ADVANCED ARITHMETIC
As the reader will now know, Lola was already acquainted with the simpler modes of arithmetic—such as addition, subtraction, multiplication and division; and we continued practising these forms for some time, even though my mind was already busy planning other and more ambitious tests. Arithmetic had of late only been taken as a corollary to her other studies, but the time seemed to have come when further advance in this too, might be deemed desirable. Her ability to "reckon" had already proved itself of practical use in facilitating her other accomplishments, and I determined now to try and put it to a still more objective test, first of all in such simple forms as: "How many people are there here?" Answer: "7." "How many of them are women?" Answer: "6." "How many dogs are there in this room?" Answer: "1." "And who is that?" "Ich" (I). A little later I said: "Listen to me, Lola! There are thirty cows in the stalls; ten of those cows go to graze, and two cows have been killed, how many cows remain in the stalls?" Answer: "18." Then I said: "Six oxen are in the stalls—how many legs have six oxen?" Answer: "24." and so we continued, the right reply being generally given after this exercise had been repeated a few times.
In May, 1916, Lola learnt the big multiplication-table, doing so easily and quickly. She was at first slightly inaccurate in the higher numbers, for rapping out the "hundreds" with the right paw and the "tens" with the left—and then again the "ones" with the right gave her some trouble in the beginning. Yet such questions as: 3 + 14, 2 + 17, 4 + 20, were given without hesitation, since these did not come within the region of the hundreds. But in time she got used to the hundreds too—and even to thousands, and to these latter she applied her left paw, rapping the date 1916 thus: left paw 1; right paw 9; left paw 1; right paw 6.
Towards the end of May I thought I would teach her fractions, and she apparently understood what I meant, but for a beginning I could only put questions, such as: "How manywholesare there in 20/4, 12/4, or 11/2" etc. Indeed, I was at first at a loss as to what form of expression I should use here—so as not to come into collision with those already resorted to, thus giving rise to confusion. At first I thought it might be more convenient to let her rap out the denominator with her right paw and the numerator with her left—but I soon came to see that even with 3/16, this method could no longer be maintained. At length I let her simply rap out the numerator—then I would ask for the denominator, and let her rap this, so that in the case of 3/16 she rapped the 3 first with her right paw; then gave the denominator, i.e. 1 rap with her left paw and 6 again with her right. This mode or procedure came quite naturally to her, and so it was retained. The questions were practised in the following manner:—"How do you rap 3/8, 12/6?" etc., and I followed this up with easy exercises such as: "How much is 2/8 + 1/4?" the simplified answer being "1/2." I had, as may be imagined, already given her repeated and detailed explanations on the subject before she was capable of giving such answers as "1/2," to the above question. Simplifying was also practised separately thus: "Simplify 20/16!" Answer: "1-1/4." this being given with "1 r" (pause) "1 r" (another pause); "and the denominator?" "4 r." To anyone following her actions, the meaning would appear quite distinct. I now determined that she should add together numbers having different denominators—as, for example: 1/4 + 1/3, and here I had myself to cogitate as to how this ought to be done, for at school, my enthusiasm for arithmetic had never been great and much of what I had then learnt has been forgotten. So I talked the question over with a friend—in Lola's presence and out loud—and finally arrived at the solution. As she had been listening most of the time while we sought, found, and discussed the solution, I soon ventured to put a few tests to her, and the answers proved that she had actually been listening while our conversation was going on, and that what we had talked about had lingered in her memory. By the way, it is reported of Jean Paul Richter, that when on some occasion a friend came to him desirous of talking over some matter, the nature of which none other was to know, Jean Paul said to his poodle, who was under the table: "Go outside, we want to be alone!" The dog vacated, and the poet remarked: "Now, sir, you can talk, for no one will hear us!"
Lola solved the following problems:
As the problems always took me longer than they did her I never checked them at the time, but went over them later, after she had given all her answers. I did this moreover, so that she should have no opportunity of tapping my thoughts and thus rely on me; indeed, I reallyforcedher to do her own thinking. For even if I did begin to calculate I did it so slowly, that she was rapping out her reply long before I was done. I say all this to my own shame, for Lola must have her due—and I never had a head for arithmetic myself!
When she knew how to calculate time, I put the following question to her: "How many minutes are there in an hour and a half—less thirty minutes?" Answer: "60." "How many hours are there in 240 minutes?" Answer: "4." By this time Lola had also learnt the value of money. About the end of April, 1916, she could distinguish between such coins as 5 Pfennige, 10 Pfennige, 50 Pfennige; 1 Mark, 2 Mark, and 5 Mark, and could compute the value of the Mark in Pfennige. When showing my friends what she could do in the way of arithmetic, her money sums were a special feature and delighted everybody. Here is an example, the date being 31 May: I put the question: "12 Mark less 4 Mark 10 Pfennige?" adding—"Tell me the Mark!" Answer: "7." "And the Pfennige?" "90" (i.e. 7 Mark 90 Pfennige.) Question: "What coins do you know?" Answer: "5, 10, 50; 1, 2." "And what are they all?" "Fenig." (i.e. Lola's mode of spelling Pfennig.) "Lola, how much of a Mark are 50 Pfennige? The answer has to do with fractions." Answer: "1/2." "How much are 225 Pfennige?" "2-1/4." "And 20 Pfennige?" "1/5." "And 60?" "3/5." "And 3/20 Mark, how many Pfennige?" "20.""No!"8/20 Mark?" Answer: "15." Towards the close of 1916 I taught her to raise numbers to various powers. At this she was slow in the beginning, but ultimately mastered it fairly well. She could soon answer such questions as—"33= ?" with "27." And—"42= ?" with "16," doing so, moreover, with ease; but up to now I have not been able to take her any further in the matter of extracting roots; in the first place I have had little time to give to it, and secondly, I am by no means on very sure ground there myself! I might, of course, have rubbed up my own rusty arithmetic had my interest in this particular accomplishment of Lola's been greater. But—for my own part, I attach greater importance to the psychological side of this question, and would far rather probe and delve within the depths of her dog-soul, exploring the extent of her other abilities, since arithmetic has already some brilliant exponents in, for instance, Krall's horses.
WORKING WITH OTHER PERSONS.
As may readily be imagined, it is by no means easy to induce an animal to work with any person it does not regard as its accepted teacher. On such occasions, it will behave like a small child, and be restless and even intractable. Often, too, while apparently willing, there may be something unfamiliar in the way in which a question is put (a matter for which no one can be blamed!), this resulting in the impossibility of getting an answer. Sometimes, too, the hand proffered to receive the replies is not held either straight or flat enough, or may not have the right slant that will enable the paw to rap without slipping off. Or, again a hand will be held too high, and thus cause much inconvenience to the animal. Then too, questions are carelessly worded, and seem strange to the method of thought to which its regular instructor has accustomed it, fresh explanations being then required to achieve any results at all. And so it comes, that only those can work successfully with animals who have already been frequently present at the teaching, and are then willing to try their luck, calmly and tranquilly—and quite alone with the animal, so as to carefully develop their own aptitude, as well as gain the confidence of their charge. It is true that in the case of the horses, others, besides Herr Krall, frequently did work with them. Indeed, my father got excellent answers from them, although he had to do with them for only a short time. But the matter seems rather more difficult with dogs; for one thing, they do not stand in front of a board—independently, so to speak—as do the horses; nor are they, from the beginning of their career as habitually accustomed to a variety of persons about them, at least, not to the extent that horses are. And yet they are sometimes quite ready to work with others, this being the case with Lola when I took her to Stuttgart, on a visit to a lady she already knew—Fräulein M. D., and who had put a few questions to her when here at the farm, questions which she had answered quite correctly. At Stuttgart there was a larger circle of listeners, and Lola sat in their midst upon a table. Fräulein M. D. stood beside me, and I asked her to put the question. I do not now remember what the question was, but I had extended my hand for the reply. Lola, however, turned to the speaker, and tapped the correct answer on that lady's arm, giving the second—and equally good one on Fräulein M. D.'s proffered hand. Lola is also in the habit of answering my people with either "yes" or "no" as the case may be, and on one occasion—when I was away from home, having gone to Munich for three weeks—she remained with Frau Kindermann at Hohenheim, and during that time, gave replies to all kind of questions put to her by that lady, as the following report will show:
"REPORT OF FRAU PROFESSOR KINDERMANN IN HOHENHEIM"On my asking Lola: 'Where is your mistress?' she answered—'minchen!' (München). When I showed her the portrait of my son Karl and asked—'Of whom is this a picture?' Lola at once replied 'Karli.' On 28 October, I received a hamper of vegetables from my mother—known to Lola as 'Mama,' to whom she had been on a visit at Easter. Lola sniffed all the hamper over, then jumped about and wagged her tail joyfully—so I inquired: 'Do you know who the hamper is from?' 'Yes!' 'Then tell me!' 'Mama!' She did a few sums with me every day; told the time; the days of the week, and the temperature. Several acquaintances bore witness to the good work she did—and Lola told them her age—after she had been given the year of her birth. If I happened to be absent minded, Lola knew at once how to deceive me, for she seemed then, instinctively aware that I was not a match for her."
"REPORT OF FRAU PROFESSOR KINDERMANN IN HOHENHEIM
"On my asking Lola: 'Where is your mistress?' she answered—'minchen!' (München). When I showed her the portrait of my son Karl and asked—'Of whom is this a picture?' Lola at once replied 'Karli.' On 28 October, I received a hamper of vegetables from my mother—known to Lola as 'Mama,' to whom she had been on a visit at Easter. Lola sniffed all the hamper over, then jumped about and wagged her tail joyfully—so I inquired: 'Do you know who the hamper is from?' 'Yes!' 'Then tell me!' 'Mama!' She did a few sums with me every day; told the time; the days of the week, and the temperature. Several acquaintances bore witness to the good work she did—and Lola told them her age—after she had been given the year of her birth. If I happened to be absent minded, Lola knew at once how to deceive me, for she seemed then, instinctively aware that I was not a match for her."
Lola also solved many little sums set her by my friend, Fräulein M. D. (at the time that lady had been staying with me on the farm to gain first-hand experience in the work), and on one occasion when Fräulein M. D. said, "Where is your mistress?" Lola spelt out that I was in the "segenhaus," which was quite true, I having told her shortly before that I was going there. To the great amusement of the maids, Lola sometimes elected to work in the kitchen, with the little seven-year-old son of the housekeeper, and it is reported that her answers were frequently right. I feel sure, in fact, that Lola would work with anyone who was adapted to work with her, and that she would give as good an account of herself, with them, as she does with me.
THE QUESTION OF POSSIBLE INFLUENCE
Eighteenth May, 1916. Lola, who since the middle of April has been accustomed to giving her own independent, and often lengthy, answers, was now rapping very well. Her replies were to the point, decidedly apt, and often quite unexpected. Moreover she usually stuck obstinately to her own way—should I happen to think that something was incorrect, until—on giving in—I sometimes had to acknowledge that she had been right after all. Now, on the 18 May I said to her: "Lola, you must write to my father and thank him for the biscuits, he will then send you some more. This is the way to write a letter, one begins—'dear Father,' or just 'dear,' and then one tells what one is thinking about, you must, therefore, thank him—and when the letter is finished—you must put 'love from Lola'." Now then—begin. Lola started rapping out without further delay, and continued rapidly and "fluently"—so to speak—her letter running as follows: "lib, nach uns kom, ich una ..." (here I interrupted her, believing her about to say "ich und Henny") and asked "is this right?" She said it was: "but, Lola," I urged, "be sure you are careful! ought this not to be a 'd'?" "No!" she said. I was at a loss to make out where this "a" came in, but told her to go on—and Lola rapped: "... artig eben, oft we, kus ich!" So the "una" had been part of "unartig"! ( = "dear, come to us, I have just been naughty, often pains, kiss (you) I.") Here she showed that she was quite certain in her own mind, and that in spite of my suggestions as to the form her letter should take, she was yet bent on following her own ideas, since there was no trace of "thanks!" Besides which, instead of concluding with "Lola," as I had proposed her doing, she elected to assert herself by puttingich= "I!" "Naughty" referred, probably to astrafeshe had had about a quarter of an hour earlier for chasing the game, and the "often pain" to headache and to being tired. Anyway, this letter seems a brilliant proof of "independent thinking," and I shall be able to give several more equally fresh and original replies in a later chapter.19
Up to this time, it had only been in the matter ofrepliesthat I had been able to obtain independent communications, but, on 27 May, there was a new development to record: I had avoided asking her any questions for several days, for I had noticed that she seemed extremely tired. But by this day I thought she would probably be fit to do a reasonable amount of work: I have always abstained from this if she showed signs of evident fatigue. So I now asked her: "Lola! how is it you always know when my friend is coming? you knew it before she entered the house this morning!" "Gehört," ( = heard) was the reply. "Then, if you know hers—do you know the sounds made by every one?" "No." "Only those whom you know well?" "Yes." Then Lola began wagging her tail near to the door, so I asked: "Who was outside?" Lola gave a "g," and then corrected it with "no." From her delight, I was inclined to think that it had been Frieda, a young girl who had been studying farming with me, and that this was the name Lola was about to rap out. So I discounted the "g" and the "no" and said: "It should be 'f'—shouldn't it?" (note: g = 17, f = 16.) Whereupon Lola continued and rapped—Frieda. I then looked out and saw to my astonishment that it was Guste, a new maid who had been in the house about a week. I said to Lola at once: "You were wrong, it was not Frieda, but the new maid—what is her name?" Lola began again——" ... "and again added "no ..." "Don't you know her name?" I inquired—but Lola replied "yes!" I turned the matter over in my mind, wondering how she had come to rap "Frieda" instead of "Guste," and finally said to her: "Why did you give me a wrong answer, saying Frieda when it was Guste?" and Lola responded with, "You think!" "What?" said I, "did youfeelwhat I was thinking?" "Yes." "And do youalwaysfeel what I think?" "Yes."
This was something quite new, but I explained it to myself, and my view has proved to be correct in all subsequent tests undertaken by me. It is this:Dogs are susceptible to thought-transference—also, that they are more particularly open to this when tired and when lazy. Further—they are open to such thought-transference even when not actually aware of the question—as for instance, in the present case, where it was a matter of the new servant's name, for here Lola had been able to "tap" my thoughts with respect to what was familiar to her—(i.e. the name of the other maid)but(and this is the most important point)—a dog cannot receive impressions in respect of matters of which it has no knowledge!
For example, here Lola could not spell "Guste" in spite of the fact that I was expecting it quite as intently as I had looked for "Frieda" in the first instance; and what is more—I cannot get the dog to "take up" a new thought should she have already "made up her mind" about a matter, as on the occasion when she had been "naughty." It has constantly happened that Lola has held out against me in the matter of some figure in her sums and that—later on—I have found myself to have been at fault, this showing that the numerals "pictured" in my mind can have made no impression on hers; yet, on the other hand, it has also happened that she has accepted my inaccuracies—simply because she was tired, and did not want the trouble of "thinking for herself." Indeed, I could see as much in her eyes—there would be a sense of inertia about her, which indicated that she was only waiting to "guess" by means offeeling—a willing receptacle, as it were, ready to receive my thoughts. I have often made the attempt at "thinking"newthings into her head—but have found this quite impossible.
Shortly after what has here been related, Lola became a "slacker" in the matter of thinking, and kept this up for days. As this pose made it impossible for me to put a serious test, I had recourse for some time to questions only, and—moreover—to questions as to which I could not be sure of the answer, without some trouble or calculation on my own part, for I felt that I might otherwise have really lost my patience with her—unless I had kept on strenuously suggesting the answer—as, for instance: "the stove is green!" Nor did I feel that I could have entirely relied on the inactivity of my subconsciousness, while thus intently thinking. So I kept to such questions as—"What will be the day of the week on such and such a date?" (Naming a date about three weeks ahead.) This precluded any possibility of thought-transference, for I simply ignored reckoning out the days myself. By the way, it is astounding that dogs should be receptive to thought-transference, though there are, of course, many proofs of a dog's acute and delicate susceptibility in relation to the thoughts of human beings, as well as a certain comprehension for a particular situation in which these may be placed. Yet such comprehension can only evince its true force when animals shall have learnt how to give expression to that of which they are aware. With reference to the incident which I have just cited, the thought that presented itself to me first, was that the entire process might possibly be no more than a matter of "suggestion." Yet, on probing further into the question, as well as by drawing comparisons, the conclusions arrived at only further confirmed what I have above stated. That this is so, will, I think, seem absolutely certain to anyone who reads through the whole of this book carefully—indeed, they will arrive at that conclusion without my labouring the question.
It was only by degrees that Lola became amenable to thought-transference, and, in fact, this was only in accordance to the extent to which she became mistress of the human tongue. Now this trait might have degenerated into a serious failing, but, owing to the measures to which I resorted so as to obviate any evil results, it has almost entirely ceased. I now remain quitepassive, while she is answering, trying to suppress any "thinkingwithher," so that, when she tires, her own individuality may not be disturbed.
ALTERATIONS AND MEMORY
As I have endeavoured to make clear—Lola was, especially during the first month of tuition, exceedingly attentive at her lessons. Indeed, her rapid progress can only be ascribed to this, and to her good memory. Nor did she only evince this alertness at her studies, but noticed everything that went on round about her, even to the following of our conversations, her keenness was surprising. It is probable that every lively and intelligent dog follows what is being said in its presence, and notes our play of feature—this accounting for the demonstrations of sympathy, and other symptoms of partisanship or of aversion they so constantly show. In general, however, such intuitive response is due rather to the dog's memory, and can only be brought to the surface and recognized where the "Spelling Method" has become a familiar mode of expression. Indeed, it may be said that its attentiveness begins then to extend over a far greater field of interest.
On the 19 April, 1916, several ladies—as yet unknown to Lola—were in the room with me. She was sitting near the window and dividing her attention between what was going on outside and in the room. After about half an hour she did some sums and some spelling, acquiting herself very well. For fun she was then asked the name of one of my guests (N.B. the lady's name was really Fräulein Herbster.) (Herbst = autumn, so we usually call her Spring) "What's the name of this girl?" I said: "Frühling" ( = Spring) was her reply at once—so that she must most obviously have been listening to us while we were talking.
On the 25 April of the same year, I went on a visit to Hohenheim, taking Lola with me. While there I showed her a picture painted by Ferdinand Leeke and said: "That was done by 'Uncle' who came to stay with us at the farm, at the time when Lola was allowed to go for her first drive in the carriage with the two horses." (This event having made a great impression on her.) "Do you remember 'Uncle's' name?" I added. "Yes!" "What is it?" "leke!" The visit had taken place quite three weeks ago.
On the 20 May I took Lola to tea at S——. She did her work there excellently—both in viva voce arithmetic, as well as in the written tests put to her, and also counted dots, etc. After this the conversation became general, and Lola was not noticed. But in the course of the afternoon I told my friends that I had been to Hagenbeck's Circus a few days before, and that I had seen a monkey dressed as a man, and that it had eaten most daintily, cycled, and done other tricks. This had been a mere casual remark, and in about an hour's time I had returned home with Lola. But that same evening, when I was sitting reading, Lola came and rapped my hands—inquiring—"wer afe?" ( = who monkey?) I was at the moment so absent minded that I did not grasp what she was after—but she repeated "afe!" Then it suddenly flashed into my mind—and I did my best to illustrate the performance to her entire satisfaction. I gave an earlier conclusive proof of her memory when I mentioned her recollection of the yard-stick after the very brief explanation I had given her on the subject two months previously. Spontaneous remarks have been allotted a special chapter in this book, and may assist in proving what has already been stated, but I should like here to add an example of how animals put a matter "to themselves," as it were, when the thingheardhas not been mentally digested, so to speak—or may even be quite incomprehensible to them.
On 26 July, 1916, I said: "Lola! nowyouthink of something to askme!" "Yes!" "Well, what is it to be?" "Yes, o h o." "What is the question? What am I to do with that word; the sentence is not complete, is it?" "What means?" "You want to know whatohomeans?" "Yes, yes!"
If we but consider the manner in which a dog will listen—with ears erect—to every word we say, the question Lola put to me will seem most natural! It even "comes naturally" to her to use words which are "above her head," so to speak, as for instance, when she said "surogat"—and in the case of Rolf, who referred to the "Urseele!" ( = the primeval soul!) Words such as these are "picked up" by them much in the way that children use words they do not know the meaning of: there may be something in the sound that attracts them, but sometimes they make a guess at the meaning, and in the case of animals, the guess is often a very good one. In Lola this "Art of Guessing" almost led to a sort of Romance!
In my Protocol of 14 December, I have the following entry: Yesterday I asked Lola to tell me why dogs prefer being with human beings rather than with other dogs—and I asked her the same question again to-day. Lola answered: "eid" ( = oath). "What is that? you were to answer me to-day: say something properly!" "ich eid." "Oh! I don't understand this! tell me nicely!" "Eid für hunde." "What isoathto mean?" "Zu schweigen!" ( = to be silent) "What? have you promised that to each other?" "Yes." "Who told you that?" "Frechi." (This was one of the dogs on the farm.) "Frechi? and what has that to do with you? Nonsense, had you told me so yesterday I should have known now! Say 'we are happy' otherwise I shall think you are telling me stories: nowwhy?" "Wegen iren augen und iren sorgen one ruhe" ( = because of their eyes and their sorrows without ceasing). Lola was very tired when she had finished, but it had all been rapped out clearly and carefully, without a single correction. Later I said: "Lola, do you like being with me?" "Yes." "Why?" "ich gut ura?" Now this was quite incomprehensible, so I said: "What do dogs feel when they look at the eyes and see the sorrows of people?" "No." "Yes, tell me?" Then with hesitation: "libe...." (Liebe = love) and to this day I feel touched at these answers. How often in trouble and in sorrow have we not found relief in a dog's sympathy, and been glad to call it a friend in our sufferings? How often has not a dog's eye filled with understanding when its master has sat alone and lost in grief—coming, perhaps, and gently laying its head upon his knees—fixing its faithful gaze on him until at length he might be moved to smile, feeling that—after all—he was not alone? Dogs! may this not be your true vocation? Indeed, this thought possessed me for a long time. This sensitive aspect had not been so apparent to me until now ... I had been so keen on the objective tests and on all that they meant—and now I was almost ready to reproach myself, for had I not centred my love and intelligence on science alone: and only in a secondary sense upon the dog?...
16 December, 1916. On this date I returned to the subject, and said to Lola: "Why do dogs go to people when they see them in sorrow—what is it they then want?" "tresten" (trösten = to console).
"Tell me, Lola, of all the people you know, who has the most sorrows?" "herni ..." But she hesitated, and then turned the "r" into an "n," so that I saw she meant me (Henny)—and yet the spelling had been done with some uncertainty, so I said: "I thought you would have named someone else, whom all dogs love—do you know who I mean?" "Yes."
"Did you mean my friend?" "No." "Who then?" "her zigler!" (Herr Dr. Ziegler) "Then why did you tell a story just now? Did you think I should be pleased to think you meant me?..."
Later in the afternoon Lola was in a state of great depression; "What is the matter?" I asked. "er in or ist aus!" I questioned her more closely, so as to get at the meaning of this enigmatical remark: "What 'in ear'?" (or being meant for Ohr = ear). She replied: "eid zu sagen" ( = oath to tell—or to say) adding "ich auch aus" ... ( = I also done for). She looked absolutely miserable, and dropped down in a limp heap between rapping out each word, as though bereft of all will-power. I was beginning to feel quite distracted about her: "Lola!" I cried, "Is there no way of putting it right again? Oh, there must be!" "Yes." "Then I will help you!" but again she rapped: "er ist aus!" (Ehre ist aus = honour is gone). She could only answer concerning something she had in her head, and she did so restlessly—though quite distinctly. The whole thing seemed quite incredible! "Lola!" I urged, "how can it be put right?" "e zu...." and here Lola cowered down miserably, and remained so for the rest of the day.
17 December. To-day Lola ran away, returning at length as depressed as ever and bleeding. After I had bathed the wounds on her neck and ears I was glad to find that they were after all, no more than deep scratches. "How did this happen?" I asked. "ich one er." "How did it happen? did you run against a tree?" "Dog." "What dog?" "az...." "Tell me properly!" "kuhno." (Kuhno was a fox-terrier in a building near by.) "And were people present?" "Yes." "Who?" "wilhelm." (And this, as I later ascertained, was the case.)
18 December: Lola looked as if she had been crying, so again I said: "What is the matter, Lola?" "No." "Lola!dotell me?" "zu rechnen" ( = her mode of expression when making evasive remarks). "No, Lola! tell me why you have been crying?" "zu sagen swer" ( = schwer: difficult to tell). "No! tell me and I will help you!" I urged (I had incidentally drawn her attention to the above mistake—the "s" instead of the "sch"). "Why difficult?" "wegen er." After a pause I asked again: "Why are you getting so thin, Lola?" (for she had lost flesh considerably during the last three days). "ich so wenig er." "Wenig essen?" ( = you have eaten little?) I suggested—"no"—"Say the last word again." "er!" She kept harping on the same word—Ehre = honour: there could be no further doubt about this, for the missing "h" was of no importance since I had taught her to spell all words according to their sound only—as there would have been no object in teaching herourorthography, embodying, as it does, so much that is cumbersome and superfluous.
21 December: Lola was still in the same broken condition: she had been off after the game since about mid-day on the 20th, and had only returned home in the evening. I addressed her with evident displeasure in my voice, saying: "Have you any excuse to make for such behaviour?" "Yes." "Then what is it?" "ich one er." ( = I am without honour). "But, Lola! you are only making things worse—if you are naughty and go off like this after the game!" "zu schwer zu leben!" ( = too difficult to live!). "Lola! how can honour be made good again?" "wen ich sterbe!" ( = if I die!) ... and here the "romance" ended (but not Lola's life!). After a few days she got better and soon became as lively as ever—the wild and excitable creature she is by nature, whom none would take to be the mother of four children—and a "learned dog"—into the bargain! The thing is—could the dog have caught up animpressionfrom some human mind—something she had heard said in conversation, and which she had—in some mysterious way—assimilated and applied to her own life? I cannot tell, but I almost feel as if this must have been the case. There can be no doubt that animalshavea sense of honour, yet it would seem unlikely for it to function in the manner above narrated. Yet how much remains still unaccounted for within a dog's soul—how many attempts at unravelling will have to be made before the right clues have been touched, which shall lead us to our goal within this labyrinth. There is so much which it is impossible to bring into co-ordination with the human psyche, for though there are many fundamental impulses, common to both man and beast, we cannot approach the subject, nor yet measure it according to our human standards, where the psychology of a dog is in question. Another thing: in educating these dogs specially reared for experimental work—we should be careful on no account to suppress those instincts, which are natural to them asdogs—i.e. their "dog-individuality," transforming this—either by praise or blame. Just as certain conceptions and feelings, held by different peoples differ fundamentally, so too, has every animal asomethingwhich isits very own, aninnate something, and this—in order to successfully accomplish our ends—must be held inviolate. Now, this is, of course, very difficult—since to instruct and educate an animal is, of itself, an infringement on its true nature—and, indeed, the same might be said respecting the life it leads among human beings. Yet I believe that where an animalfeelsthat its own inner nature is left unmolested we may often succeed in "hearing the animal speak within the animal" (if I may so put it), rather than its "human connexion." That sentence of Lola's: "wegen ihren Augen und Sorgen ohne Ruhe" ( = because of their eyes and their sorrows without ceasing) certainly "rang true"—one could feel it as the answer was being given—yet—where the meaning is dubious, as in some of her replies which followed this one, decision becomes difficult indeed!
THE CONNEXION OF IDEAS
The ability to definitely connect one idea with another is clearly apparent in the animal mind, and may be attributed to its excellent memory and powers of attention. In everyday-life this becomes apparent as the reflex of their experiences, the impressions of which, having once impinged on their sensibility have left their mark, so to speak, and this experience thus practically acquired, shows itself at times as the shrewdest of wisdom, even though we may now know how their "power of reasoning" was arrived at—without words. We need only think of the way in which animals have time and again rescued their masters—going for assistance in the most intelligent way—this being but one of the many examples which occur to my mind. Nevertheless, a combination of thoughts, such as is carried out purely on thementalplane is only possible in the case of an animal that has been trained. I had a very pretty example of this on 14 September, 1916. I had taken Lola with me to a neighbouring estate. The rain was coming down in torrents, and we sat beneath the sheltering roof of the balcony and gazed out at this flood. "Where does the rain come from—Lola?" I asked; "uzu," she replied. "And what does that mean?" I queried. "heaven." "And what is the water wanted for?" She hesitated and tapped—"ich zu taun!" "What doestaunmean? tell me differently!" (as I thought she was evading a direct answer). "funo!" "Nonsense!" "yes!" "I want to know whattaunmeans!" "when I don't hear!" "Nonsense! 'when you don't hear!'—there is some letter wrong!" "yes." "What should it be?" "b." "Taub?" ( = deaf). "yes."
A week earlier I had explained "eyes" and "ears" to her, and the meaning of blindness and deafness, and yet could not make out why she was now using the word "taub" in this connexion.
"Did you mean that you did not understand me?" "no." "Then why did you say that?" "ich er (rather reluctantly) ... or ..." "Well——? and what more?" "I won't say!" "You won't tell me?" "yes!" The next day I returned to this question, for I could not make out why she gave me such answers, and made such excuses. She well knew how determined I could be in the matter of "catechising," and that I will stand no "nonsense" when she begins her little game of rapping "1!"—the meaning of which, she had once informed me, was "I won't tell!" and the sequel to which I generally found to be that she would put me off with any word that might just happen to come into her head. But why had this remark occurred to her yesterday? I wanted to get to the bottom of it, so returning to the attack, said: "Why wouldn't you tell me yesterday what water is good for?" "I thought of ear!" "What has water to do with 'ear'?" "water in ear horrid!" Here, then, was the reason! In her very fear she had not been able to bring forth her true answer—for, owing to me, the water had got into her ears—and made this lasting and unpleasant impression—when she was being bathed—or when I threw her into a stream! The reader may already have noticed other instances where a direct connexion of ideas has occurred. I have purposely abstained from pointing to the obvious in each case, believing that anyone who is keenly interested will do so quickly enough for himself, and I am loth to weary my Public by needless repetitions.
SPONTANEOUS REPLIES
Spontaneous replies provide a special proof of this ability to form independent thoughts, and is found both among horses and dogs. Such a reply is indeed the sudden and evident utterance of some thought, and of a thought which—to it—transcends all other thoughts at the moment: one which regardless of all other questions which may at the time be put to it, looms largest, and the animal will therefore utter this remark, asked or unasked—and quite independently of any question, but more after the manner of "making an observation." Such a thought may have nothing to do with the subject in hand, and persons who are participating in this conversationà deux, can only arrive at the inference of ideas after having carefully thought the matter over—it may also be that they will fail to see any association of ideas at all. Now, it is indisputable that such replies belong to the most important category—for they may serve as proofs to those who themselves have not worked with animals for any length of time, and who, therefore, cannot become sincerely convinced as to the truth of the matter by travelling the longer road of personal test and experience. The teacher of any horse or dog of good parts does not need this proof: there are thousands of small instances which in their sum total prove important—trivial and uncertain though each one may be, when regarded by itself. It would be difficult to know how to convey these to anyone in words: glances, movements, a certain "live appeal"—it would require a poet to catch and fix—in short—to idealize—telling us the true inwardness, so that we might indeed comprehend ... and even then he would, I fear, make for weariness, when grappling with what well may seem interminable.20Here are a few examples:
16 May, 1916: Lola was doing arithmetic and I had given her some new sums. Suddenly, instead of calculating, she gives—"not reckon." I asked her the date, she replied "16"—adding of herself "too little to eat." In the course of the afternoon, Lola, who had gone with me to tea at B. L.'s, was shown some pictures: "What is that?" she was asked. "re," (ein Reh = a deer) "segen haus, ich wenig nur arbeite." "Will you do more here?" "yes." "Arithmetic?" "Yes, yes!" (very joyfully) and excellent replies followed.
3 January, 1916: On this date I began teaching her the capital letters of the Latin alphabet; A = a, B = b, and so on, when she suddenly "butted in" with "go out." As she had worked very well up to that moment I opened the door and let her out. But in five minutes she was back, looking anything but pleased; "Well, didn't you like it?" I asked; "no!" "Why?" "come too!" I venture to think that I have here given good proof in the matter of "spontaneous" utterances, the best, perhaps, being the one given at B. L.'s, where she complained of having done insufficient work, for her fault-finding was generally the other way round! But she has always loved to show off in that particular circle, sensing no doubt the friendly interest taken in her there.
WRONG AND UNCERTAIN ANSWERS
If Lola is tired she will either not work at all, or—at most—work badly, which is but natural! Yet there is another and even more frequent reason than fatigue for her indifferent work. The dog may to all appearances be bright and fresh—leading me to expect the very best results, and yet—with everything seemingly in her favour, she may that day be an utter failure. This is particularly unpleasant if on one of these occasions visitors happen to be present, and more especially should there be sceptics among them. For this failure to respond where the subject happens to be one in which she has repeatedly given brilliant proofs of what she reallycando, is embarrassing and humiliating, for then those who are only too ready to scoff merely feel their case strengthened. Indeed, it needs some determination to keep one's temper on such occasions, yet to "let oneself go" even for one moment—would mean weeks of painful and laborious uphill work in order to regain the dog's confidence. One is often entirely at a loss as to the reason of this "inward withstanding," which may even elude long and careful investigation. Now and again the answers may not be forthcoming when one is alone with her, and behold—! a stranger enters the room, and she becomes all friendly eagerness to do her best: then again, the exact reverse of this may be the case, or on some days she may be useless both alone and before company. There have been times when she has been delightful and engaging in every way—till work was mentioned ... when the whole expression of her face would change, and she would assume her "stupid look," deliberately, so it would seem, rapping out the simplest answer wrongly! The very act of rapping is at such times a mere careless dragging of her paw—as though it had nothing to do with the rest of her body. Pleading, threats, the nicest of tit-bits—all are then unavailing, and she remainsseeminglyidiotic—the mere sight of her being enough to drive one wild!—for low be it spoken—it is the sheerest impudence!!! Indeed, the visitor who does not know her, and happens to "strike" on one of these bad days, would have to be dowered with more than his share of amiability and imagination, should he be able to mentally visualize anything approaching "brilliant accomplishments" in the face of one of these fiascos. Whether these "turns" be due to sudden obstinacy, to some feeling of injury inflicted either by myself or the onlooker—to what on earth such tempers be due I cannot tell! but I have put up with this sort of thing for two hours at a stretch sometimes, keeping my self-control till at length I have had to rush out of the room—relinquishing every hope of victory for that day, and with a feeling of what seemed almost hatred against this unreasonable beast! although I must say that such feelings do not last very long—for I am not a good "hater"—and then ... Lola would soon try to "make it up again" in some touching way!
I may say that for the first four months she worked splendidly before strangers, and quite as well with me, but from that time onward her work was equallyuncertain—both in the presence of others and when alone with me. I know of no cause for this, I can only say that I often seemed to "sense" about her a feeling as though she considered these labours superfluous; as though she had become in a manner "disillusioned" as to the "results" accruing from her work. Was the praise, or were the rewards inadequate? the fact remains, that on such days utterly senseless answers were the most one could get after constant and persuasive questioning, while the solutions of her sums would be completely wrong. When once the novelty was gone, indifference and lack of interest soon took its place, and this applies to everything she learnt. In the beginning, close attention, and keen alertness—resulting in ready and intelligent replies, then a sudden slackening, so that it would seem useless for me to pursue the same subject again for weeks. This tiresome trait (which, by the way, I can in part appreciate) may, I fear, in time attack her spelling too—and then everything will be over, as far as Lola is concerned. Not that she will be getting more stupid with increasing age! indeed, as she grows older, she will probably be better than ever able to understand what is said to her, but she will no longer find it worth her while to pull herself together so as to do decent work. I shall, of course, do all I can as far as trying to influence her so as to put off the evil moment—but the fact is that one has here to do with a remarkably sensitive and obstinate living-creature, and one that is quite able—though in a passive way—to maintain its own standpoint.
I shall now give a few specimens of thealmostunintelligible answers dragged from her, as it were, after much grave reproach:
16 August, 1916: "Lola, rap something!" "mal one lif unartig sein." "What is the meaning of 'lif'? do you mean 'when you ran'?" (lief = ran, the past tense of laufen = to run). "no." "Did you learn that word from me?" "yes." "Then explain yourself." "ich rante in wald zu re" ( = I ran in the wood after deer). Apparently she was in no mood for explanations, and it was only after wrestling with her that I could get any sequence of words at all. At other times when urged to get on with the subject she will in her contrariness rap as follows: "o zu ich" or "e wo zu" or "zum zu wozu" or "we" and so on—letters with which it is rarely possible to put together even such small words aswo( = where) orzu( = to, or for) and the longer one persists on such occasions, the more senseless her remarks become; it is the rarest thing for her to suddenly pull herself together so as to give a proper answer. And here again I can find no excuse for her behaviour; though it may be that she dislikes my persistence, and therefore has recourse to any nonsense by way of a quick reply! So as to get her in some manner to recognize the errors of her ways I have again and again persevered with the utmost patience, so as to arrive at some consistent answer—yet all I have succeeded in arousing, has been increased reluctance on the dog's part.
MATTERS WHICH—SO FAR—ARE UNACCOUNTED FOR, OR UNEXPLAINED
As will, indeed, be evident, there is still much that remains unexplained; much that it will be the task of the future to throw light upon. Tests which have been but uncertain in their results; accidental discoveries, the importance of which only becomes evident, after the results have been tested in connexion with a number of animals. Among these may be placed the more recent experiments dealing with the sense of scent, undertaken by Professor Jaeger, and in this category should be placed also what I think to be a rather interesting test connected with Lola: I was at the time staying with my family at Hohenheim, and I asked the dog how many pups her mother had had—including herself: she answered "12." I inquired of Professor Kraemer if this was so, and he said that at the time at which he had seen them there had only been eleven. I then made the same inquiry in Mannheim, and found that there had been twelve, but that one had died immediately after birth. It was the only instance of which Lola knew about a dog having pups, so one day I asked her in fun (19 June, 1916). "How many children will you have?" (Thinking that the answer would be 12). At first she replied with "yes!" "Do you know how many? why that's impossible!" But she rapped "9." "How many boys?" I asked. "3." "And how many girls?" "6." I thought that this statement was due merely to her desire to make some answer, so I put the same question the next day—but the reply was again, "9." So I told my friend about this and we awaited the interesting event in much suspense—it took place on the 22 June, 1916, in the presence of my friend, the housekeeper and myself and—there were nine puppies! two males and seven little lady-dogs. I kept two of each, the others being put to death at once by one of the farm hands, for—owing to the war, as well as to the fact that the pups were not thoroughbreds, I could not undertake to bring them all up. But, the question is—how could Lola have known that there would be nine?21