Inside of a Dog_ What Dogs See, Smell, and Know - Alexandra Horowitz [95]
In particular, dogs are quite capable of concealing behavior, acting to deflect attention from their true motives. Given what we know about their understanding of mind, it is entirely within their reach to deceive. And given that it is a rudimentary understanding, their deception is not always very good. This too is childlike, as in the two-year-old child who puts his hands over his eyes to "hide" from a parent: partway to hiding, but not quite getting the essence of "hidden." Dogs show both imaginative insights and inadequacies. They do not work to hide the spoils of an overturned trash can or a messy roll in the grass. But they do act in ways to conceal their true intent. To stretch forward idly next to a dog playing with a treasured toy—only to get close enough to snatch it. To shriek overly dramatically when bitten in play, thereby ending a momentary disadvantage as the playmate stops in shock. These behaviors may begin fortuitously, with accidental actions that turn out to yield happy consequences. Once noticed, they will be produced again and again. It only remains now for an experimenter to provide an opportunity for dogs to intentionally deceive one another—unless they are too clever to let their scheming be revealed.
A dog's age (About emergencies and death)
With age she uses her eyes less; she looks at me less.
With age she would rather stand than walk, lie than stand—and so she lies next to me outside with her head between her legs, nose still alert to the smells on the breeze.
With age she has become more stubborn, insisting on hoisting herself up stairs without help.
With age the difference is amplified between her day mood—reluctant to walk, extra-sniffy—and her evening mood—pulling me out the door, a spring in her step, willing to forsake smells for a jaunty tour around the block.
With age I have been given a gift: the details of Pump's existence have become even more alive. I started seeing the geography of smells she checks up on in the neighborhood; I feel how long are the periods she waits for me; I hear the way she speaks volumes by simply standing; I see her efforts to cooperate when I goad her to trot across the street.
Every dog that you name and bring home will also die. This inescapable, dreadful fact is part of our lot for introducing dogs into our lives. What is less certain is whether our dogs themselves have any inkling of their own mortality. I inspect Pump for any sign that she notices the age of her sniffmates on the sidewalks; notes the disappearance of the old droopy-eared fella with the cloudy eyes from down the block; observes her own slowed and stiff gait, graying fur, and lethargic mood.
It is our grasp of the fragility of our own existence that makes us wary of risky undertakings, cautious for ourselves and those we love. Our mortal knowledge may not be visible in all of our moves, but it shines through in some: we shrink back from the balcony's edge, from the animal with unknown intent; we buckle up for safety; we look both ways before crossing; we don't jump in the tiger cage; we refrain from the third serving of fried ice cream; we even entertain not swimming after eating. If dogs know about death, it might show in how they act.
I would prefer that dogs not know. On the one hand, when I have been confronted with a dying dog, I wanted to be able to explain to her her situation—as though an explanation would be a comfort. On the other, despite many owners' habit of giving explanations to their dogs for every command or event (come ON, I overhear regularly in the park, we've got to go home so Mommy can get to work …), dogs do not seem comforted by explanations. A life untrammeled by knowledge of its end is an enviable life.
There are a few indications that we should not envy them much. One comes from their own balcony aversion: for the most part dogs reflexively withdraw from true danger, be