SENSE OF TIME
We often hear that dogs whose masters lead a very regular life get to know the time and the hours of the day's routine—such as walks and meals showing this by their behaviour. It might be easy to account for their intimate acquaintance with the hours of meals, since their stomach is practically their clock. But that a dog should know to a "tic" the time for his master's departure from the house—whatever the season of the year, tugging him by his coat—should he not be ready, or fetching his stick—allows of no other explanation than that of a canine sense of time.
This consideration led me to try and teach Lola our divisions of time on the clock in order to make my experiment in this direction. I took a clock on which the figures were inscribed in Arabic, and of which the dial—measuring 5 centimetres across (2 inches), was sufficiently plain to read. I then explained to her that a day and a night were divided into 24 parts: I said to her: "The day-time is light, and people can then go about, and eat and work; at night it is dark, and people and animals sleep—do you understand me?" She replied: "Yes!" (two raps). I said: "Into how many parts are the day and night divided?" and she answered: "24," "These portions," I continued, "are called hours, and one hour is again divided into sixty parts, and these are called minutes; and so as always to know what are the hours, and what are the minutes, people have made a clock—now look here: so as not to make it too big they have written only twelve hours on it and this thick little pointer goes round slowly and points to the number of the hours: now, how often must it go round in a day, if a day has 24 hours?" She replied: "2."
"You see, the little thick pointer is now pointing tonine, so it is 9 o'clock; what time will it be when it points to 4?" She answered: "4." "You remember that I told you that the hour is divided into 60 minutes?" "Yes." "Now—see! the big pointer goes round more quickly and points out the minutes: whenthatpointer has been roundonce, 60 minutes are gone—that means one hour. This big pointer starts at 12, and you see that there are five little strokes up to 1, and how many up to 2?" Lola rapped "10." "And where is the big pointer now?" "(At) 14." "What is 14—is it an hour?" "No." "Then what is it called?" "Minute." And after this Lola rested!
In an hour and a quarter I fetched the clock again and said: "Look! what does the little thick pointer say now?" She tapped an uncertain "no." So I explained once more and then said: "Now tell me!" and she answered this time, "50."
I stood the clock on the ground in front of her and questioned her twice more in the course of the day—correct replies being given. I also left the clock standing near her for the rest of the day, for I wanted the flight of time to become impressed on her, and her eye was bound to rest on the dial now and again during the course of the day. Her answers were invariably right now for, by way of test, I inquired: "How many minutes are there in half an hour?" And she replied: "30." And again: "How many minutes has a quarter of an hour—that is, an hour divided by 4?" And she answered: "15." She also showed much interest in all this, for she sat as still as could be, listening attentively to all my explanations. And I kept her interest alive by always telling her "what nice new things Lola would be able to learn," and at this she was visibly pleased.
The next day I made casual remarks as to the time of day out loud, and all this day's answers were equally good. I now saw that she had grasped the essentials—so that I could put the clock away, and there is not another in my rooms, the nearest being a big one standing in the kitchen which is on the ground floor. I never carry my watch, leaving it in a drawer—and generally forgetting to wind it up, so that if I do not ask, I seldom know what the time is. I have no sense of time whatever myself, so that to me it may seem either long or short—according to what I may be doing. I have always envied people who possessed this sense of absolute certainty in guessing the time—it is not a common gift. I make this remark "parenthetically" in my desire for trying to elucidate the causes which lie at the back of the "feeling for time."
On the third day after my first explanations I said to Lola in the course of the morning: "Tell me what time it is. I daresay you know without seeing the clock!" To which she answered "Yes!" "Then tell me the hour first," I said, and she rapped: "10;" "And now the minutes?" "35." I then went downstairs and found that the kitchen clock pointed to 10.30, but I was told that it was not quite exact, so I telephoned to the Post Office, and inquired the correct time—asking again in the afternoon when it was 4.17. I then said to Lola: "Tell me the hour?" "4," said she. "And the minutes?" "18." I made this test several times more, and as the replies were invariably right I could regard this experiment as successful. After this I allowed her to show off her accomplishment to various people, and as long as the novelty appealed to her Lola always told the time correctly and earned much praise. In the presence of Dr. Ziegler and others she gave a most excellent account of herself, and I frequently made practical use of her as my "timepiece." The change-over to "summer-time" created some slight confusion, but this was only temporarily, and was soon overcome. Later, however, she frequentlygave the wrong time!—it was only the charm of novelty that spurred her on to her best endeavours!
Since then I have not questioned her as often—perhaps only once a week, and her replies have varied, some being very good. Only to-day (I am writing on 31 December, 1916) I asked her the time; it was very dusk, and I thought it must be nearly 5 o'clock, but Lola rapped out: "4"—"And how many minutes?" I inquired. "No!" came the reply. "Nonsense!" I cried, "there must be some minutes as well?" "No!" she insisted. So I went and assured myself, believing Lola to have been obstinate, but no, it was actually only just four!
It may be taken for granted, I presume, that all dogs have this time-sense in a greater or lesser degree, and not only all dogs, but other animals also, for there are sufficient proofs to justify this assertion. Sportsmen, in particular, will be able to furnish examples in support of the theory. That Lola was able to "tell the time" was, of course, merely a matter of tuition, this having awakened her latent consciousness, and enabled her to master the signs.
In the summer of 1916 I purchased a grey parrot with the object of further studies. This bird, being very tame, was allowed to sit on the back of my chair and enjoy a few tit-bits at meal times. I always, carried him on my hand from his cage to the chair, as he would not come down from the cage—preferring to clamber about without and within. One evening I had been delayed, and did not appear as punctually as usual. My maid told me, however, that the parrot had left his cage at eight o'clock, gone straight to my chair, climbed up, and was even at that moment sitting on the back-rail waiting for me!
How sensibly animals are equipped as to the requisites of life! Probably man was, too—at one time; at a time when he stood nearer to Nature, and before his inventions and manifold accessories had weaned him from so much that was inherent and inborn knowledge.
CALCULATING TIME
At first I proposed to achieve this by building on the foundations I had already laid, on the dog's fairly reliable comprehension of the value of figures, and her knowledge of spelling. So I wrote on a large sheet of paper and in small characters:14
The days of the week are called:—
This was to be—at the same time—a test of Lola's reading. I placed the chart on the floor where she could look at it, and repeated: "To-morrow you must be able to know this. Now spell the first word to me. And she tapped "jar." I once more went over this new lesson, explaining it all, but put no more questions, only leaving the paper where she could from time to time look at it.
The next day I removed the chart early, and later began my questioning; fully prepared for somewhat crazy results. First I asked:
"How many days are there in a week?" She rapped "7."
"And in three weeks?" "21."
"How many weeks has a year?" "52."
I praised her warmly—her interest seemed roused, for she had rapped her answers with a sort of joyful certainty! So I continued:
"Name the second day in the week?" "dinstag!"
"And what is the day called on which you do no work?" "sontag!"
"And which day in the week is that?" "7."
I then said: "To-day is Tuesday; now remember the days carefully: to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow—and the next you must always tell me the name of the day on which I ask." I then dropped the subject, and tested her on the morrow: "What is to-day?" "Mitwoch!" I next questioned her at random as to the weeks and the year, and all her answers were correct. I was very surprised on this occasion at the short time she had taken—in spite of the rapidity of so much of her earlier work, and I began to feel a sense of certainty as to the possibility of making greater demands on her. Hitherto Lola had always been able to prove to those who have seen her at her performances that shecanstate the day of the week correctly, yet of late she has no longer taken the same delight in doing so; it has become "a bore"—and for this reason she is now only asked two or three times a month. Four days after she had learnt this accomplishment I tackled the dates. At first it was rather difficult to explain to herwhya year, which was already divided into weeks, should be again sub-divided into months—within which, moreover, the weeks could not be disposed of in complete numbers. Once more I made out my chart, and wrote down everything as I had done on previous occasions, but with divisions into twelve parts. Then I wrote out the months and placed the number of days after each, making the addition at the bottom of the chart come to 365. I then explained to her that, besides being divided into weeks, the year was also divided into months, so that each day of the year might be more easily remembered. I told her that for instance—"this day was Saturday; that it was in the month of March, and that to-day was the 13th of March." That "yesterday had been Friday, the 12th of March, and that to-morrow would be the 14th," and so forth. Then I left my chart on the floor again, and did not refer to the subject any more that day.
On Sunday Lola was seldom given anything to do so that the divisions of the week should be firmly planted in her memory. Having, therefore, removed the chart on Sunday, I asked her on Monday:
"How many months has the year?" Answer: "12."
"And what is the second month called?" "February."
She was very eager and giving her undivided attention to the work, so I continued: "What day is to-day?" "Monday." "What number is this day?" "12." Now, this was wrong, so I said: "Yesterday was the 14th, so what is to-day?" And she replied: "15." I said: "How many days has March?" Answer: "31." This last answer seemed to me the most astonishing, especially as I had not really laid much stress on this part of the lesson—fearing I might be expecting too much from her at the beginning. As a matter of fact, I was myself by no means sure as to the number of days in March, and had to verify it first! Up to this day Lola has not forgotten how many days there are in each month, although this question has merely been asked now and again; it has not been put to her now for about nine months. Owing to the regularity of my daily work I take but little heed of dates, so it comes that I have often put the question to her, for when Idoask it is of importance to me to have accurate information, and I have always been able to rely on Lola's quick and steady rap, subsequent reference invariably proving that I can place implicit confidence in her.
SIGHT
A dog's sight hardly plays so important a part in canine life as do scent and hearing; yet, inferior as the eye would seem in some respects, it yet excels in others. It may be observed in the case of any dog that he only recognizes his master or any person he is acquainted with at a distance of—at most—20 metres. If either my old sheep-dog or Lola come to meet me they do not see firstat allthat there is a person standing on the road. If one moves, the dog will then recognize at a distance of some 50 metres, that a human being is in front of it—the movements being responsible for this. Then, when one gets within 10 or 20 metres, the cautious and critical aspect changes, and the dog will rush forward in joyous welcome. This is enough to show that in comparison to our sight, theirs is inferior; and there are dogs that see even much worse than in the case just cited. To test this it is well to stand against the wind, otherwise the dog scents what it cannot see. It is the same case with game. At the distance, therefore, the canine eye does not seem quick of sight, but it becomes all the sharper at close quarters. Here the swift glance and good memory far out-strip our own equipment.
It was conspicuous from the beginning—both in counting and spelling—that Lola was able to learn and memorize in a surprisingly short time. Lola's charts of figures and letters were written in my none-too-clear handwriting—and yet she could remember combinations of figures amounting to ten in number from one day to the other. She could also recognize persons from their portraits, and pictures of objects familiar to her, a faculty of observation I have tested in numerous little ways. This gift was also possessed by Krall's horses and by Rolf. People seem to have the idea that dogs do not observe much, but there is no valid reason for this. Children in theirnaïvetéwill show their picture-book to a dog as to a friend: "Look here!" they will cry—it is only theexceptionwhen it occurs to a "grown-up" to do the same.
I can only say that I have convinced myself and proved to the astonishment of many that a dogcanrecognize both the letters of the alphabet and the subject of a picture shown to it.
Not that these abilities exceed those of man, at first sight, but when the matter is probed into deeply theydoout-strip ours in one particular, and that is in celerity. For instance, if I write three or four rows of figures, one beneath the other, doing so quickly, without making any calculation myself, and then hold the paper before Lola's eyes, so that I can look into them, I see her glance skim the figures for a second or two, she will then hang her head, in evident calculation—after which she looks out straight in front of her and raps her reply. Rarely does her glance go over the paper a second time. In early days I used to think that, before holding out my hand to receive her answer, I ought to hold her head firmly and oblige her to keep her eyes on the sheet, for it seemed to me she must needs look at it for five minutes—at least. But Lola always tries hard to avoid looking—so I let her have her own way, and am trying to account for the cause of this quick glance by a closer study. It was the same thing when I wrote down a question—her eye flew over the sentence in three or four seconds, and the answer was given without a second glance. People to whom I have not said anything about this have stood behind me during these tests, and have generally been more impressed by the fact of herreadingthem than by theswiftnesswith which it was done. But it is the latter that amazed me most of all, for reading she and we have in common—and is indeed so far simpler a matter that there is no reason for a dog not acquiring it—but it is thecomprehensionof what it is doing, and thespeedwith which it translates what it has seen into intelligent replies that seem to me the most surprising part of all. Another instance in connexion with what I term the "cursory glance" may throw light upon this curious ability. I had heard of the way in which Rolf was able to count the flowers in a bunch, and so—on the 16 April, 1917, I thought I would try something of the same kind with Lola. For this lesson I took a sheet of paper and peppered it with dots, without any thought at regularity.
Lola's first answer after looking at it for about four seconds was "34." "Are you sure?" I asked; "tell me again." She then responded with "32." I took my pencil, scratching out each dot as I went over them—there were just 32!
As she had hesitated in the first test I thought I might have made the dots too small, so taking another bit of paper I proceeded to make dots of a larger size. "How many?" I asked again. Answer: "14." I then checked this reply and found it right. The next day I covered another sheet with dots, but this time of various sizes. Lola rapped "27." "Are you sure?" I asked. "Yes!" So I counted, and there were 23. "Count again!" I commanded. "27," said she. "Lola, I can only make them 23;" "27!" insisted this dog! I could not make out the reason for this, unless, that owing to there being some writing on the reverse side, a few marks may have shown through, and thus account for the wrong answer.
On 19 April I made an attempt with red dots, but she was tired, and rapped out first 25, then 23 and finally 19—there were 19 dots. Then I made some blue dots and she rapped "11." "Are you sure?" Again "11." And this, too, was right.
I put this test several times and it was always successful when the dots were sufficiently large and regular and did not exceed 35; also if the colour was dark—either blue or black. Later on, when I read Krall's book I found that the horses had been submitted to this test with equally good results. Professor Kraemer of Hohenheim attributes the reason for this to the fact of animals having originally lived in herds, and that their "leader" as well as the other horses always knew whether their full complement was present or not. I have had the same experience with clucking-hens. A clucking-hen with twelve chicks knows at once should one be missing, and seeks it even when it cannot utter a sound, and while all the rest of her brood are running about in such confusion that it would seem impossible to count them oneself. How animals manage to do this without a sense of figures and without words always remains a puzzle to me! Now, the measure taken by a dog's eye is almost as accurate as is its sight for near objects, and its swift glance and comprehensive eye for detail. It is true that all these tests have been put to my dog Lolaalone, but I venture to say that these facts will be found to apply to all dogs in common, should they belong to a natural and healthy breed of animals, and not to an artificially procured variety.
As to "measuring by eye," this was a test put to her accidentally. About the beginning of June, 1917, for lack of any better idea at the moment, I determined to teach her the use of the yard measure (the metre), and without having any definite object in view. So I fetched the yard-stick and told her the names and the meaning of the divisions three times; but she seemed unable to work up any enthusiasm for the subject, and I therefore did not attempt to question her. Many duties intervened, and so I forgot the whole matter for several weeks. But on 25 July I thought it might be just as well to test her eye for measure, and this reminded me of the yard-stick. So I asked for fun: "Do you remember that I showed you the yard-stick?" "Yes!" was her prompt reply. In astonishment I continued: "How many centimetres are there to the metre?" "100!" "And how many decimetres to twenty centimetres?" "2." "And how many decimetres in two and a half centimetres?" "25." Now, for the joke of the thing, I determined to test the accuracy of her eye, for I had not yet fetched the yard-stick, and she had, in fact, not seen it for many weeks. So I pointed to the outside edge of a small picture-frame that I—at a guess—took to be about twenty-two centimetres in length. At the same time I must own that I have never exercised my judgment in this line to any very great extent. "How long is this lower edge?" I asked her, "fromheretohere?" (pointing): her answer was, "25." I then tested it by the stick; it was twenty-six! I pointed to a larger frame, putting the same question, she answered "50." I measured, and found it to be 75. Again I showed her a smaller picture, and she rapped "19." Then I showed her a piece of chocolate—"7" was her reply—it was seven and a half. Later on, when she was in the mood she became able to guess withinhalfa centimetre at a distance of about thirty centimetres and at greater distances—up to one metre; I estimated the difference to vary from about one to ten centimetres. Of late I have not given her much practice of this kind, for from the beginning she has not cared much for it. But I have made the experiment of seeing whether she can distinguish colours in the same way we do. To make this test I daubed some of the most important colours on a sheet of paper, writing the name beneath each, and the next day I daubed the same colours on another piece of paper—but in different sequence, and without adding their names. The ready response to my questions gave further proof as Lola's good memory as well as of her perfect ability to differentiate.
I next questioned her on more practical subjects. I said: "What is the colour of the stove in this room?" at the same time looking out of the window to make sure that she knew what a "stove" was. "Green," was her answer—and quite right too, for the stove is built of green porcelain tiles. I asked her a few more questions relating to flowers and to articles in daily use until I had no further doubt as to her being competent to tell one colour from the other. Coming generations may, perhaps, laugh at these numerous tests, instead of crediting animals with this ability as a matter of course!
HER PERFECT SENSE FOR SOUND
In my quest for further tests as to canine abilities, the idea occurred to me that it might be as well to arrive at a greater degree of certainty with respect to sound, that is, inquiring into a dog's memory for sound, and their powers of differentiating one tune from another. In the case of my old dog, I had already observed many things such as inclined those to whom I had related my experiences, to be of opinion that these had to do with the dog's ear. For instance, if I had been away, and returned (either driving or on foot), conversing in low tones with another person, this dog wouldscreamfor joy. His voice on such occasions was of quite a special quality, and everybody about the court-yard knew that I must have already passed the tree known as the "Abend Eiche," which stands some hundred metres distant, and the dog was always at that time confined, though in the open. Our conversations on such occasions were always quiet ones, and yet the dog recognized my voice at a distance of a hundred metres. If I happened to return alone and on foot, after an absence of about two days, his cries would start when I had reachedhalf that distance—therefore, at fifty metres—and Lola would then also hear my step. And here is another example—one about which I was at first doubtful, not knowing to which sense it should be attributed. I always knew from Lola when I might expect a certain friend of mine—a friend to whom, by the way, she was really more attached than to me! I used to know by the heavy raps of her tail against the floor. The room in which we would be at such times was on the second floor and lay towards the front of the house. But when those anticipatory raps began my friend was still on her way, coming by a path which lay in the rear of the house, and, moreover, she always came alone. When the dog was present she could never take me by surprise.
My next ventures were of a musical nature, as I thought it might be easiest to achieve something in this direction. Lola knew the letters that are associated with the different tones (c,d,e,f,g,a,h15,e), having learnt these in her alphabet, so I only had to strike the keys (and I confined myself to thewhiteones, as involving fewer difficulties), telling her their names. I began by saying: "Lola, you are going to learn something quite new and very beautiful; you must listen to these sounds and tell me the names of each." Then I played the notes over several times from c to c, saying clearly and slowly: "c, d, e, f, g, a, h." Then I paused and played them over again—both the ascending and descending scale.
Then I struck "c," saying, "What note is that?" She answered "c." I struck "e," but she rapped "no." I therefore played from c to e, accentuating e in particular. "Do you know now?" I asked, and she replied, "yes: e." I struck "a," and the answer came at once, "a." This seemed enough for one day, for I wished to keep her interest fresh. So we then went over some arithmetic. The next day I played onlyoncefrom c to c, asking the names of the notes out of their order, and Lola was right in all her replies with the exception of "h," and this she soon identified after a comparison with the other notes. I tried whether she could recognize the number of notes in a chord. First I struck two, asking her the number; she replied "2." I then struck four—and she replied "4" without any hesitation. Then I struck five together,cbeing associated with them twice. At this Lola rapped "4," so I said: "You are to tell meeverynote I strike," at the same time putting down the chord again, after which she replied "5." This had been an experiment for which I had made few preparations and I marvelled at such obvious evidences of musical comprehension. But I felt that I should nevertheless test her more closely still, and so I told my experiences to a friend, a woman composer of great professional distinction. This lady was both interested and surprised, and seating herself at the piano, she struck some notes. I placed myself so as not to see the keyboard and tried to guess their pitch, yet I have no "ear" in this way. I had in 1915 attended a course of Delcroze lessons (given at Stuttgart by Fräulein Steiner) and had tried to acquire the faculty to distinguish the basic tone of any chord given at random—for this can be acquired if one is to some extent musical, yet could I but seldom succeed. I would hover in doubt between c and d, and so on, without sensing any connexion with the other tones. Here, too, with one single note being struck I was unequal to the test, but Lola's replies were excellent, yet was it again the novelty that gave zest to the affair, for later on her answers were good only when she was inclined to take trouble. But in the beginning she had been most obviously delighted with the whole matter and leapt up at me in her joy and excitement whenever I said: "Lola, listen to sounds!" I have interested and amused many friends with this little exhibition, for it came as a surprise to many, especially as the sense of "pitch" is a comparatively rare one in most people.
SCENT
The keenness of a dog's nose is, of course, proverbial, and I have only put a few tests to Lola in this particular, yet, such as they are (proving perhaps no more than is already known) I will here set down. I put the first of these tests to her on the 17 April, 1916. I showed her a book belonging to my father and said:
"Whose book is this?" She answered—"Father!" Then I showed her a glove and she told me it was mine. On 20 April, I showed her another glove belonging to a lady who was commonly known among us as "Mama" and Lola instantly replied with—"Mama!" This was followed by an important test in the afternoon of the same day. Four ladies, who were strangers to her had come to my father's place at Hohenheim, and in helping them take off their wraps I did not particularly notice where the different articles of clothing were laid. Lola was in the room at the time, I introduced the ladies to her singly and by name and later on sent her to fetch one of the hats. She fetched it and then sat expectantly before me. "To whom does this hat belong?" I asked. The answer was: "Sibol." I then asked Fräulein Sibold who was present if it really was her hat and she said—"yes." Lola had remembered the name quite well but had left out the final "d"—an omission due to the fact that I am in the habit of "swallowing" that letter when saying the name. On 29 December, 1916, I gave Lola a biscuit and she seemed more than usually delighted with its smell—as if there was something familiar about it. "Why ever are you so pleased?" I asked, to which she replied—"Mama!" And it had actually been sent by the aforementioned lady familiarly known as "Mama." I then showed her another biscuit, saying "Is this too from Mama?" but she answered "no!" "Do you dogs always know by smell?" I said—and she rapped "yes!" On this same day another test failed owing to the impossibility of ascertaining the true name of the article in question.
I had a new jacket trimmed with fur—a variety unknown to me, it was grey and slightly woolly. Lola could simply not tear herself away from it—the smell was so fascinating. I said to her: "Tell me what is delighting you so to-day?" She replied—"mederesf." Unable to make any sense of the letters I set them down in writing before her and asked her if any of them were wrong; to this she replied: "yes:" "Which?" asked I—she said: "2." (the second) "What should it be?" I queried; she rapped "n." "How many of these letters belong to the first word?" I continued. "2." "And to the second?" She gave a wavering six—(though it may have beenfive). So the words purported to be "ne deresf." I could make nothing of it and asked her again—"Whatisderesf?" to which she gave the explanation: "ein tir." (tier = animal) "An animal? but I don't know the name! have you heard of it?" "Yes!" "Have we seen this animal?" "Yes!" "Where did we see it?" "Maulburg."16"In the house?" "No." "In the woods?" "Yes!" "Spell the name again!" "d r e s f." "And what is n e?" "dran" (a contraction of daran = on it). "On the jacket?" "Yes!" "Then you want to say that 'dresf' is on the jacket?" "Yes...." And Lola looked at me with the most imploring eyes as though Iought to see that she was right—as thoughI ought to know it.
"Are yousureof the name?" I persisted—and she replied: "mittel."17Here we ended—and unfortunately I have not been able to ascertain so far what this particular variety of fur is!
There have been more recent tests of this nature, about which I do not as yet feel in a position to give a definite opinion. They may possibly come into line with the theories held by Professor Gustav Jaegar, M.D., of Stuttgart and, if so, would place the subject in a new perspective. I will now only add what has so far come to my notice accidentally:
On 4 October, 1916, I said: "Lola, do you like to smell people?" "Yes!" "All people?" "No!" "How do I smell to-day?" "Tired." "Lola," I said, "do I sometimes smell horrid?" "Arger Eifersucht!" ( = great, or strong jealousy) "So you smell what I feel and when it changes?" "Yes." "With every one?" "Yes." "With horses too?" "No." "With dogs?" "Yes! yes!!"
On 5 October I asked: "Lola, do I smell the same?" "No!" "How do I smell?" "Angst" ( = fear, or anxiety). She evidently meant that I was uneasy on account of the amount of work.
"Lola," I continued, "how does Betty smell?" "Nach Angst" ( = of anxiety) "And anything more?" "Auch müd" ( = also tired). [N.B. Betty had held out the palms of her hands to the dog.] "And anything more?" "Ja—traurig" ( = yes—sad.) And I found later that this had been the true state of Betty's feelings at the time.
Lola was bright and fresh and this encouraged me to continue:
"What does Magda smell like?" "Afe." "Is that right?" "No—a f." "And what more?" "g e r e g t" "afgeregt? Isn't one letter wrong?" "Yes." "Which?" "1" "Then what should it be?" "Au." "Then you mean aufgeregt?" (excited) "Yes!"
6 October. "Lola, do I smell different to-day?" "Yes—strong" "Yes! go on?" "O w e." "We?" (weh = pain) "Like pain?" "No." "You meant like the exclamation—'O weh'?" "Yes!" "But what do I smell of?" "Of surogat" (!) The use of this word by Lola seemed to be abnormal and mysterious, so I said "I am sure you have never heard that word from me!" and she replied "No!" "Tell me the name of the surogat?" "1"—(which stands for "I will not tell!") "Tell me! for you know the word for it!" I insisted. "Yes!" "Please tell me?" "1"—"I will not be angry," I pleaded, "I will give you a biscuit." But Lola returned again a reluctant "1." "What is this 1 to mean, Lola—is it yes or no?" "4" ( = mittel). She would not look at me and while seemingly desirous of "insinuating" something, was yet not quite ready to make a frank acknowledgment of the implication. "Lola, tell me!" I exclaimed, and she rapped "Luigen." "Lügen?" (lying) "Ja—nein." "Lola! I won't be angry; do I smell of lies?" "Yes." "Here at home?" "Minchen." (München = Munich.) And then it suddenly dawned on me; an hour earlier I had told the dog that I was going to Munich and that perhaps she might go with me. Yet at the same time I was by no means so sure that this could be managed, and thought therefore of taking her to Stuttgart. People may smile when they read these things—indeed I have often smiled myself, but I cannot help it if Lola chooses to give such answers! Probably the future may bring me further enlightenment! There were many more occasions on which I was able to test Lola's quick nose in taking up the scent of human beings as well as of game and also the smell attaching to different articles. I need not particularize these, for anyone possessing a dog with a keen nose may know this as well as I do—or, even better.
SENSITIVENESS OF THE SKIN
The time at my disposal has unfortunately not been sufficient to enable me to engage on any very careful tests as to the sensitiveness of Lola's skin. Yet I have made certain preliminary notes as to what I hope to do in this connexion, and have also begun with a few tentative attempts. I first tried her sensibility to various degrees of warmth by teaching her the use of the thermometer. I made a drawing of a thermometer—according to its actual size—and added principal numbers and figures and also
and beneath this I wrote:
and I concluded with a few more verbal elucidations, and then fetched an actual thermometer on which I made her read me the temperature of the room. The next day I repeated this lesson and she read the thermometer again. After this I tested her as to whether she could give the temperature by the "feel," as it were, or whether the impression of the temperature was associated more immediately with a sense of comfort. She has so far always given the right temperature when asked, though I should add that I have only put the question to her about twenty times—and then when she has been in good health, so that I feel that the matter has not yet been sufficiently put to the proof, and I cannot, therefore, make any very definite statements with regard to this particular faculty. But I must add, that to two questions put to her on different days, she answered that she "liked her food best at 6° of warmth!" Now this chimes with the advice given in many a book on the care of dogs; "do not give them their food too hot"—and Lola's remark reminded me of this, though I might consider that "degree of heat" practicallycool... yet it appeared to be what she desired. Nevertheless, this preference turned out shortly to have been erroneous and, as the result of a practical trial, Lola changed her mind and voted for anything "between 12°—16°!" Here is one more test I put with regard to her susceptibility to touch: I got someone else to trace figures with their fingers on the dog's back, placing myself so that I could not see what was being described; then I put the questions, and each time her replies tallied almost invariably. One put to her in this manner was: "2 + 3?"; and "5" was given at once. While "7 + 4?" elicited a prompt "11." Then a number was described and I said: "Twice this number makes?"; to which she replied "8," four having been traced on her back. We only tried this new test for a few days so that I can give no more exact details about it—excepting this, that on that particular day, she would only understand the figuresif inscribed in this manner on her back! It evidently amused her immensely, and we could see that she seemed to "transfer her attention," as it were, elsewhere. But though this test had been so successful with numerals, it failed entirely with letters. This was incidentally an attempt on quite a small scale at carrying out the tests which had been successfully so put to the blind horse Bertho, by Karl Krall.
These experiments as to her susceptibility to touch, or pressure, led to one slightly different, and which cannot as yet be said to have gone beyond its initial stages. I took a set of weights of 5, 10, 20, 30, 100, 200, 400, and 500 grammes, and also others of 1 and 2 kilo, and told Lola she must learn to know how heavy a thing could be. Then I placed the weights separately between her two shoulder-blades, naming them beforehand somewhat as follows—and having first written out a chart for her which set forth in a plain and easy form what I was going to say:
I then explained this carefully and questioned her at once:
"How many pounds are 375 grammes?" Answer: "3/4."18"How much are 1,000 grammes?" Answer: "2." I had intentionally refrained from putting questions as to figures that were on her chart which I had left lying before her; and after she had given her replies in accordance with the pressure she had felt between her shoulders, I tested her ability at guessing where greater differences of weight were in question. On two occasions she gave the right answers, namely "1 pound" and "2 pounds," I having put the question so as to obviate superfluous spelling. I then showed her the weights, placing them in a row before her, naming them again and saying: "Which is the heaviest?" She answered "4." As a matter of fact, the heaviest of these weights, the two-pound one, was actually standing fourth. I continued: "And now?" (I had for this question transposed the weights—unseen by Lola.) Answer: "1." Which was quite right! Then—"Where is the 100 grammes?" "3." "Where is 50 grammes?" "2," and "Where is one pound?" "5." Her answers, as will be seen, were perfect; she had learnt to understand what was expected of her in this test with great rapidity.
Indeed, more elaborate tests might have been undertaken but, unfortunately, I had little leisure at the time, and was without the assistance of any educated person who might have helped me in the work. As, however, the "spade-work" in this particular field of experiment seems now to have been accomplished, many additional and interesting details might result—given the right opportunity.
It may, perhaps, be a matter of surprise, that I should have undertaken these three separate tests, and left them in their initial stages, instead of working persistently at one in particular, and thus, maybe, putting the time to better use. The reason was the old and troublesome one which was always cropping up and causing me no little worry:Lola's interest must not be allowed to flag. In the course of a fortnight or three weeks, for instance, I have not dared to embark on more thanonetest, not even continuing that one for as many as five consecutive days. This is why the three tests, above narrated, followed close one upon the other, while I took care to turn Lola's attention from them in between, making her go over all sorts of sums and spelling exercises. Should I have persisted in fixing her attention I should only have defeated my true object, and made her stale for future undertakings. In fact, I only engaged in these three, by way of giving a greater sense ofcompletenessto the idea, and also in order to fire the ambition of others embarking upon work of a similar nature.
FORECASTING THE WEATHER
On 2 May, 1916, at a season, therefore, when farmers are generally somewhat exercised as to the coming hay-harvest, and may well wish they had some contrivance—or knew of some method whereby they could ascertain, at all events, a few days in advance what the weather is going to be, a thought flashed into my mind. At first it raised a smile, it seemed so ridiculous and impracticable, yet there could be no harm in trying. I knew that most animals, such as birds, game, etc., sensed the approach of rain at least several hours before it began to fall. But the subject is one that has not yet come sufficiently under notice, so that we do not know whether they may not sense the atmospheric changes over an even longer period. We humans are not in a position to discover how animals come by their knowledge, we can only conclude that Nature has equipped them with more delicate "chords," so to speak, and that upon these highly strung chords she can sound a warning of her impending changes, since these, our humbler brethren, stand in more imminent need thereof. It is common knowledge that animals sense earthquakes long in advance of the actual shock, and this can only be accounted for in some such way. At the time of the earthquake in 1912, Rolf, at Mannheim, crept into a cornerseveral hoursbefore it took place, and on being questioned, replied: "Lol hat angst, weiss nid vor was." (Lol is frightened; doesn't know at what.) It was quite useless trying to get further particulars as to his fears, for an earthquake was an entirely new experience to him; at a repetition of the event his remarks would, doubtless, be of greater interest and importance. Now as the weather is a matter that concerns animals, and with which they are also familiar, I determined to see how far I could get with Lola on this subject. So I taught her as follows:
and to test her in this matter, I questioned her as to the last few days—here she answered correctly. Then I began:
"What about to-day?" Lola replied: "b" ( = it is raining a little). I now felt sufficiently encouraged to ask her concerning the days ahead, and received the following answers:
I told these forecastings of Lola's to several friends who, like myself, were watching the weather with anxiety. Rightly enough! the sun shone on 3 May; on that very day therefore I continued putting my questions—and Lola again prophesied:
On the next day, 4 May, the sun shone once more—as she had said it would, and in the afternoon I asked her: "How do you come to know the weather, Lola? How do you do it?" "Raten" (guessing). In astonishment I said: "From whom have you got that word?" "Dir" (from you) "Have you heard me say it?" "Yes!" On the 5th there were a few drops of rain, and on the 6th two hours' heavy downfall, but on the 7th it was dry and sunny, so that it may be that I had taxed her powers of anticipation beyond their limit, for I had asked her far in advance of the 3rd. From time to time she then continued to give me "advance information" as to the kind of weather to expect, two days or, at most, three days were the test put, and for some time I was able to fully rely on her forecasts, and would arrange my work accordingly, being careful not to cut or mow when Lola had prophesiedrain, etc.
One morning, the sort of day when one cannot be sure of what it means to do, rain or clear, I again sought my dog's advice! It was very important to me that the hay should be carried, while the weather was dry, but I should have preferred having it loaded up towards evening, as the carts were wanted for other work—if only I knew what to expect! Lola decided for "r" (rain) in the afternoon, so I had the hay carried at eleven—at three the rain began, but my loads were saved! A long period of wet weather followed; after this had continued for a fortnight—a beautiful morning broke, fine and clear, so that every one about the farm said—"at last it's going to be fine again!" I enquired of Lola—"Will there be sun to-day?" "No!" she said: "Then tell me what the weather will be to-day?" I urged. "r." I was loth to believe her, yet, by eleven, the rain had begun again. Now all this seemed very nice, and I was quite delighted, for the importance of such accuracy in agricultural work was incalculable, but I soon found that I was "reckoning without my host!" After she had—as I have shown—gone on rapping out useful and correct replies for some time, she got sick of it, began to rap out all sorts of nonsense; indeed, I knew at once from her listless and unfriendly manner that her interest was falling off, and that the replies she was giving were false. It seemed to me, indeed, that she was doing this obstinately and on purpose, so as to put me off asking any more questions! And—if so—she certainly gained her point. The lesson of this, is that one has to bear in mind that one is not dealing with amachine, but with a living being—and with one that is in many respects exceedingly "unreasonable" and particularly "self-willed."
I had been devoting myself to this work for some months, and had lost some of my earlier interest, but I started again three days ago so as to have another test to set down here. Lola proved to be up to the mark again, seemed interested, and I did my best to encourage her by saying: "Youwillbe pleased when you knowthis!" ... "Thisisnice!" ... "See how much more a dog knows than many a man!" and so on. And as a result she announced on 5 January, 1917.
On 6 January, there was half a degree of cold, and snow fell later in the day. This answer was near enough, for she had not been taught "snow," yet the equivalent might doubtless be found in a little "rain," i.e. wet. On 7 January, we had a heavy fall of snow, and another on 8 January. So that this test succeeded, if we discount the snow instead of rain, a change occasioned by the colder atmosphere.