Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know (20 page)

A gaze is more than it seems: by gazing at someone, one very nearly
acts
upon him. As my students discover in their field experiments, eye contact comes close to feeling like actual tactile contact. There are undiscussed and yet widely shared rules governing eye contact with others—violation of which may be seen as an act of aggression or of intimacy. We may stare down someone in an attempt to subdue them, or, alternatively, use a long, steady gaze to indicate a more lustful interest.

With a little variation, this could as easily describe how many non-human animals use eye contact. Between apes, eye contact is steeped with importance: it can be used as an aggressive action, and will be avoided by a submissive member of a troop. To stare at a dominant animal is to invite yourself to be attacked. Not only do chimpanzees avoid staring, they avoid being stared at. Subordinate chimps carry themselves despondently, looking down at the ground or their own feet and only furtively glancing around them. In wolves, too, a direct stare may be taken as a threat. So the "aggressive" element of eye contact is the same as with humans. The variation is this: all non-human animals with any meaningful visual capacities will turn their eyes to something of interest—but if the thing-of-interest is a member of their species, the social pressure of gazing usually deflects the gaze of interest.

Thus we can expect that dogs might act somewhat differently than we do with regards to mutual gaze. As dogs evolved from a species in which a stare is most often a threat, we might do best to consider their avoidance of eye contact less an inability than a result of their evolutionary history. But wait! Dogs do look at our faces. They look at each other in the center of the face: at eye level. Most dog owners will report that their dogs gaze at them directly in the eyes.*

So something changed with dogs. While the threat of aggression prevents mutual gaze among wolves, chimpanzees, and monkeys, for dogs the information to be gained by looking us in the eyes is worth enduring any residual, ancient fear that a stare might cause an attack. That humans respond well to a dog gazing at them is a happy circumstance—and our bond with them is thereby strengthened.

To be sure, it may be less "eye contact" than "face contact."* Because of the superficial anatomy of the dog eye—the lack of distinct iris and whites of the eye—specific eye direction can often only be confirmed from closer range than scientists' video cameras have gotten. Generations of dog breeders have tended to prefer the trait of dark eyes in their charges. Dogs with light-colored irises are often thought to look volatile or sneaky—ironically because we can see clearly when they avoid eye contact. By breeding out the light irises we do not eliminate shiftiness, just our
awareness
of the fact that dogs shift their gaze. Darting eyes become less conspicuous. We sleep better at night with a calm-featured dog at the foot of our bed than with a nervous eye-darter. For all intents and purposes, though, we can say that a dog and human "mutually gaze" when we turn our faces toward each other.

The primal pull of gaze still affects dogs' behavior. If you stare unblinkingly at your dog, he may look away. Approached by a dog who appears overly aggressive or overly interested, a dog can diffuse some of that excitement by glancing to the side. Your chastisement or accusation of your dog accompanied by a glare may also provoke a demure averral of the dog's gaze. Given the easily recognized shifty look of the guilty man confronted by his accuser, it is no wonder that we attribute the same to the gaze-avoiding dog. The refusal to look us in the eyes contributes to a look of guilt—especially when we are already certain they have done something to inspire it. Whether they are themselves feeling guilt or atavism is not obvious.

But the fact that dogs will look us in the eyes allows us to treat them as a little more human. We apply to them the implicit rules that accompany human conversations. It is not uncommon to see a dog owner pause from scolding a "bad dog" to physically turn the dog's head back toward the owner's face. We want dogs to look at us when we are talking to them—just as we use gaze in human conversation, in which listeners look at the face of the speaker more than the reverse. (Notably, we do not stare at each other non-stop in conversation, and might feel unsettled if someone did.) There is more direct eye contact among humans speaking intimately or honestly, and we tend to extend that conversational dynamic to our dogs. We call their names before speaking to them, treating them like willing, if taciturn, interlocutors.

It doesn't happen at once, but not long after bringing a dog or puppy to your home for the first time you might notice something: nothing in the house is safe. Dogs train humans to become suddenly tidy: putting away shoes and socks almost as soon as they are removed; taking out the trash well before it heaps high; leaving nothing on the floor that could fit into the gaping mouth of a teething, excited, unrestrained pup. A temporary peace may ensue. After all, you can put things behind closed doors, into shut cabinets, and onto high shelves. Dogs look, baffled, in the area from which the (shoe, takeout container, hat) has mysteriously gone missing. But soon you will notice that the dog has learned something new:
you
are the source of the mysterious relocations—and you have a tendency to tip your hand.

How? You look. When we pick up the sock and set it down, we're not just attached to it by a hand; the action is accompanied by a gaze. We look where we are going. Later, we may look again at that safe sock spot when discussing the dog's earlier thievery. Again our gaze reveals the location of the sock: the gaze is itself information. We have already met this ability to use the direction of another's gaze, so-called
gaze following,
which infants do before reaching one year old. Dogs do it even sooner.

A gaze that intends to share information is simply a point done without hands. Following a point is a slightly simpler ability. Certainly dogs see a lot of pointing and gesturing as they observe human members of their families. This may be the source of their gaze-following ability, or it may simply bring out an innate ability to glean any information possible from our behavior. Researchers have tested the limits of their ability, natural or learned, in various experiments that put dogs in a context where they can get information from a person's pointing gesture. For instance, a biscuit or other desired food might be hidden under one of two inverted buckets while the dog subject is out of the room. When all odor cues are masked, the dog has to make a decision which bucket to choose. If he chooses correctly, he is rewarded with the food; if not, he is rewarded with nothing. A person who knows which bucket to choose is standing nearby.

Chimpanzees have been given variations of this task in captive research settings. Surprisingly, though they seem to follow points, they don't always do well at following gaze alone.

Dogs perform admirably. They follow points, points that reach across the pointer's body, points from behind the body, and are even better if the point includes a finger further signifying the baited bucket.* They haven't simply learned the importance of an outstretched arm. Pointing with elbows, knees, and legs also serves as information. Given even a momentary point—a glance of a point—the information is theirs. They can follow the pointed cue given by a life-sized video projection of their owner. Though they have no arms with which to point themselves, they outperform the chimps who have been tested. Best, dogs can use simply the person's head direction—her gaze—to get information. You may be able to hide that sock from your sock-coveting chimpanzee, but your dog will spot it.

The first of these abilities, when seen in children, is called "attention-getting." Informally, you may know it as anything that your dog does to interfere with what you are currently trying to do. More formally, these are behaviors that are sufficient to change the focus of someone else's attention, by stepping into his visual field, making a discernible noise, or making contact. Suddenly jumping on you is a familiar dog attention-getting behavior, if not one that is well loved by the jumped-upon. Barking is another. Their attention-getting means aren't restricted to the quotidian, though. Less recognized means include bumping, pawing, or simply orienting oneself right up in front of someone else: what I have called an
in-your-face
in my data of dog play behaviors. Guide dogs use "sonorous mouth licking"—audible slurps—to get the attention of their visually impaired charges when needed. The excitement of play sometimes leads them to come up with novel techniques, too. My favorite sessions to observe are those in which an eager but frustrated dog mirrors the behavior of the object of his unrequited play interest: approaching and drinking from the bowl from which the first dog is drinking—and using it as a means toward licking his face; or grabbing a stick of his own when another dog finds a good stick to be sufficient company.

Dogs use attention-getters regularly with us, and are often rewarded with our attention. But unless they show some subtlety in application of these behaviors, their use does not prove their full understanding of our attention. It may be that they are simply throwing all the tools they have at the problem of needing you to look at them. A child hollers, you come racing to his side: an attention-getter is born. Observations of dogs playing with humans show just how crude or subtle their use of these behaviors is. There are dogs who will stand barking continuously over a retrieved tennis ball, while their owners socialize with members of their own species. While a good attention-getter, a bark is not well applied if it continues to be used after it has failed to get attention. On the other hand, there is also evidence of very subtle visual attention-getters by dogs in reaction to the divided attention of their owners. By changing posture, as from a seated posture to standing, or from standing to approaching, dogs are able to reengage the owner enough to toss a ball or lunge playfully.

You are regularly a witness to the flexibility dogs show in attention-getting. If your dog did not rouse you from your armchair and novel by simply approaching you, he may have wandered off only to return carrying a shoe or another verboten item. Probably this causes you to chastise him gently and return to your book. More serious tactics are needed, he sees. Next may come whining, or a tentative woof; a tactile intervention—a slight push with a wet nose, nuzzling, or jumping; even a loud drop to the floor at your feet with a sigh. They are trying their best with you here.

So far, the dogs have kept pace with the developing child: gazing, following a point, following gaze, and using attention-getters. Do they also point, as best they can, with their bodies? Do they point with their heads to
show
you something?

Here again, experimenters set up a situation that they presumed would prompt the behavior, if the ability exists. The scenario is the gaze-following task, inverted. Instead of being the naïve ones, in these cases the dogs are informed but impotent: they alone witness an experimenter hiding a treat, damnably out of their reach. Their owners then wander into the room, and experimenters train their cameras on the dogs: Do they see the owners as tools which can help them? If so, do they communicate the location of the treat?