage. Before long, they disappeared—followed a few millennia later by European mammoths, bison, and giant elk. The human-dog team was lethally efficient.

This is just one more example of how species that managed to evolve cooperation have fared better than those who couldn't. Yes, Darwin's insight into the power of survival of the fittest shoes how evolution competitively plays out, but it's not all about the fiercest competitor always becoming triumphant. Strategic alliance have also favored the prospering of species.

Canine Capitalist

My sweet, loving, generous, carefree dog was recently transformed into a capitalist. How? He came into ownership of some items that he deems very valuable. Before that acquisition, he was just a nonchalant hound. It's a fact that when we come to own things, it affects us—even when “us” is a dog. Possessing capital changes us. It can even come to define who we are; to wit, some people who accumulate lots of stuff and turn greedy for more.

Now, simply to own things is no problem in and of itself—it's the parsimony that it can foster in us. Every living creature is inclined to surrender to greed. Give a bird and opportunity to dine on fermented grapes and it'll get drunk. Give a puppy all the meat it wants and it'll soon be barfing it back up on the bedspread. Bury a kid at Christmas time with a load of toys and he'll soon expect a bigger bedroom to hold all his stash. And, of course, we all know about Wall Street bankers.

So how did my dog become a capitalist—a possessor of (excess) property? He's always had his ball and an occasional bone to gnaw on. These, however, are merely simple possessions—not the treasures he's recently procured. A dog's life is usually quite carefree and untroubled. Its humans provide food, shelter, love, and other necessities. A dog doesn't need to own much.

But our dog just came into ownership of several precious objects: multiple deer parts. Deer hunting season recently ended around here, so deer remains are scattered around the woods; parts like legs, heads, and innards, left behind by hunters. In the aftermath of previous hunting seasons our dog was too young and naive to ramble the woods and find these treasures. Now he is older, wiser, braver... and wanders. He finds many delectable leavings.

He loves it! It's such a wonderful treasure! Now, we are fine with his eating deer limbs and organs. It's better quality food than the dry stuff we feed him from a bag; it's fresh (well... it was a couple of weeks ago), nutritious, and antibiotic-free.

Deer leavings are also abundant right now, so the dog has acquired many more morsels than he can immediately consume. Such a cornucopia! He's still alive, yet already residing in dog heaven! So he carries the pieces home that he cannot eat at the moment and buries them in secret places in the woods around the house. But now he has booty and it must be protected! He must guard his treasure from countless marauders, looters, and thieves. We chuckle as we watch him skulking in the woods—digging holes and burying his goodies.

This treasure has transformed him into a true capitalist, with goods to protect and worry over. He may have surreptitiously and cleverly hidden his hoard, but he knows that there are various critters out in the woods who also have a good nose; a sense of smell that will inevitably lead them to his stash. So, like a good capitalist, he frets. He stays out in the cold for long periods—on guard duty. While in the house, his attention is often directed outside. He even seems to have developed the scowl of ownership! The least imagined sound out there may be a signal that his treasure is about to be purloined. He frequently woofs in a possessive manner—charging to the door, anxious to be let out.

He bursts through the door, barking authoritatively, as he plunges into the woods. He's gone for an hour or more, making his rounds, digging up some parts that he suspects are vulnerable and moving them to new hiding places. He's become a neurotic capitalist! He acts suspicious much of the time. If he could, I think he'd ask me to store all his goodies in an outbuilding, under secure locks. But then again, I'm not sure he'd trust me not to steal a leg or a liver.

In the house he shirks his routine plate-cleaning duties. We depend upon him to clean up any remaining particles of food we leave on plates and pans, and now he turns up his nose at such measly offerings! Too many vegetables and spices for his delicate taste! Until his stash runs out, he's got better things to do than lick our dishes clean. A canine capitalist can afford to reject these lesser-quality offerings. He'd rather go outside, dig up another body part—fast moldering and coated with leaves and mud—and chew on some real food.

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.”

Tool-less Dogs--Part 2

In my last post, I gave several examples of wild animals that make and use tools. There are myriad other examples from nature that I could site, to demonstrate that we humans are now understood not to be the only tool fabricators and manipulators. So much for the dumbness of wild critters. This thought brings up a question: Are there domesticated critters that use tools?

Here’s an example that recently gave me a striking display of its disinclination to fashion or use tools: the domesticated dog. (I specifically use the adjective “domesticated” here, because wild dogs have been observed using tools. As I mentioned earlier, wild creatures are smarter than their domesticated cousins.)

I was watching a particular dog—my dog—who was deeply and contentedly absorbed in chewing on a bone: a cow’s thick leg bone, with loads of tasty and nutritious marrow inside. The bone was too strong to crush in his teeth, so he had to be satisfied with sticking his tongue as far down the core of the bone as he could get. Each lick was bringing him only the tiniest taste of marrow. It was an excruciatingly slow process. A human—or even a wild crow—would have been pondering alternative assaults on the bone that would have immediately yielded more of the desired marrow.

I was admiring the tenacity that he exhibited, when the thought came to me that, with a knife or other pointed implement, I could quickly dig out most of that marrow for him. A follow-up thought: If I were a dog, I’d grab a stick, have that bone cleaned out in short order, and move on to other adventures. Why did this not occur to my doggie—a critter who I consider to be well above normal canine intelligence? He has demonstrated his mental aptitude in many other delightful ways. Why be so dull now? Couldn’t he figure out how to seize a twig in his teeth, jam it down the center of the bone, and withdraw it, covered in delicious marrow? Hey, a crow can do it! Isn’t my dog smarter than a crow?

I was becoming a little disillusioned with my canine pal, when yet another thought came to me: Why does a dog need to use tools? He can rely upon humans to do the work for him! Just a few tens of thousands of years ago, the dog transformed himself from a wild beast to a cuddly companion of Homo sapiens. He endeared himself to our ancestors, by eating our trash and scaring off the many demons who lurk in the dark. (Most of the demons are illusory, but it’s to a dog’s advantage to spice our imaginations and then act as though he is saving us.) The dog thus morphed from a drab-colored, wolf-like creature to the adorable and cute companion who has been at our side ever since.

That was a very smart move on the part of my dog’s canine ancestors. They morphed themselves from hungry, lonely outcasts to pampered sidekicks. They willingly submitted to our control, in exchange for a far cushier lifestyle. We may view them as submissive and malleable slaves… they don’t care. They have no face to lose. They’re not proud. They’ve gotten what they want from us: comfort and regular meals. Who is smarter—us or them?

So, maybe my dog is much more astute than I give him credit for. Why should the dog put all that effort into learning how to make and manipulate tools, when he can get us to do it for him? We do have that opposable thumb, after all. The dog can allow us to do all the work, as he benefits from all the dividends. He also probably feels that the wild animals can go ahead and show off with their tools. They may appear to be clever, but simply haven’t realized that life is all about training humans to do the work for them, so they can lie around, endlessly chewing on bones. My dog feels sorry for his wild compatriots… they’re not half as clever as domesticated dogs are.