Intelligence of Animals

Any thoughtful person who has lived much in the countryside and observed animals must have had thoughts similar to those expressed in the two quotations that open this essay. Even the smallest and most common creatures sometimes give signs of thought, feeling, and memory nearly as remarkable as those told of the “half-reasoning elephant.” If we could peer into the mysteries of their private lives, and learn from the hummingbird why she makes her tiny thimble of a nest exactly the color of the tree on which it rests, and from the mason bee why he makes his little mortar-walled cell so closely match the stones where he hides it, we would likely be even more puzzled to draw the line between instinct and reason.

Several times in my life, my attention has been caught and my mind stirred by strange displays of intelligence in animals that came under my notice.

A few summers ago, when I was staying at an old farmhouse in New York, I happened to go up to the attic late in the afternoon. The sun was setting in a blaze of glory, and I knelt at the west window, gazing out long and lovingly over the wide stretch of fields and meadows, which he was drenching in gold as he departed. After a while, my attention was drawn away from this lovely sight by the movements of a wasp. She came out of a crack in the old window frame and began to nibble off thin, soft slivers of the decaying wood to use in building her nest. I bent very close to her, trying to see how she cut the material so skillfully. Suddenly she stopped working, drew back a little, and seemed to watch me as closely as I was watching her. At first I thought my imagination was playing tricks; for I supposed her eyes were too small to see me. So I kept looking at her, waiting to see what she would do.

She stayed perfectly still, in an attitude that showed surprise and alarm as plainly as an insect could show them. Then another wasp crawled out of the same crack and began to nibble at the rotten wood. The first wasp at once stretched out one of her antennae and tapped her neighbor’s antenna, just as I might nudge a friend’s elbow to call attention to something odd. The second wasp instantly pulled back, in the same startled pose, and without moving seemed to stare straight at me. A third wasp came up. One of her antennae was cautiously tapped by the second, and she behaved exactly as the others had. It may sound ridiculous to say I was troubled by the fixed stare of three wasps, but there was something so human in their behavior that I truly was disturbed. I felt I was in the presence of a mystery. I asked myself, What am I to them? Do I look like a vision of some higher being from another world?

Then I remembered that the sun was shining brightly into my eyes, and maybe they were only attracted by two great glowing orbs. What were they thinking? Would they finally decide to attack my eyes? I turned away suddenly, deciding it was not wise to stay any longer to find out. That tiny event made such an impression on me that I often told my friends about it, and for years afterward I found myself wondering what those wasps thought of the apparition that had so plainly startled them.

At the same farmhouse there were two cats. Tom was old, heavy, and ill-tempered; Mouser was remarkably quick and nimble. Her hunting skills were famous all through the neighborhood. She kept the place free of rats and mice, and visited all the barns and fields nearby for the same purpose. While I was there, she had three kittens, which seemed to be the special objects of Tom’s dislike. When they began to open their eyes and stagger around, they sometimes stumbled over him, and for that they were sure to get a sharp cuff on the ear. More than once, I saw his heavy paw knock the little blunderers head over heels when they came near him. He even kept up a threatening growl if they seemed to be coming from a distance. That was how things stood when one day Mouser came into the kitchen writhing and moaning, showing every sign of terrible pain. Her body soon began to swell, and her suffering grew more and more violent.

The family was remarkably kind to animals, and Mouser was such a valuable cat that they were desperate to save her. They did not know whether she had been poisoned or kicked by a horse during her visits to the barn, so they were unsure what remedies to try. They put her in a warm bath and tried to pour catnip tea down her throat, but their efforts did no good. In an hour or two, poor pussy was dead.

While she was in that agonizing state, Tom seemed to rouse from his usual drowsy indifference. He lay with his head between his paws, watching her closely for a while. Then he got up and walked around her, clearly upset. When he saw her lying stiff and cold on the floor, he made no whining sound, but his actions seemed to show that he understood what had happened. The kittens were huddled together on the platform of the old Dutch stoop. He went out to them and began to lick their fur in the most affectionate way. After that, he was never seen to knock them about again, nor heard to growl at them. Their own mother could not have treated them with more tenderness or put up with their play more patiently. They seemed to mistake the old fellow for their mother, for they went to him for milk, and he did not resist.

Again and again, I saw him stretched out on the stoop floor while the kittens appeared to be sucking away, moving their little paws, looking perfectly content. This, of course, surprised the family. They asked one another whether it was possible that the kittens were actually getting milk, or if they were drawing blood. Tom never seemed to suffer any discomfort from this strange imitation of motherhood.

He must have fed them in some way, for they did not learn to lap milk for several days, yet they lived and seemed healthy and thriving. After Tom took on the care of the orphans, he became truly fond of them and seemed to enjoy the fun that had once made him so angry. The voluntary act of kindness improved his temper wonderfully for the time, and clearly made him a much happier cat.

A close friend has often told me about incidents on his farm that show how clever animals can be. He owned a fine big ox, unusually strong, gentle, and smart. One day, when he and another ox were plowing swampy land, they sank very deep into a bog. After trying hard to pull himself out and finding that even his greatest strength was not enough, he quietly waited for human help. But his partner had a impatient and irritable nature, and the lessons of experience could not teach him wisdom. He kept struggling violently, and every movement twisted the neck of his suffering teammate. The patient creature bore it quietly for a while, but at last it became unbearable. His owner was standing right behind him, leaning on the plow, waiting for more help to pull them out of that mudhole.

The long-suffering ox slowly turned his long neck and fixed his big, patient eyes on the man with such a serious, pleading look, so human in its expression, that no one who saw it could ever forget it. It said as clearly as a look can say, “Can’t you think of some way to free me from this tormenting companion?” His owner understood the silent plea and immediately separated the unhappy pair by taking the yoke off the restless one. That left the restless ox free to wear himself out without hurting his wiser companion. This happened fifteen years ago, but I was reminded of it yesterday when my friend said, as he often does, “If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget how that ox looked at me.”

The same friend often speaks of another ox on his farm that showed sharp wits. It was late in the evening, and all the animals were safely inside the barn, when he heard loud knocking from that direction. The knocks continued every ten or fifteen minutes for over an hour, and the thought that some tramp might be in the barn doing mischief finally made him go out with a lantern to check. He found nothing wrong, so he gave up the search and went back to bed. But the heavy, regular sound kept up, and his curiosity grew so strong that he could not sleep. He searched the barn again with the same result, but this time he hid in a corner and waited for the mysterious noise to come again. A few minutes later, he saw an ox lift one of its back hoofs and strike the floor heavily three times.

Thinking the animal must be uncomfortable, he examined its stall and discovered that the farmhand had forgotten to put down the usual fresh straw for it to lie on. Once he gave it clean bedding, the knocks stopped.

Another farming friend of mine owned a colt of unusual beauty and intelligence. He was about a year and a half old when he first saw a string of bells tied around his mother’s neck when she was harnessed for a drive. The new sound immediately caught his attention and seemed to excite him greatly. He stood with ears pricked, watching and listening until the sleigh was out of sight and hearing. Then, with a snort and a rear, he pranced around the barnyard in a state of high excitement. When the mare came back, the sound of the bells drew him from far off, and he seemed to study them closely when they were taken off and laid in the sleigh with the harness.

As soon as the man had left, the playful creature grabbed them in his teeth and trotted up and down the road, shaking them with tremendous glee. This game of play-horse was obviously as much fun for him as it is for a boy to mimic a soldier with a feathered cap and a drum.

The natural personalities of animals differ just as those of people do, but the intelligence and willingness to learn in animals, as in humans, grows wonderfully when they are raised wisely and treated with steady kindness. It is hard to say how much the superiority of Arabian horses comes from the loving bond between them and their owners. The whip is a detestable tool. The harm it does is far out of proportion to the small convenience it brings. It forces obedience for a moment, but it dulls the mind and breeds anger in the heart, whether used on children, slaves, or animals. The common habit of whipping a horse to cure it of being afraid of some object usually just gives it two fears instead of one. I remember reading of a much wiser method in Mrs. Hamilton’s Essays on Education, published in England about thirty years ago.

A horse of excellent character had been frightened by a drum when he was a colt, and nothing could overcome his complete terror of that instrument. The beatings he received when he reared and plunged at its sound made his memories of it so painful that his whole nervous system went into a panic the moment he heard it approach. Finally, he was bought by a gentleman who believed more in kindness than in force. He kept the horse without food until it was hungry, then spread oats on a drumhead. As soon as the horse began to eat, the groom began to drum. The frightened animal ran off and could not be lured back by the tempting feed. He was kept without food for even longer, and the test was tried again with the same result. But the third time, hunger proved stronger than fear, and he gobbled up his oats while the hated noise rang louder and louder in his ears.

Once he had been sensibly shown that a drum would not hurt him, he stopped being troublesome and willingly walked toward the sound, which now had pleasant memories attached.

If people would teach animals in a sensible and patient way, and treat them with steady gentleness, they would show intelligence and obedience that seem almost miraculous, and we would see on earth the peaceful prophecies of the millennium come true.