Dogs and Philosophers

Dogs and Philosophers

The Greek philosopher Plato had a very high opinion of the dog’s intellect. He de-  scribed the “noble dog” as a “lover of learning” and a “beast worthy of wonder.” In  one of his dialogues he presents a discussion between Socrates and Glaucon in  which Socrates, after much analysis, eventually convinces his disciple that his dog

“is a true philosopher.”

Plato’s contemporary Diogenes, another significant Greek philosopher, al-  though more eccentric than most, became known for wandering the world with a  lamp claiming to be “looking for an honest man.” While he had his doubts about  humans, Diogenes thought dogs were extremely moral and intelligent and even  adopted the nickname “Cyon,” which means “Dog.” He would go on to found one  of the great ancient schools of philosophy, and he and his followers would become  known by his nickname as “Cynics” or “Dog Thinkers.” Diogenes’ own intelligence  and wit were such that Alexander the Great, after meeting him in Corinth, went  away saying, “If I were not Alexander, I should wish to be Diogenes.” 

When Diogenes died, the people of Athens raised a great marble pillar in his  memory. On top of the pillar was the image of a dog. 

  “A dog.”

  “His name?”

  “Diogenes.”

There are many times when the behavior of my own dogs brings me back to the  admiring views of Plato and Diogenes. One cold rainy day, when I was feeling too  tired and uncomfortable to take my dogs on their usual morning walk, they had to  content themselves with being let out in the yard for a short while. For my flat-  coated retriever, Odin, this simply was not an acceptable situation and, late in the  afternoon, I was disturbed from my reading by a clatter at my feet. I looked down  and noticed that Odin had somehow found his leash and deposited it on the floor.  I picked it up, put it on the sofa next to me, and gave him a pat and a reassuring 

“Later, Odin.” 

A few minutes passed and there was another clatter at my feet; I found that  Odin had now deposited one of my shoes beside me. When I didn’t respond, he  quickly retrieved the other shoe and put it down next to me. Obviously, to his  mind, I was being quite dense or stubborn, since I still delayed going out into the  cold and wet weather.

It was a distinctive sound that he only used when my wife, Joan, was  approaching the door. I had spent several years teaching at a university in New  York City and had developed the habit typical of New Yorkers, which involves al-  ways locking doors, even on days when I was inside working at home. This tended  to annoy Joan, who grew up in the safer and less paranoid environment of Alberta,  Canada. So when Odin gave his “Joan is here” bark, I got up to unlock the door  rather than leave her fumbling for her keys in the rain and getting annoyed with my  inconvenient habit. The moment I got within a foot or two of the door, Odin  dashed back to the sofa and grabbed his leash. Before I had even determined that  Joan’s car had not arrived in its usual place, he was nudging my hand with the  leash he carried in his mouth.

I started to laugh at his subterfuge. I could imagine his mental discourse of the  past few minutes running something like “I want a walk, so here’s my leash.—OK,  I’ve brought you your shoes, so let’s walk.—All right now, while you’re already  standing at the door, and while I’m now offering you the leash, why don’t we just  take that walk?” I have obviously added to Odin’s behavior a whole lot of rea-  soning, an internal dialogue, and the idea that there was some kind of conscious  planning involved; however, these behaviors certainly would have been consistent  with his actions. And by the way, he did get his walk.