Good Dog, Smart Dog

I love it when science explains things that I notice all the time. A few years ago, I actually read something that explained why the shower curtain tends to balloon in towards you after you first turn on the shower spray. (A phenomenon that occurs far more often in the freezing northeast than here in balmy Texas. Living in Worcester, MA, I had to learn to turn the shower tap before I climbed into the claw-footed tub with the wrap-around shower curtain; otherwise, a cold, clammy shower curtain would creep in at me from all sides like Norman Bates and cause me to shriek. It's science! Who knew?) So imagine my lack of surprise when I read in the New York Times last week that dogs are actually pretty smart. All together now: "Well, duh." 


The article by Sarah Kershaw talks about how medical alert dogs are able to draw on their intelligence as well as their superior senses  to help their companions before seizures or panic attacks or diabetic comas strike. Apparently, until recently, most researchers and trainers assumed that the dogs who served as medical alert animals were good at their jobs precisely because they were good dogs. The thinking was that the dogs just wanted to please. Now researchers believe the dogs complete their tasks properly because they are smart. (Duh, again!) 


Kershaw cites a couple of research cases in which dogs learned enormous vocabularies (up to 250 words—more than your average 2-year-old human— and, may I add, better behaved) as well as abstract concepts, such as color and shape. One dog—a Border Collie, of course—learned 1,500 words. (That's better than many of my tutorees!) Another, a Shepherd, learned to recognize images of dogs so that he could distinguish between photographs that featured dogs from those that did not. These dogs' accomplishments are pretty amazing. 


Of course, researchers still suggest that desire to please is still a great factor in training. Dogs are opportunists. They do whatever it takes to get the treat or the pats or the boo-boo voice from their trainers and owners. If you ask me, there's nothing wrong with that. Dogs that are really smart learn how to manipulate their owners while making them feel loved. In my experience, not many humans can do that.  As one psychology professor—the one who met the BC with the brilliant vocabulary—points out, dogs are intelligent, but their brains work differently than human brains do. 

“I take the view that dogs have their own unique way of thinking. It’s a happy accident that doggie thinking and human thinking overlap enough that we can have these relationships with dogs, but we shouldn’t kid ourselves that dogs are viewing the world the way we do.”

Of course! The last thing we need are animals that think like humans! Still, it is nice to see that doggie intelligence is getting its due. Break out the flash cards! 
-z

Arf!: The Dog Parkist Speaks

Q: There is a woman at the Dog Park who takes it upon herself to police the poop pick-up. That's great when she's introducing new visitors to the Park, but when she alerts regulars who are momentarily distracted with a "Hey! Your dog just pooped!" or "Do you need a bag?", it's kind of annoying. Plus, half the time, her own dogs sneak off to drop a dump and she doesn't even see it. Double annoying! What do you think?

—Pooped Out at Dog Park

A: Well, Pooped Out, thanks for your query. The Dog Parkist is so glad to be back after a month-long break! And she missed you all so very much. After all, what's an advice columnist to do without her fellow humans and their many, many problems? She just sits around and tells herself what to do. She tries to tell the dogs, too, but they don't listen. They are too busy creating budget-crashing medical problems, poor things. But enough about elle!

Pooped, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but in every aspect of life you will inevitably encounter a person like the one you describe. You or I would call her a Scold. It's an ugly word, one usually associated with women more than men, but that is the way of the world. The thing to remember, however, is that the woman herself would be mortified to know that's how others see her. In her own mind, she is a Crusader. Like Batman, Aquaman, Wonder Woman, and those annoying Supertwins, she believes that she is on the side of freedom, justice, and personal responsibility. Every day, she fights the forces of ignorance, disdain, and indifference. As a result, her vision is a little impaired. She cannot tell the difference between someone, such as yourself, who is merely not paying attention, with someone who merely does not give a shit. Or more precisely, does not care who steps in his or her dog's shit. It's fertilizer after all, and there are no garbage cans at this park that is not a dog park. (See City Code for more details.) As a result, my dear, of course you feel insulted and dismayed when this woman, a regular patron just as much as you are, calls you out like the lout she mistakes you for. Ouch.

Here is the Dog Parkist's advice. First, model correct and admirable behavior by saying thank you in a polite voice and then stepping off the trail to attend to your dog's leavings. Linger a moment and allow her to pass. Perhaps offer a compliment to her own dogs. How lovely and well behaved they are, or how cute. Take your time to tie an elaborate knot in the bag. Then, tail her. Walk just far enough behind her so that you can keep an eye on her dogs while she in engrossed in conversation or by the liberal news organization she is listening to on her digital recording device. And when her own dogs do their business unattended, nail her. Call out her infraction of city code in the most forceful and cheerful voice you can muster. Smile sweetly as she offers her excuses and lingers to scoop and tie an elaborate knot in her bag. Then take the next divergent path, lest the cycle of poop-snooping continue ad infinitum.

Remember, your local Dog Park Scold has a purpose in life, and it is a good one. Every pile of doo she forces someone to scoop is one that does not end up in our water supply. Could she be more discriminating about her scolding? Of course! But take advantage of her thick skin and forceful personality. Point her in the direction of all the newbies at the Park. She may teach them a lesson or two. She may also make them feel so unwelcome that they don't return—a gift that keeps on giving. Thanks for writing!

Dear Readers: The Dog Parkist knows that the weather is lovely and that everyone is happily running around outside making the most of the few daylight hours we have left. Still, at some point you need to sit down at your computer and compose Herself a letter with a question, a query, an outrage, a remark. The Dog Parkist gives every missive her complete attention. Ta!

Goodnight, Irene

Not so long ago, I waited at my backyard gate, leash in hand, in a sort of stand off with my Roma. She had the wide-legged stance that says "I'm not going anywhere with you," and she was giving me that look that poses the question, "And what exactly do I get out of the deal?" And without thinking, I said in an acid-drenched voice, "Let's go to the Dog Park, Irene." 

Irene was my maternal grandmother. Born in 1899, she managed to eke out an eighth-grade education before being shipped off to care for her younger half-brother while he attended a private high school. He went on to become a wealthy banker. She went on to become a widowed lunchroom lady. When she was in her twenties, she worked as a cashier in a Catskills restaurant where she met a handsome and charming cad. She ran off with him, and they married. It turned out, however, that he was already married, and his plan was to blackmail her family. He wanted money in return for not making a scandal. Her family, notoriously tight with money, had him arrested and there was a trial. My grandmother was so mortified that she left New York for Newark, New Jersey, where she worked her way through the Great Depression. She ultimately married a man she did not love, had my mother at age 40, and was widowed seven years later. By the time my mother was a preteen, my grandmother had established her reputation in the neighborhood as a cranky, beleaguered old woman. My mother's classmates called her "Mrs. Hitler."

Irene had succumbed to dementia by the time I was a teenager in the early 1980s. She moved in with my family, and for the next five years, she wandered our house day and night, not knowing where she was or who my parents and brother and I were. She was convinced that my younger brother was her own pampered brother, and she hated him. She ate the napkins her sandwiches were wrapped in, declared that cold lasagne was delicious cake, flushed twenty dollar bills down the toilet, soiled herself regularly, and muttered curses under breath all day long. Eventually, her heart gave out, and she died at age 85 in a nursing home on Mother's Day. Tomorrow would have been her 110th birthday.

So, I was, of course, shocked at myself for calling my own darling Roma by my grandmother's name. Roma is not senile, but she does share with my grandmother that unvarnished quality of old age—by which I mean that in old age, all the soft stuff is finally burnished away—the pretense of politeness and the things we do to show that we are civilized and socialized. Self-interest rules. When Irene heard that her daughter would have to undergo a surgical procedure over Thanksgiving one year, she did not put her hand out and say, "Honey, what can I do to make this easier for your and your family?" Instead, she clutched at her throat and said, "What about me? Who will take care of me?" My parents and I did. And we resented every minute. Who will take care of you, Roma? I will, you tough, old baby, and I'll do it gladly.

-z