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
she _can_ state 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 her _why_ a 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 I _do_ ask 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 first _at all_ that
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 their _naïveté_ will
show their picture-book to a dog as to a friend: "Look here!" they will
cry--it is only the _exception_ when 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 dog _can_ recognize 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 they _do_ out-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 her _reading_ them than by the _swiftness_ with 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 the _comprehension_ of
what it is doing, and the _speed_ with 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 Lola _alone_, 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, "from _here_ to _here_?" (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 within _half_ a 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 would _scream_ for 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 reached _half 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_, _h_[15], _e_), having learnt these in her alphabet, so I only had
to strike the keys (and I confined myself to the _white_ ones, 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.
[15] _h_ is the term used in Germany for the note we call _b_.
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 only _once_
from 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, _c_ being associated with them twice. At this Lola rapped
"4," so I said: "You are to tell me _every_ note 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 been _five_). So the words purported to be "ne
deresf." I could make nothing of it and asked her again--"What _is_
deresf?" 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 I _ought to see that she was right_--as though _I ought to
know it_.
[16] Maulburg, near Schopfheim, in Baden, where Lola had visited
relations of mine.
"Are you _sure_ of the name?" I persisted--and she replied: "mittel."[17]
Here we ended--and unfortunately I have not been able to ascertain so
far what this particular variety of fur is!
[17] Mittel = unbestimmt (uncertain; from Mitte = middle.)
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!"