What Bagel is looking for when he looks back at me

The first time my father-in-law met Bagel, he remarked on how Bagel would only roam 50 feet or so out in front of us, and then stop, turn and look at us, as though to say, "Am I still going the right way?" In the past, when Bagel has done this, I have always smiled at him and said something reassuring (to me, anyway), like, "It's okay, Bagel," and gestured down the path, as though I were urging him onward. But, my smiling words always seemed to confuse him -- he had an expression of irritation, as though he wasn't getting what he wanted from me.

Today, I was walking with Bagel in the woods, and he was doing the same thing -- heading out about 50 feet in front of me, and pausing to stare back at me. I started to wonder if maybe he wasn't looking for verbal reassurance and a smile, but was actually searching my eyes for information on where our pack-of-two was headed next. If that were the case, it would probably make more sense to him if I looked in the direction I wanted him to go, rather than looking at him.

So I decided to try it out. The next time Bagel looked back at me, I stared straight past him and kept walking straight ahead, with a sense of purpose. It worked like a charm. With the briefest of glances at my face, Bagel seemed to get the information he was looking for, and continued running ahead of me in the same direction.

Aha! I was onto something! Once I knew that, I couldn't resist experimenting a little. The next time Bagel looked back at me, I continued looking straight ahead, but I stopped in my tracks and tensed up. Bagel stopped in his tracks and stared dead ahead. Not seeing what was concerning me (because there wasn't anything), he ran back to me and stood behind me, allowing me to be the first to face the mystery-threat. Wow! Hidden powers!

After we had continued and Bagel had resumed his place out in front, I tried stopping abruptly and looking sideways into the woods. He got quite a bit ahead of me before he realized that I had stopped, but once he did, he stopped immediately and followed my gaze into the woods. Not seeing what I was fixated on, he ran back to me and stood behind me again... with no command, no urging, and no reinforcement from me whatsoever. He was obeying his own law.

The next time, I didn't want Bagel to get so far ahead of me before he stopped, so I decided to try something I read in Watership Down when I was eleven -- I thumped my foot on the ground a few times as a warning signal, and fixed my gaze into the woods on the right. This time, Bagel responded immediately, bolting back to my side. (I'm not really sure why; as far as I know, dogs don't thump their feet in warning like rabbits. But if it works, hey, go with it.)

Last came the acid test. I saw people up ahead in the woods and decided to try my new technique again, in what would be a very difficult situation for Bagel. (Bear in mind that Bagel is possibly the most enthusiastic greeter this side of a Disney parade. Every person we encounter is a cherished idol he has always dreamed of meeting.) He was only about 20 feet from his new best friends -- and I was a distant and fading memory -- but when I did my warning stomps and stared into the woods, Bagel sprinted back to me and hid behind me as he waited for my decision on how we would react to whatever I saw in the woods.

I'm excited about this discovery. Not only has it cleared up what Bagel needs from me when he glances back at me, but it has given me a valuable new way to communicate with him in his own language.

P.S. As a side note, this confirms what I have felt to be true for a long time -- that Bagel still regards me as the "pack leader" even when he walking ahead of me. He's still following my cues and looking to me for direction. It's important not to reduce dog behavior to dominance and submission -- it's not always a black-and-white thing.

Jane Goodall and the Tricky Chimp

I am reading Jane Goodall's magnificent book In the Shadow of Man, where she first shared with the world her experience of living among chimpanzees in the jungles of eastern Africa. The book is full of fascinating stories that show the chimps to be capable of much higher levels of thought than I ever imagined. One such story was about a clever youngster that Jane called Figan.

Jane had set up a feeding station in the forest where she would leave bananas, and hide nearby to observe the chimps' interactions. (I want that job.) More often than not, the adult males would hog all of the bananas, and the females and youngsters would leave empty-handed. So she started hiding the odd banana here and there up in trees so that the females and juveniles could find them while the adult males were feasting at the main feeding station.

Jane first discovered that a toddler chimp named Figan was a little rascal when she saw him spot a banana she had hidden in a tree, and then deliberately avoid sitting near it or looking at it. Evidently, chimps are very attuned to one another's eye movements, and if Figan had looked at the banana, he would have drawn the attention of one of the adults, who would have taken it. Instead, Figan patiently waited until they had left, and then he snatched it for himself.

But that fake-out was only the beginning of Figan's antics. One day, as Jane sat watching the chimps at the feeding station, Figan stood up and marched purposefully into the forest. The adult chimps got up and followed him -- as chimps evidently do, when one gets up and walks off -- leaving the bananas behind. A few minutes later, Figan returned, unencumbered by the adults, and had all the bananas to himself!

Jane said that this first occurrence may have been a lucky coincidence, but in the coming days, Figan repeated it again and again -- leading the adults away from the bananas, and coming back for a solitary feast. As skeptical as I am of attributing human motives to animal behavior, it's hard not to see this as a kind of trickery.

After Figan had used this ploy several times, one day he returned alone to the bananas only to discover that someone had beaten him to the punch. An adult male was guarding and eating the bananas, and Figan couldn't even get close. Figan screamed and beat the earth with his fists, jumped up and down, and in all other ways threw a classic temper tantrum.

This is fascinating to me because Figan was so much more upset by being deprived of bananas when his plan failed than he was when the adults were guarding the bananas to begin with. He could tolerate not getting any food during the group meal because it was normal - adults eat first. But when the same reality presented itself as his plot gone awry, it was unbearable. To me, this speaks to Figan's ability to make plans and project outcomes, and to compare the projected outcome with the actual outcome. (The best laid plans of mice and men, young Figan.)

I can't think of any other animal I've ever worked with who could manage anything close to that level of cognition. When Bagel wants our dinners, he telegraphs it loud and clear, with whines and stares. When we get up to go to the kitchen, he instantly moves in, reminding us to move our plates to higher ground. If he could feign disinterest, he would have a much better chance at a free buffet. Or, if like Figan, he could deliberately create a distraction -- suddenly barking at a closet door, for example -- we would probably take the bait and have a look inside, while he enjoyed our dinners. Alas, poor Bagel, you are as transparent as the water in your bowl, but I love you for it.