Inside of a Dog_ What Dogs See, Smell, and Know - Alexandra Horowitz [9]
The point of this tale of the tick is that the tick's self-world is different than ours in unimagined ways: what it senses or wants; what its goals are. To the tick, the complexity of persons is reduced to two stimuli: smell and warmth—and it is very intent on those two things. If we want to understand the life of any animal, we need to know what things are meaningful to it. The first way to discover this is to determine what the animal can perceive: what it can see, hear, smell, or otherwise sense. Only objects that are perceived can have meaning to the animal; the rest are not even noticed, or all look the same. The wind that whisks through the grasses? Irrelevant to the tick. The sounds of a childhood birthday party? Doesn't appear on its radar. The delicious cake crumbs on the ground? Leave the tick cold.
Second, how does the animal act on the world? The tick mates, waits, drops, and feeds. So the objects of the universe, for the tick, are divided into ticks and non-ticks; things one can or cannot wait upon; surfaces one might or might not drop onto; and substances one may or may not want to feed on.
Thus, these two components—perception and action—largely define and circumscribe the world for every living thing. All animals have their own umwelten—their own subjective realities, what von Uexküll thought of as "soap bubbles" with them forever caught in the middle. We humans are enclosed in our own soap bubbles, too. In each of our self-worlds, for instance, we are very attentive to where other people are and what they are doing or saying. (By contrast, imagine the tick's indifference to even our most moving monologues.) We see in the visual range of light, we hear audible noises, and we smell strong odors placed in front of our noses. On top of that each individual creates his own personal umwelt, full of objects with special meaning to him. You can most clearly see this last fact by letting yourself be led through an unknown city by a native. He will steer you along a path obvious to him, but invisible to you. But the two of you share some things: neither of you is likely to stop and listen to the ultrasonic cry of a nearby bat; neither of you smells what the man passing you had for dinner last night (unless it involved a lot of garlic). We, the ticks, and every other animal dovetail into our environment: we are bombarded with stimuli, but only a very few are meaningful to us.
The same object, then, will be seen (or, better, sensed—some animals do not see well or at all) by different animals differently. A rose is a rose is a rose. Or is it? To a human a rose is a certain kind of flower, a gift between lovers, and a thing of beauty. To the beetle, a rose is perhaps an entire territory, with places to hide (on the underside of a leaf, invisible to aerial predators), hunt (in the head of the flower where ant nymphs grow), and lay eggs (in the joint of the leaf and stem). To the elephant, it is a thorn barely detectable underfoot.
And to the dog, what is a rose? As we'll see, this depends upon the construction of the dog, both in body and brain. As it turns out, to the dog, a rose is neither a thing of beauty nor a world unto itself. A rose is undistinguished from the rest of the plant matter surrounding it—unless it has been urinated upon by another dog, stepped on by another animal, or handled by the dog's owner. Then it gains vivid interest, and becomes far more significant to the dog than even the well-presented rose is to us.
PUTTING OUR UMWELT CAPS ON
Discerning the salient elements in an animal's world—his umwelt