Inside of a Dog Alexandra Horowitz

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INSIDE OF A DOG

WHAT DOGS SEE, SMELL, AND KNOW

ALEXANDRA HOROWITZ

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To the dogs

Contents

Prelude

A prefatory note on the dog, training, and owners

Calling a dog "the dog"

Training dogs

The dog and his owner

Umwelt: From the Dog's Point of Nose

Take my raincoat. Please.

A tick's view of the world

Putting our umwelt caps on

The meaning of things

Asking dogs

Dog kisses

Dogologist

Belonging to the House

How to make a dog: Step-by-step instructions

How wolves became dogs

Unwolfy

And then our eyes met . . .

Fancy dogs

The one difference between breeds

Animals with an asterisk

Canis unfamiliaris

Making your dog

Sniff

Sniffers

The nose nose

The vomeronasal nose

The brave smell of a stone

The smelly ape

You showed fear

The smell of disease

The smell of a dog

Leaves and grass

Brambish and brunky

Mute

Out loud

Dog-eared

The opposite of mute

Whimpers, growls, squeaks, and chuckles

Woof

Body and tail

Inadvertent and intent

Dog-eyed

Eyes of the ball-holder

Go get the ball!

Go get the green ball!

Go get the green bouncing ball . . . on the TV!

Visual umwelt

Seen by a Dog

The eyes of a child

The attention of animals

Mutual gaze

Gaze following

Attention-getting

Showing

Manipulating attention

Canine Anthropologists

Dogs' psychic powers deconstructed

Reading us

All about you

Noble Mind

Dog smarts

Learning from others

Puppy see, puppy do

More human than bird

Theory of mind

Theory of dog mind

Playing into mind

What happened to the Chihuahua

Non-human

Inside of a Dog

I. What a dog knows

Dog days (About time)

The inner dog (About themselves)

Dog years (About their past and future)

Good dog (About right and wrong)

A dog's age (About emergencies and death)

II. What it is like

It is close to the ground . . .

. . . It is lickable . . .

. . . It either fits in the mouth or it's too big for the mouth . . .

. . . It is full of details . . .

. . . It is in the moment . . .

. . . It is fleeting and fast . . .

. . . It is written all over their faces . . .

You Had Me at Hello

Bondables

Touching animals

At hello

The dance

The bond effect

The Importance of Mornings

Go for a "smell walk"

Train thoughtfully

Allow for his dogness

Consider the source

Give him something to do

Play with him

Look again

Spy on him

Don't bathe your dog every day

Read the dog's tells

Pet friendly

Get a mutt

Anthropomorphize with umwelt in mind

Postscript: Me and My Dog

Notes and Sources

Acknowledgments

Index

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend.

Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read.

—ATTRIBUTED TO GROUCHO MARX

INSIDE OF A DOG

Prelude

First you see the head. Over the crest of the hill appears a muzzle, drooling. It is as yet not visibly attached to anything. A limb jangles into view, followed in unhasty succession by a second, third, and fourth, bearing a hundred and forty pounds of body between them. The wolfhound, three feet at his shoulder and five feet to his tail, spies the long-haired Chihuahua, half a dog high, hidden in the grasses between her owner's feet. The Chihuahua is six pounds, each of them trembling. With one languorous leap, his ears perked high, the wolfhound arrives in front of the Chihuahua. The Chihuahua looks demurely away; the wolfhound bends down to Chihuahua level and nips her side. The Chihuahua looks back at the hound, who raises his rear end up in the air, tail held high, in preparation to attack. Instead of fleeing from this apparent danger, the Chihuahua matches his pose and leaps onto the wolfhound's face, embracing his nose with her tiny paws. They begin to play.

For five minutes these dogs tumble, grab, bite, and lunge at each other. The wolfhound throws himself onto his side and the little dog responds with attacks to his face, belly, and paws. A swipe by the hound sends the Chihuahua scurrying backward, and she timidly sidesteps out of his reach. The hound barks, jumps up, and arrives back on his feet with a thud. At this, the Chihuahua races toward one of those feet and bites it, hard. They are in mid-embrace—the hound with his mouth surrounding the body of the Chihuahua, the Chihuahua kicking back at the hound's face—when an owner snaps a leash on the hound's collar and pulls him upright and away. The Chihuahua rights herself, looks after them, barks once, and trots back to her owner.

These dogs are so incommensurable with each other that they may as well be different species. The ease of play between them always puzzled me. The wolfhound bit, mouthed, and charged at the Chihuahua; yet the little dog responded not with fright but in kind. What explains their ability to play together? Why doesn't the hound see the Chihuahua as prey? Why doesn't the Chihuahua see the wolfhound as predator? The answer turns out to have nothing to do with the Chihuahua's delusion of canine grandeur or the hound's lack of predatory drive. Neither is it simply hardwired instinct taking over.

There are two ways to learn how play works—and what playing dogs are thinking, perceiving, and saying: be born as a dog, or spend a lot of time carefully observing dogs. The former was unavailable to me. Come along as I describe what I've learned by watching.

I am a dog person.

My home has always had a dog in it. My affinity for dogs began with our family dog, Aster, with his blue eyes, lopped tail, and nighttime neighborhood ramblings that often left me up late, wearing pajamas and worry, waiting for his midnight return. I long mourned the death of Heidi, a springer spaniel who ran with excitement—my childhood imagination had her tongue trailing out of the side of her mouth and her long ears blown back with the happy vigor of her run—right under a car's tires on the state highway near our home. As a college student, I gazed with admiration and affection at an adopted chow mix Beckett as she stoically watched me leave for the day.

And now at my feet lies the warm, curly, panting form of Pumpernickel—Pump—a mutt who has lived with me for all of her sixteen years and through all of my adulthood. I have begun every one of my days in five states, five years of graduate school, and four jobs with her tail-thumping greeting when she hears me stir in the morning. As anyone who considers himself a dog person will recognize, I cannot imagine my life without this dog.

I am a dog person, a lover of dogs. I am also a scientist.

I study animal behavior. Professionally, I am wary of anthropomorphizing animals, attributing to them the feelings, thoughts, and desires that we use to describe ourselves. In learning how to study the behavior of animals, I was taught and adhered to the scientist's code for describing actions: be objective; do not explain a behavior by appeal to a mental process when explanation by simpler processes will do; a phenomenon that is not publicly observable and confirmable is not the stuff of science. These days, as a professor of animal behavior, comparative cognition, and psychology, I teach from masterful texts that deal in quantifiable fact. They describe everything from hormonal and genetic explanations for the social behavior of animals, to conditioned responses, fixed action patterns, and optimal foraging rates, in the same steady, objective tone.

And yet.

Most of the questions my students have about animals remain quietly unanswered in these texts. At conferences where I have presented my research, other academics inevitably direct the postlecture conversations to their own experiences with their pets. And I still have the same questions I'd always had about my own dog—and no sudden rush of answers. Science, as practiced and reified in texts, rarely addresses our experiences of living with and attempting to understand the minds of our animals.

In my first years of graduate school, when I began studying the science of the mind, with a special interest in the minds of non-human animals, it never occurred to me to study dogs. Dogs seemed so familiar, so understood. There is nothing to be learned from dogs, colleagues claimed: dogs are simple, happy creatures whom we need to train and feed and love, and that is all there is to them. There is no data in dogs. That was the conventional wisdom among scientists. My dissertation advisor studied, respectably, baboons: primates are the animals of choice in the field of animal cognition. The assumption is that the likeliest place to find skills and cognition approaching our own is in our primate brethren. That was, and remains, the prevailing view of behavioral scientists. Worse still, dog owners seemed to have already covered the territory of theorizing about the dog mind, and their theories were generated from anecdotes and misapplied anthropomorphisms. The very notion of the mind of a dog was tainted.

And yet.

I spent many recreational hours during my years of graduate school in California in the local dog parks and beaches with Pumpernickel. At the time I was in training as an ethologist, a scientist of animal behavior. I joined two research groups observing highly social creatures: the white rhinoceros at the Wild Animal Park in Escondido, and the bonobos (pygmy chimpanzees) at the Park and the San Diego Zoo. I learned the science of careful observations, data gathering, and statistical analysis. Over time, this way of looking began seeping into those recreational hours at the dog parks. Suddenly the dogs, with their fluent travel between their own social world and that of people, became entirely unfamiliar: I stopped seeing their behavior as simple and understood.

Where I once saw and smiled at play between Pumpernickel and the local bull terrier, I now saw a complex dance requiring mutual cooperation, split-second communications, and assessment of each other's abilities and desires. The slightest turn of a head or the point of a nose now seemed directed, meaningful. I saw dogs whose owners did not understand a single thing their dogs were doing; I saw dogs too clever for their playmates; I saw people misreading canine requests as confusion and delight as aggression. I began bringing a video camera with us and taping our outings at the parks. At home I watched the tapes of dogs playing with dogs, of people ball-and Frisbee-tossing to their dogs—tapes of chasing, fighting, petting, running, barking. With new sensitivity to the possible richness of social interactions in an entirely non-linguistic world, all of these once ordinary activities now seemed to me to be an untapped font of information. When I began watching the videos in extremely slow-motion playback, I saw behaviors I had never seen in years of living with dogs. Examined closely, simple play frolicking between two dogs became a dizzying series of synchronous behaviors, active role swapping, variations on communicative displays, flexible adaptation to others' attention, and rapid movement between highly diverse play acts.

What I was seeing were snapshots of the minds of the dogs, visible in the ways they communicated with each other and tried to communicate with the people around them—and, too, in the way they interpreted other dogs' and people's actions.

I never saw Pumpernickel—or any dog—the same way again. Far from being a killjoy on the delights of interacting with her, though, the spectacles of science gave me a rich new way to look at what she was doing: a new way to understand life as a dog.

Since those first hours of viewing, I have studied dogs at play: playing with other dogs and playing with people. At the time I was unwittingly part of a sea change taking place in science's attitude toward studying dogs. The transformation is not yet complete, but the landscape of dog research is already remarkably different than it was twenty years ago. Where once there was an inappreciable number of studies of dog cognition and behavior, there are now conferences on the dog, research groups devoted to studying the dog, experimental and ethological studies on the dog in the United States and abroad, and dog research results sprinkled through scientific journals. The scientists doing this work have seen what I have seen: the dog is a perfect entry into the study of non-human animals. Dogs have lived with human beings for thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of years. Through the artificial selection of domestication, they have evolved to be sensitive to just those things that importantly make up our cognition, including, critically, attention to others.

In this book I introduce you to the science of the dog. Scientists working in laboratories and in the field, studying working dogs and companion dogs, have gathered an impressive amount of information on the biology of dogs—their sensory abilities, their behavior—and on the psychology of dogs—their cognition. Drawing from the accumulated results of hundreds of research programs, we can begin to create a picture of the dog from the inside—of the skill of his nose, what he hears, how his eyes turn to us, and the brain behind it all. The dog cognition work reviewed includes my own but extends far beyond it to summarize all the results from recent research. For some topics on which there is no reliable information yet on dogs, I incorporate studies on other animals that might help us understand a dog's life, too. (For those whose appetite for the original research articles is whetted by the accounts herein, full citations appear at the book's end.)

We do no disservice to dogs by stepping away from the leash and considering them scientifically. Their abilities and point of view merit special attention. And the result is magnificent: far from being distanced by science, we are brought closer to and can marvel at the true nature of the dog. Used rigorously but creatively, the process and results of science can shed new light on discussions that people have daily about what their dog knows, understands, or believes. Through my personal journey, learning to look systemically and scientifically at my own dog's behavior, I came to have a better understanding of, appreciation of, and relationship with her.

I've gotten inside of the dog, and have glimpsed the dog's point of view. You can do the same. If you have a dog in the room with you, what you see in that great, furry pile of dogness is about to change.

A PREFATORY NOTE ON THE DOG, TRAINING, AND

OWNERS

Calling a dog "the dog"

It is the nature of scientific study of non-human animals that a few individual animals who have been thoroughly poked, observed, trained, or dissected come to represent their entire species. Yet with humans we never let one person's behavior stand for all of our behavior. If one man fails to solve a Rubik's cube in an hour, we do not extrapolate from that that all men will so fail (unless that man had bested every other man alive). Here our sense of individuality is stronger than our sense of shared biology. When it comes to describing our potential physical and cognitive capacities, we are individuals first, and members of the human race second.

By contrast, with animals the order is reversed. Science considers animals as representatives of their species first, and as individuals second. We are accustomed to seeing a single animal or two kept in a zoo as representative of their species; to zoo management, they are even unwitting "ambassadors" of the species. Our view of the uniformity of species members is well exemplified in our comparison of their intelligence. To test the hypothesis, long popular, that having a bigger brain indicates greater intelligence, the brain volumes of chimpanzees, monkeys, and rats were compared with human brains. Sure enough, the chimp's brain is smaller than ours, the monkey's smaller than the chimp's, the rat's a mere cerebellum-sized node of the primates' brains. That much of the story is fairly well known. What is more surprising is that the brains used, for comparative purposes, were the brains of just two or three chimpanzees and monkeys. These couple of animals unlucky enough to lose their heads for science were henceforth considered perfectly representative monkeys and chimps. But we had no idea if they happened to be particularly big-brained monkeys, or abnormally small-brained chimps.*

Similarly, if a single animal or small group of animals fails in a psychological experiment, the species is tainted with the brush of failure. Although grouping animals by biological similarity is clearly useful shorthand, there is a strange result: we tend to speak of the species as though all members of the species were identical. We never make this slip with humans. If a dog, given the choice between a pile of twenty biscuits and a pile often biscuits, chooses the latter, the conclusion is often stated with the definite article: "the dog" cannot distinguish between large and small piles—not "a dog" cannot so distinguish.

So when I talk about the dog, I am talking implicitly about those dogs studied to date. The results of many well-performed experiments may eventually allow us to reasonably generalize to all dogs, period. But even then, the variations among individual dogs will be great: your dog may be an unusually good smeller, may never look you in the eye, may love his dog bed and hate to be touched. Not every behavior a dog does should be interpreted as telling, taken as something intrinsic or fantastic; sometimes they just are, just as we are. That said, what I offer herein is the known capacity of the dog; your results may be different.

Training dogs

This is not a dog training book. Still, its contents might lead you to be able to train your dog, inadvertently. This will catch us up to dogs, who have already, without a tome on people, learned how to train us without our realizing it.

The dog training literature and the dog cognition and behavior literatures do not overlap greatly. Dog trainers do use a few basic tenets from psychology and ethology—sometimes to great effect, sometimes to disastrous end. Most training operates on the principle of associative learning. Associations between events are easily learned by all animals, including humans. Associative learning is what is behind "operant" conditioning paradigms, which provide a reward (a treat, attention, a toy, a pat) after the occurrence of a desired behavior (a dog sitting down). Through repeated application, one can shape a new, desired behavior in a dog—be it lying down and rolling over, or, for the ambitious, calmly Jet-Skiing behind a motorboat.

But often the tenets of training clash with the scientific study of the dog. For instance, many trainers use the analogy of dog-as-tame-wolf as informative in how we should see and treat dogs. An analogy can only be as good as its source. In this case, as we will see, scientists know a limited amount about natural wolf behavior—and what we know often contradicts the conventional wisdom used to bolster those analogies.

In addition, training methods are not scientifically tested, despite some trainers' assertions to the contrary. That is, no training program has been evaluated by comparing the performance of an experimental group that gets training and a control group whose life is identical except for the absence of the training program. People who come to trainers often share two unusual features: their dogs are less "obedient" than the average dog, and the owners are more motivated to change them than the average owner. It is very likely, given this combination of conditions and a few months, that the dog will behave differently after training, almost regardless of what the training is.

Training successes are exciting, but they do not prove that the training method is what led to the success. The success could be indicative of good training. But it could also be a happy accident. It could also be the result of more attention being paid to the dog over the course of the program. It could be the result of the dog's maturing over the course of the program. It could be the result of that bullying dog down the street moving away. In other words, the success could be the result of dozens of other co-occurring changes in the dog's life. We cannot distinguish these possibilities without rigorous scientific testing.

Most critically, training is usually tailored to the owner—to change the dog to fit the owner's conception of the role of the dog, and of what he wants the dog to do. This goal is quite different than our aim: looking to see what the dog actually does, and what he wants from and understands of you.

The dog and his owner

It is increasingly in vogue to speak not of pet ownership but pet guardianship, or pet companions. Clever writers talk of dogs' "humans," turning the ownership arrow back on ourselves. In this book I call dogs' families owners simply because this term describes the legal relationship we have with dogs: peculiarly, they are still considered property (and property of little compensatory value, besides breeding value, a lesson I hope no reader ever has to learn personally). I will celebrate the day when dogs are not property which we own. Until then, I use the word owner apolitically, for convenience and with no other motive. This motive guides me in my pronoun use, too: unless discussing a female dog, I usually call the dog "him," as this is our gender-neutral term. The reputedly more neutral "it" is not an option, for anyone who has known a dog.

Umwelt: From the Dog's Point of Nose

This morning I was awakened by Pump coming over to the bed and sniffing emphatically at me, millimeters away, her whiskers grazing my lips, to see if I was awake or alive or me. She punctuates her rousing with an exclamatory sneeze directly in my face. I open my eyes and she is gazing at me, smiling, panting a hello.

Go look at a dog. Go on, look—maybe at one lying near you right now, curled around his folded legs on a dog bed, or sprawled on his side on the tile floor, paws flitting through the pasture of a dream. Take a good look—and now forget everything you know about this or any dog.

This is admittedly a ridiculous exhortation: I don't really expect that you could easily forget even the name or favored food or unique profile of your dog, let alone everything about him. I think of the exercise as analogous to asking a newcomer to meditation to enter into satori, the highest state, on the first go: aim for it, and see how far you get. Science, aiming for objectivity, requires that one becomes aware of prior prejudices and personal perspective. What we'll find, in looking at dogs through a scientific lens, is that some of what we think we know about dogs is entirely borne out; other things that appear patently true are, on closer examination, more doubtful than we thought. And by looking at our dogs from another perspective—from the perspective of the dog—we can see new things that don't naturally occur to those of us encumbered with human brains. So the best way to begin understanding dogs is by forgetting what we think we know.

The first things to forget are anthropomorphisms. We see, talk about, and imagine dogs' behavior from a human-biased perspective, imposing our own emotions and thoughts on these furred creatures. Of course, we'll say, dogs love and desire; of course they dream and think; they also know and understand us, feel bored, get jealous, and get depressed. What could be a more natural explanation of a dog staring dolefully at you as you leave the house for the day than that he is depressed that you're going?

The answer is: an explanation based in what dogs actually have the capacity to feel, know, and understand. We use these words, these anthropomorphisms, to help us make sense of dogs' behavior. Naturally, we are intrinsically prejudiced toward human experiences, which leads us to understand animals' experiences only to the extent that they match our own. We remember stories that confirm our descriptions of animals and conveniently forget those that do not. And we do not hesitate to assert "facts" about apes or dogs or elephants or any animal without proper evidence. For many of us, our interaction with non-pet animals begins and ends with our staring at them at zoos or watching shows on cable TV. The amount of useful information we can get from this kind of eavesdropping is limited: such a passive encounter reveals even less than we get from glancing in a neighbor's window as we walk by.* At least the neighbor is of our own species.

Anthropomorphisms are not inherently odious. They are born of attempts to understand the world, not to subvert it. Our human ancestors would have regularly anthropomorphized in an attempt to explain and predict the behavior of other animals, including those they might want to eat or that might want to eat them. Imagine encountering a strange, bright-eyed jaguar at dusk in the forest, and looking squarely in its eyes looking squarely into yours. At that moment, a little meditation on what you might be thinking "if you were the jaguar" would probably be due—and would lead to your hightailing it away from the cat. Humans endured: the attribution was, if not true, at least true enough.

Typically, though, we are no longer in the position of needing to imagine the jaguar's desires in time to escape his clutches. Instead we are bringing animals inside and asking them to become members of our families. For that purpose, anthropomorphisms fail to help us incorporate those animals into our homes, and have the smoothest, fullest relationships with them. This is not to say that we're always wrong with our attributions: it might be true that our dog is sad, jealous, inquisitive, depressed—or desiring a peanut butter sandwich for lunch. But we are almost certainly not justified in claiming, say, depression from the evidence before us: the mournful eyes, the loud sigh. Our projections onto animals are often impoverished—or entirely off the mark. We might judge an animal to be happy when we see an upturn of the corners of his mouth; such a "smile," however, can be misleading. On dolphins, the smile is a fixed physiological feature, immutable like the creepily painted face of a clown. Among chimpanzees, a grin is a sign of fear or submission, the furthest thing from happiness. Similarly, a human might raise her eyebrows in surprise, but the eyebrow-raising capuchin monkey is not surprised. He is evincing neither skepticism nor alarm; instead he is signaling to nearby monkeys that he has friendly designs. By contrast, among baboons a raised brow can be a deliberate threat (lesson: be careful which monkey you raise your eyebrows toward). The onus is on us to find a way to confirm or refute these claims we make of animals.

It may seem a benign slip from sad eyes to depression, but anthropomorphisms often slide from benign to harmful. Some risk the welfare of the animals under consideration. If we're to put a dog on antidepressants based on our interpretation of his eyes, we had better be pretty sure of our interpretation. When we assume we know what is best for an animal, extrapolating from what is best for us or any person, we may inadvertently be acting at cross-purposes with our aims. For instance, in the last few years there has been considerable to-do made about improved welfare for animals raised for food, such as broiler chickens who have access to the outside, or have room to roam in their pens. Though the end result is the same for the chicken—it winds up as someone's dinner—there is a budding interest in the welfare of the animals before they are killed.

But do they want to range freely? Conventional wisdom holds that no one, human or not, likes to be pressed up against others. Anecdotes seem to confirm this: given the choice of a subway car jammed with hot, stressed commuters, and one with only a handful of people, we choose the latter in a second (heeding the possibility, of course, that there's some other explanation—a particularly smelly person, or a glitch in air-conditioning—that explains this favorable distribution). But the natural behavior of chickens may indicate otherwise: chickens flock. They don't sally forth on their own.

Biologists devised a simple experiment to test the chickens' preferences of where to be: they picked up individual animals, relocated them randomly within their houses, and monitored what the chickens did next. What they found was that most chickens moved closer to other chickens, not farther away, even when there was open space available. Given the option of space to spread their wings … they choose the jammed subway car.

This is not to say that chickens thus like being smushed against other birds in a cage, or find it a perfectly agreeable life. It is inhumane to pen chickens so tightly they cannot move. But it is to say that assuming resemblance between chicken preferences and our preferences is not the way to insight about what the chicken actually does like. Not coincidentally, these broiler chickens are killed before they reach six weeks of age; domestic chicks are still being brooded by their mothers at that age. Deprived of the ability to run under her wings, the broiler chickens run closer to other chickens.

TAKE MY RAINCOAT. PLEASE.

Do our anthropomorphic tendencies ever miss so fabulously with dogs? Without a doubt they do. Take raincoats. There are some interesting assumptions involved in the creation and purchase of tiny, stylish, four-armed rain slickers for dogs. Let's put aside the question of whether dogs prefer a bright yellow slicker, a tartan pattern, or a raining-cats-and-dogs motif (clearly they prefer the cats and dogs). Many dog owners who dress their dogs in coats have the best intentions: they have noticed, perhaps, that their dog resists going outside when it rains. It seems reasonable to extrapolate from that observation to the conclusion that he dislikes the rain.

He dislikes the rain. What is meant by that? It is that he must dislike getting the rain on his body, the way many of us do. But is that a sound leap? In this case, there is plenty of seeming evidence from the dog himself. Is he excited and wagging when you get the raincoat out? That seems to support the leap … or, instead, the conclusion that he realizes that the appearance of the coat predicts a long-awaited walk. Does he flee from the coat? Curl his tail under his body and duck his head? Undermines the leap—though does not discredit it outright. Does he look bedraggled when wet? Does he shake the water off excitedly? Neither confirmatory nor disconfirming. The dog is being a little opaque.

Here the natural behavior of related, wild canines proves the most informative about what the dog might think about a raincoat. Both dogs and wolves have, clearly, their own coats permanently affixed. One coat is enough: when it rains, wolves may seek shelter, but they do not cover themselves with natural materials. That does not argue for the need for or interest in raincoats. And besides being a jacket, the raincoat is also one distinctive thing: a close, even pressing, covering of the back, chest, and sometimes the head. There are occasions when wolves get pressed upon the back or head: it is when they are being dominated by another wolf, or scolded by an older wolf or relative. Dominants often pin subordinates down by the snout. This is called muzzle biting, and accounts, perhaps, for why muzzled dogs sometimes seem preternaturally subdued. And a dog who "stands over" another dog is being dominant. The subordinate dog in that arrangement would feel the pressure of the dominant animal on his body. The raincoat might well reproduce that feeling. So the principal experience of wearing a coat is not the experience of feeling protected from wetness; rather, the coat produces the discomfiting feeling that someone higher ranking than you is nearby.

This interpretation is borne out by most dogs' behavior when getting put into a raincoat: they may freeze in place as they are "dominated." You might see the same behavior when a dog resisting a bath suddenly stops struggling when he gets fully sodden or covered with a heavy, wet towel. The be-jacketed dog may cooperate in going out, but not because he has shown he likes the coat; it is because he has been subdued.* And he will wind up being less wet, but it is we who care about the planning for that, not the dog. The way around this kind of misstep is to replace our anthropomorphizing instinct with a behavior-reading instinct. In most cases, this is simple: we must ask the dog what he wants. You need only know how to translate his answer.

A TICK'S VIEW OF THE WORLD

Here is our first tool to getting that answer: imagining the point of view of the dog. The scientific study of animals was changed by a German biologist of the early twentieth century named Jakob von Uexküll. What he proposed was revolutionary: anyone who wants to understand the life of an animal must begin by considering what he called their umwelt (OOM-velt): their subjective or "self-world." Umwelt captures what life is like as the animal. Consider, for instance, the lowly deer tick. Those of you who have spent long minutes hesitatingly petting the body of a dog for the telltale pinhead that indicates a tick swollen with blood may have already considered the tick. And you probably consider the tick as a pest, period. Barely even an animal. Von Uexküll considered, instead, what it might be like from the tick's point of view.

A little background: ticks are parasites. Members of the family arachnid, a class that includes spiders and insects, they have four pairs of legs, a simple body type, and powerful jaws. Thousands of generations of evolution have pared their life to the straightforward: birth, mating, eating, and dying. Born legless and without sex organs, they soon grow these parts, mate, and climb to a high perch—say, a blade of grass. Here's where their tale gets striking. Of all the sights, sounds, and odors of the world, the adult tick is waiting for just one. It is not looking around: ticks are blind. No sound bothers the tick: sounds are irrelevant to its goal. It only awaits the approach of a single smell: a whiff of butyric acid, a fatty acid emitted by warm-blooded creatures (we sometimes smell it in sweat). It might wait here for a day, a month, or a dozen years. But as soon as it smells the odor it is fixed on, it drops from its perch. Then a second sensory ability kicks in. Its skin is photosensitive, and can detect warmth. The tick directs itself toward warmth. If it's lucky, the warm, sweaty smell is an animal, and the tick grasps on and drinks a meal of blood. After feeding once, it drops, lays eggs, and dies.

The point of this tale of the tick is that the tick's self-world is different than ours in unimagined ways: what it senses or wants; what its goals are. To the tick, the complexity of persons is reduced to two stimuli: smell and warmth—and it is very intent on those two things. If we want to understand the life of any animal, we need to know what things are meaningful to it. The first way to discover this is to determine what the animal can perceive: what it can see, hear, smell, or otherwise sense. Only objects that are perceived can have meaning to the animal; the rest are not even noticed, or all look the same. The wind that whisks through the grasses? Irrelevant to the tick. The sounds of a childhood birthday party? Doesn't appear on its radar. The delicious cake crumbs on the ground? Leave the tick cold.

Second, how does the animal act on the world? The tick mates, waits, drops, and feeds. So the objects of the universe, for the tick, are divided into ticks and non-ticks; things one can or cannot wait upon; surfaces one might or might not drop onto; and substances one may or may not want to feed on.

Thus, these two components—perception and action—largely define and circumscribe the world for every living thing. All animals have their own umwelten—their own subjective realities, what von Uexküll thought of as "soap bubbles" with them forever caught in the middle. We humans are enclosed in our own soap bubbles, too. In each of our self-worlds, for instance, we are very attentive to where other people are and what they are doing or saying. (By contrast, imagine the tick's indifference to even our most moving monologues.) We see in the visual range of light, we hear audible noises, and we smell strong odors placed in front of our noses. On top of that each individual creates his own personal umwelt, full of objects with special meaning to him. You can most clearly see this last fact by letting yourself be led through an unknown city by a native. He will steer you along a path obvious to him, but invisible to you. But the two of you share some things: neither of you is likely to stop and listen to the ultrasonic cry of a nearby bat; neither of you smells what the man passing you had for dinner last night (unless it involved a lot of garlic). We, the ticks, and every other animal dovetail into our environment: we are bombarded with stimuli, but only a very few are meaningful to us.

The same object, then, will be seen (or, better, sensed—some animals do not see well or at all) by different animals differently. A rose is a rose is a rose. Or is it? To a human a rose is a certain kind of flower, a gift between lovers, and a thing of beauty. To the beetle, a rose is perhaps an entire territory, with places to hide (on the underside of a leaf, invisible to aerial predators), hunt (in the head of the flower where ant nymphs grow), and lay eggs (in the joint of the leaf and stem). To the elephant, it is a thorn barely detectable underfoot.

And to the dog, what is a rose? As we'll see, this depends upon the construction of the dog, both in body and brain. As it turns out, to the dog, a rose is neither a thing of beauty nor a world unto itself. A rose is undistinguished from the rest of the plant matter surrounding it—unless it has been urinated upon by another dog, stepped on by another animal, or handled by the dog's owner. Then it gains vivid interest, and becomes far more significant to the dog than even the well-presented rose is to us.

PUTTING OUR UMWELT CAPS ON

Discerning the salient elements in an animal's world—his umwelt—is, in a sense, becoming an expert on the animal: whether a tick, a dog, or a human being. And it will be our tool for resolving the tension between what we think we know about dogs, and what they are actually doing. Yet without anthropomorphisms we would seem to have little vocabulary with which to describe their perceived experience.

Understanding a dog's perspective—through understanding his abilities, experience, and communication—provides that vocabulary. But we can't translate it simply through an introspection that brings our own umwelt along. Most of us are not excellent smellers; to imagine being a smeller, we have to do more than just think on it. That kind of introspective exercise only works when paired with an understanding of how profound the difference in umwelt is between us and another animal.

We can glimpse this by "acting into" the umwelt of another animal, trying to embody the animal—mindful of the constraints our sensory system places on our ability to truly do so. Spending an afternoon at the height of a dog is surprising. Smelling (even with our impoverished schnozes) every object we come across in a day closely and deeply yields a new dimension on otherwise familiar things. As you read this, try attending to all the sounds in the room you are in now that you have become accustomed to and usually tune out. With attention I suddenly hear the fan behind me, a beeping truck heading in reverse, the murmurations of a crowd of voices entering the building downstairs; someone adjusts their body in a wooden chair, my heart beats, I swallow, a page is turned. Were my hearing keener, I might notice the scratch of pen on paper across the room; the sound of a plant stretching in growth; the ultrasonic cries of the population of insects always underfoot. Might these noises be in the foreground in another animal's sensory universe?

THE MEANING OF THINGS

Even the objects in a room are not, in some sense, the same objects to another animal. A dog looking around a room does not think he is surrounded by human things; he sees dog things. What we think an object is for, or what it makes us think of, may or may not match the dog's idea of the object's function or meaning. Objects are defined by how you can act upon them: what von Uexküll calls their functional tones—as though an object's use rings bell-like when you set eyes on it. A dog may be indifferent to chairs, but if trained to jump on one, he learns that the chair has a sitting tone: it can be sat upon. Later, the dog might himself decide that other objects have a sitting tone: a sofa, a pile of pillows, the lap of a person on the floor. But other things that we identify as chairlike are not so seen by dogs: stools, tables, arms of couches. Stools and tables are in some other category of objects: obstacles, perhaps, in their path toward the eating tone of the kitchen.

Here we begin to see how the dog and the human overlap in our worldviews, and how we differ. A good many objects in the world have an eating tone to the dog—probably many more than we see as such. Feces just aren't menu items for us; dogs disagree. Dogs may have tones that we don't have at all—rolling tones, say: things that one might merrily roll in. Unless we are particularly playful or young, our list of rolling-tone objects is small to nil. And plenty of ordinary objects that have very specific meanings to us—forks, knives, hammers, pushpins, fans, clocks, on and on—have little or no meaning to dogs. To a dog, a hammer doesn't exist. A dog doesn't act with or on a hammer, so it has no significance to a dog. At least, not unless it overlaps with some other, meaningful object: it is wielded by a loved person; it is urinated on by the cute dog down the street; its dense wooden handle can be chewed like a stick.

A clash of umwelts occurs when dog meets human, and it tends to result in people misunderstanding what their dog is doing. They aren't seeing the world from the dog's perspective: the way he sees it. For instance, dog owners commonly insist, in grave tones, that a dog is never to lie on the bed. To drum in the seriousness of this dictum, this owner may go out and purchase what a pillow manufacturer has decided to label a "dog bed," and place it on the floor. The dog will be encouraged to come and lie on this special bed, the non-forbidden bed. The dog typically will do so, reluctantly. And thus one might feel satisfied: another dog-human interaction successful!

But is it so? Many days I returned home to find a warm, rumpled pile of sheets on my bed where either the wagging dog who greeted me at the door, or some unseen sleepy intruder, recently lay. We have no trouble seeing the meaning of the beds to the human: the very names of the objects make the situation clear. The big bed is for people; the dog bed is for dogs. Human beds represent relaxation, may be expensively outfitted with specially chosen sheets, and display all manner of fluffed pillows; the dog bed is a place we would never think to sit, is (relatively) inexpensive, and is more likely to be adorned with chew toys than with pillows. What about to the dog? Initially, there's not much difference between the beds—except, perhaps, that our bed is infinitely more desirable. Our beds smell like us, while the dog bed smells like whatever material the dog bed manufacturer had lying around (or, worse, cedar chips—overwhelming perfume to a dog but pleasant to us). And our beds are where we are: where we spend idle time, maybe shedding crumbs and clothes. The dog's preference? Indisputably our bed. The dog does not know all the things about the bed that make it such a glaringly different object to us. He may, indeed, come to learn that there is something different about the bed—by getting repeatedly scolded for lying on it. Even then, what the dog knows is less "human bed" versus "dog bed" but "thing one gets yelled at for being on" versus "thing one does not get yelled at for being on."

In the dog umwelt beds have no special functional tone. Dogs sleep and rest where they can, not on objects designated by people for those purposes. There may be a functional tone for places to sleep: dogs prefer places that allow them to lie down fully, where the temperature is desirable, where there are other members of their troop or family around, and where they are safe. Any flattish surface in your home satisfies these conditions. Make one fit these criteria, and your dog will probably find it just as desirable as your big, comfy human bed.

ASKING DOGS

To bolster our claims about the experience or mind of a dog, we will learn how to ask the dog if we're right. The trouble, of course, with asking a dog if he is happy or depressed is not that the question makes no sense. It's that we are very poor at understanding his response. We're made terribly lazy by language. I might guess at the reasons behind my friend's recalcitrant, standoffish behavior for weeks, forming elaborate, psychologically complex descriptions of what her actions indicate about what she thinks I meant on some fraught occasion. But my best strategy by leaps is to simply ask her. She'll tell me. Dogs, on the other hand, never answer in the way we'd hope: by replying in sentences, well punctuated and with italicized emphases. Still, if we look, they have plainly answered.

For instance, is a dog who watches you with a sigh as you prepare to leave for work depressed? Are dogs left at home all day pessimistic? Bored? Or just exhaling idly, preparing for a nap?

Looking at behavior to learn about an animal's mental experience is precisely the idea behind some cleverly designed recent experiments. The researchers used not dogs, but that shopworn research subject, the laboratory rat. The behavior of rats in cages may be the single largest contributor to the corpus of psychological knowledge. In most cases, the rat itself is not of interest: the research isn't about rats per se. Surprisingly, it's about humans. The notion is that rats learn and remember by using some of the same mechanisms that humans use—but rats are easier to keep in tiny boxes and subject to restricted stimuli in the hopes of getting a response. And the millions of responses by millions of laboratory rats, Rattus norvegicus, have greatly informed our understanding of human psychology.

But the rats themselves are intrinsically interesting as well. People who work with rats in laboratories sometimes describe their animals' "depression" or their exuberant natures. Some rats seem lazy, some are cheery; some pessimistic, some optimistic. The researchers took two of these characterizations—pessimism and optimism—and gave them operational definitions: definitions in terms of behavior that allow us to determine whether real differences in the rats can be seen. Instead of simply extrapolating from how humans look when pessimistic, we can ask how a pessimistic rat might be distinguished by its behavior from an optimistic one.

Thus, the rats' behavior was examined not as a mirror to our own but as indicating something about … rats: about rat preference and rat emotions. Their subjects were placed in tightly restricted environments: some were "unpredictable" environments, where the bedding, cage mates, and the light and dark schedule were always changing; others were stable, predictable environments. The experimental design took advantage of the fact that, hanging out in their cages with little to do, rats quickly learn to associate new events with simultaneously occurring phenomena. In this case, a particular pitch was played over speakers into the cages of the rats. It was a prompt to press a lever: the lever triggered the arrival of a pellet of food. When a different pitch was played and the rats pressed the lever, they were greeted with an unpleasant sound and no food. These rats, reliably like lab rats before them, quickly learned the association. They raced over to the food-dispensing lever only when the good-harbinger sound appeared, like young children rallied by the jingle of an ice-cream truck. All of the rats learned this easily. But when the rats were played a new sound, one between the two learned pitches, what the researchers found was that the rats' environment mattered. Those who had been housed in a predictable environment interpreted the new sound to mean food; those in unstable environments did not.

These rats had learned optimism or pessimism about the world. To watch the rats in the predictable environments jump with alacrity at every new sound is to see optimism in action. Small changes in the environment were enough to prompt a large change in outlook. Rat lab workers' intuitions about the mood of their charges may be spot-on.

We can subject our intuitions about dogs to the same kind of analysis. For any anthropomorphism we use to describe our dogs, we can ask two questions: One, is there a natural behavior this action might have evolved from? And two, what would that anthropomorphic claim amount to if we deconstructed it?

DOG KISSES

Licks are Pump's way of making contact, her hand outstretched for me. She greets me home with licks at my face as I bend to pet her; I get waking licks on my hand as I nap in a chair; she licks my legs thoroughly clean of salt after a run; sitting beside me, she pins my hand with her front leg and pushes open my fist to lick the soft warm flesh of my palm. I adore her licks.

I frequently hear dog owners verify their dogs' love of them through the kisses delivered upon them when they return home. These "kisses" are licks: slobbery licks to the face; focused, exhaustive licking of the hand; solemn tongue-polishing of a limb. I confess that I treat Pump's licks as a sign of affection. "Affection" and "love" are not just the recent constructs of a society that treats pets as little people, to be shod in shoes in bad weather, dressed up for Halloween, and indulged with spa days. Before there was any such thing as a doggy day care, Charles Darwin (who I feel confident never dressed up his pup as a witch or goblin) wrote of receiving lick-kisses from his dogs. He was certain of their meaning: dogs have, he wrote, a "striking way of exhibiting their affection, namely, by licking the hands or faces of their masters." Was Darwin right? The kisses feel affectionate to me, but are they gestures of affection to the dog?

First, the bad news: researchers of wild canids—wolves, coyotes, foxes, and other wild dogs—report that puppies lick the face and muzzle of their mother when she returns from a hunt to her den—in order to get her to regurgitate for them. Licking around the mouth seems to be the cue that stimulates her to vomit up some nicely partially digested meat. How disappointed Pump must be that not a single time have I regurgitated half-eaten rabbit flesh for her.

Furthermore, our mouths taste great to dogs. Like wolves and humans, dogs have taste receptors for salty, sweet, bitter, sour, and even umami, the earthy, mushroomy-seaweedy flavor captured in the flavor-heightening monosodium glutamate. Their perception of sweetness is processed slightly differently than ours, in that salt enhances the experience of sweet tastes. The sweet receptors are particularly abundant in dogs, although some sweeteners—sucrose and fructose—activate the receptors more than others, such as glucose. This could be adaptive in an omnivore like the dog, for whom it pays to distinguish between ripe and non-ripe plants and fruit. Interestingly, even pure salt doesn't kick-start the so-called salt receptors on the tongue and the roof of the mouth in dogs the way it does in humans. (There's some disagreement whether dogs have salt-specific receptors at all.) But it didn't take long reflecting on her behavior for me to realize that Pump's licks to my face often correlated with my face having just overseen the ingestion of a good amount of food.

Now the good news: as a result of this functional use of mouth licking—"kisses" to you and me—the behavior has become a ritualized greeting. In other words, it no longer serves only the function of asking for food; now it is used to say hello. Dogs and wolves muzzle-lick simply to welcome another dog back home, and to get an olfactory report of where the homecomer has been or what he has done. Mothers not only clean their pups by licking, they often give a few darting licks when reuniting after even a brief time apart. A younger or timid dog may lick the muzzle, or muzzle vicinity, of a bigger, threatening dog to appease him. Familiar dogs may exchange licks when meeting at their ends of their respective leashes on the street. It may serve as a way to confirm, through smell, that this dog storming toward them is who they think he is. Since these "greeting licks" are often accompanied by wagging tails, mouths opened playfully, and general excitement, it is not a stretch to say that the licks are a way to express happiness that you have returned.

DOGOLOGIST

I still talk about Pump's looking "knowingly," or feeling content or capricious. These are words that capture something to me. But I have no illusion that they map to her experience. And I still adore her licks; but I also adore knowing what they mean to her rather than just what they mean to me.

By imagining the umwelt of dogs, we'll be able to deconstruct other anthropomorphisms—of our dog's guilt at chewing a shoe; of a pup's revenge wrought on your new Hermès scarf—and reconstruct them with the dog's understanding in mind. Trying to understand a dog's perspective is like being an anthropologist in a foreign land—one peopled entirely by dogs. A perfect translation of every wag and woof may elude us, but simply looking closely will reveal a surprising amount. So let's look closely at what the natives do.

In the following chapters we will consider the many dimensions contributing to a dog's umwelt. The first dimension is historical: how dogs came from wolves, and how they are and are not wolflike. The choices we've made in breeding dogs led to some intentional designs and some unintended consequences. The next dimension comes from anatomy: the dog's sensory capacity. We need to appreciate what the dog smells, sees, and hears … and if there are other means by which to sense the world. We must imagine the view from two feet off the ground, and from behind such a snout. Finally, the body of the dog leads us to the brain of the dog. We'll look at the dog's cognitive abilities, the knowledge of which can help us to translate their behavior. Together, these dimensions combine to provide answers to the questions of what dogs think, know, and understand. Ultimately they will serve as scientific building blocks for an informed imaginative leap inside of a dog: halfway to being honorary dogs ourselves.

Belonging to the House

She's waiting at the threshold of the kitchen, just beyond underfoot. Somehow Pump knows precisely where "out of the kitchen" is. Here she sprawls, and when I bring food to the table, she ducks in to retrieve the kitchen fallings. At the table, she gets a little of everything—and she'll at least entertain even the most unlikely offering, if only to loll it around in her mouth before unceremoniously depositing it on the ground. She does not like raisins. Nor tomatoes. She'll suffer a grape, if she manages to split it into juicy halves with her side teeth—then deliberating, as though managing a very big or tough object, and masticating it. All carrot ends are for her. She takes the stems of broccoli and asparagus and holds them gently, gazing at me for a moment as if determining if anything else is coming before walking to the rug to settle down for a gnaw.

Dog training books often insist that "a dog is an animal": this is true but is not the whole truth. The dog is an animal domesticated, a word that grew from a root form meaning "belonging to the house." Dogs are animals who belong around houses. Domestication is a variation of the process of evolution, where the selector has been not just natural forces but human ones, eventually intent on bringing dogs inside their homes.

To understand what the dog is about we have to understand from where he came. As a member of the Canidae family—all of whose members are called canids—the domestic dog is distantly related to coyotes and jackals, dingoes and dholes, foxes and wild dogs.*

But he arose from just one ancient Canidae line, animals most likely resembling the contemporary gray wolf. When I see Pumpernickel delicately spit out a raisin, though, I am not reminded of the stark images of wolves in Wyoming downing a moose and yanking it apart.† The existence of an animal who will patiently wait at the kitchen door, and then ponderously consider a carrot stick, seems at first glance irreconcilable with that of an animal whose primary allegiance is to himself, whose affiliations are fraught with tension and maintained by force.

Carrot-considerers arose out of moose killers through the second source: us. Where nature blindly, uncaringly "selects" traits that lead to the survival of their bearers, ancestral humans have also selected traits—physical features and behaviors—that have led not just to the survival, but to the omnipresence of the modern dog, Canis familiaris, among us. The animal's appearance, behavior, preferences; his interest in us and attention to our attention: these are largely the result of domestication. Present-day dog is a well-designed creature. Only much of this design was utterly unintentional.

HOW TO MAKE A DOG: STEP-BY-STEP INSTRUCTIONS

So you want to make a dog? There are just a few ingredients. You'll need wolves, humans, a little interaction, mutual tolerance. Mix thoroughly and wait, oh, a few thousand years.

Or, if you're the Russian geneticist Dmitry Belyaev, you simply find a group of captive foxes and start selectively breeding them. In 1959, Belyaev began a project that has greatly informed our best guesses as to what we believe the earliest steps of domestication were. Instead of observing dogs and extrapolating backward, he examined another social canid species and propagated them forward. The silver fox in Siberia in the mid-twentieth century was a small, wild animal that had become popular with the fur trade. Kept in pens, bred for their choice fur coats, particularly long and soft, the fox was not tamed but was captive. What Belyaev made of them, with a much reduced recipe, were not "dogs," but were surprisingly close to dogs.

Though Vulpes vulpes, the silver fox, is distantly related to wolves and dogs, it had never before been domesticated. Despite their evolutionary relatedness, no canids are fully domesticated other than the dog: domestication doesn't happen spontaneously. What Belyaev showed was that it can happen quickly. Beginning with 130 foxes, he selectively chose and bred those that were the most "tame," as he described it. What he really chose were those foxes that were the least fearful of or aggressive toward people. The foxes were caged, so aggression was minimal. Belyaev approached each cage and invited the fox to eat some food out of his hand.

Some bit at him; some hid. Some took the food, reluctantly. Others took the food and also let themselves be touched and patted without fleeing or snarling. Still others accepted the food and even wagged and whimpered at the experimenter, inviting rather than discouraging interaction. These were the foxes Belyaev selected. By some normal variation in their genetic code, these animals were naturally calmer around people, even interested in people. None of them had been trained; all had the same, minimal exposure to human caretakers, who fed them and cleaned their bedding for their short lives.

These "tame" foxes were allowed to mate, and their young were tested the same way. The tamest of those were mated, when they were old enough; and their young; and their young. Belyaev continued the work until his death, and the program has continued since. After forty years, three-quarters of the population of foxes were of a class the researchers called "domesticated elite": not just accepting contact with people, but drawn to it, "whimpering to attract attention and sniffing and licking"… as dogs do. He had created a domesticated fox.

Later genomic mapping has revealed that forty genes now differ between Belyaev's tame foxes and the wild silver fox. Incredibly, by selecting for one behavioral trait, the genome of the animal was changed in a half century. And with that genetic change came a number of surprisingly familiar physical changes: some of the later-generation foxes have multicolored, piebald coats, recognizable in dog mutts everywhere. They have floppy ears and tails that curl up and over their backs. Their heads are wider and their snouts are shorter. They are improbably cute.

All these physical characteristics came along for the ride, once a particular behavior was chosen and picked out. The behavior is not what affects the body; instead, both are the common result of a gene or set of genes. Single behaviors aren't dictated by genes, but they are made more or less likely by them. If someone's genetic makeup leads to having very high levels of a stress hormone, for instance, it doesn't mean that they will be stressed all the time. But it may mean that they have a lowered threshold for having the classic stress response—a raised heart rate and breathing rate, increased sweating, and so on—in some contexts where someone else doesn't have a stress response. Let's say this low-threshold character screams at her dog for barreling into her at the dog park. Her screaming at the poor pup certainly is not genetically obliged—genes don't know from dog parks, or even pups—but her neurochemistry, created from her genes, facilitated it happening when a situation presented itself.

So, too, with the doglike foxes. Given what genes do,* even a small change in a gene—turning on slightly later than it otherwise might, say—could change the likelihood of both certain behaviors and certain forms of physical appearance. Belyaev's foxes show that a few simple developmental differences can have a wide-ranging effect: for instance, his foxes open their eyes earlier and show their first fear responses later, more like dogs than wild foxes. This gives them a longer early window for bonding with a caretaker—such as a human experimenter in Siberia. They play with each other even when they reach adulthood, perhaps allowing for longer and more complex socialization. It is worth noting that foxes diverged from wolves some ten to twelve million years ago; yet in forty years' of selection they look domesticated. The same perhaps could happen with other carnivores we take under our wing and inside our houses. The genetic changes nudge them into being doggy.

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