Pointing

 

Ha.  Have just had one of those Life with Other Species moments.  Darkness, when he wants something, comes and sits at me.  Sits at me.  I guess most dogs that have been taught to sit do this, but style and manner vary, as does level of enigma.  Sid sits at Kes much the way Darkness sits at me, but Mongo sits at Maggie very differently.  I predict the hellterror will have her own style.  At the moment a sitting hellterror only means SOMETIMES I GET FOOD WHEN I DO THIS AND I’M STARVING.*  Sid and Darkness’ sitting however can be very high on the enigmatic graph.

So I look down, and there’s Darkness who, once he’s got my attention, sits.  Now we play Twenty Questions, while I try to figure out what he wants.  About half the time he gives up with a sigh and goes back to the hellhound bed.  Or maybe all he wanted was to bamboozle me for a minute or two.  Tonight, however, he turned his head very deliberately and stared at the water dish.

Pavlova, I’m sorry to say, drools in her water.  Indeed she makes such colossal mess I keep looking for the egg beater that extrudes from an invisible orifice every time she goes to take a drink.  I’m not entirely sure she actually swallows any water:  chiefly she churns it up.  And drools.  She seems to enjoy the process however and this form of amusement is much to be preferred to trying to get my knitting away from her (again).  Chaos will put up with post-Pavlova water.  Darkness won’t.  I usually remember to change it once she’s imprisoned in her crate again** . . . but occasionally I forget.

I humbly got up, rinsed the water bowl out carefully, and put fresh water down.  Darkness had a nice long drink and is now content with his world.

Which brings up something else.   What just happened is what happened.  Darkness, having deliberately sought and got my attention, directed it to the water dish.  He got up and stood beside me as I rinsed it out and refilled it, and followed me to where I put it down.  And immediately drank, and then went away and lay down.  Anyone who lives with critters will have similar stories.

A few nights ago I was listening to some high-minded interview with some fancy philosopher bloke.  Who in the middle of saying something relatively interesting about being human, added, and we’re the only animal who points.

What?

He went on about this for several minutes.  He seemed to think it was important.  I was thinking, you don’t have any pets, do you, mate?  Now if you’re going to define pointing strictly as the extended forefinger with the other three fingers held back with the opposable thumb, well, yes, we’re the only critter who does that because we’re the only critter with true opposable thumbs.  But if you mean, as you should mean, pointing as a way of making someone else look at something indicated by you . . . certainly dogs, cats, horses and (domestic) birds do it, and I’m sure the list is a lot longer, that’s just what comes immediately off the top of my head.  There’s even a dog called a pointer, because he, um, points.  Sure, he (or she) is bred and trained to do it, but how does that invalidate it?  He’s directing your attention to something you have told him you want your attention directed to.  Seeing Eye dogs do it.  Those increasingly capable Companion Dogs do it for their variously-abled humans.

In the lurcher (and I think terrier) world what the hunting pointer does is called ‘marking’ and is a lot less flashy, but it’s the same continuum.  And while generally you learn how your dog marks, rather than trying to teach her to do it your way***, a lot of dogs, having found prey, will look round to make eye contact with you and check that you’re on board with what they’ve found:  LOOK BOSS.  DINNER.†

That’s pointing.  And I’m not a philosopher.

* * *

* One of the reasons you PUT UP WITH FRELLING DOMESTIC FAUNA is because they make you laugh.  Pavlova, when she is feeling especially neglected will follow me around and plonk her butt down every time she catches my eye.  In a minute, I say, I’m washing up/hanging laundry/ordering more yarn/dusting^, and you’re not starving.  Plonk.  Plonk.  I am.  Starving.  Plonk.

^ DUSTING?  No, no, surely not dusting.

** She’s now broken two of those plastic attach-to-wall-of-crate water dishes.  This gets old, expensive and messy.  So she plays with the hellhounds’ water when she’s loose.

*** If you’re dealing with a critter with a lot of sighthound blood, I recommend that you do as much of the adapting as mere-humanly possible.

† Chaos does this faithfully.  Darkness does it late, carelessly, and resignedly:  you’re just going to let this one go too, aren’t you?