(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 putting _ich_ = "I!") "Naughty" referred, probably to
a _strafe_ she 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]
[19] Chapter XVIII, "Spontaneous Answers."
Up to this time, it had only been in the matter of _replies_ that 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 you _feel_ what I was thinking?" "Yes." "And do
you _always_ feel 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 of _feeling_--a willing receptacle, as it were, ready to receive
my thoughts. I have often made the attempt at "thinking" _new_ things
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 quite _passive_, while she is answering, trying to
suppress any "thinking _with_ her," 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 thing _heard_ has not been mentally
digested, so to speak--or may even be quite incomprehensible to them.
On 26 July, 1916, I said: "Lola! now _you_ think of something to ask
_me_!" "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 what _oho_ means?" "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 is _oath_ to 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: now _why_?" "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! _do_ tell 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 her _our_
orthography, 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 an _impression_ from 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 animals _have_ a 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 as
_dogs_--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 a
_something_ which is _its very own_, an _innate 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 animal _feels_
that 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 the _mental_ plane 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
does _taun_ mean? tell me differently!" (as I thought she was evading a
direct answer). "funo!" "Nonsense!" "yes!" "I want to know what _taun_
means!" "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.