Generalizing a skill from one context to another isn’t always easy. Especially if you’re a Bear of Very Little Brain. But if you’re Eeyore, it appears, you’re a flexible thinker who can nimbly adapt to changing circumstances.
Today is cool and breezy enough to keep the biting flies largely at bay, so I take Gus into the outdoor arena for a change of scenery. He’s tempted by the grass underfoot which I don’t let him munch on, and he’s enticed by the remnant evidence of the horses who spend their nights here. Also, he’s distracted by the worlds outside the fence: people walking around, horses in nearby paddocks, a roaring lawnmower, etc. First, the minute I remove his light blanket, he rolls in the bare dirt near the gate. Next, we walk a full circuit of the perimeter, in both directions, stopping at each and every pile of manure new and old; he places his nose right on it and inhales in a deep, scholarly manner, then moves on.
With the tour of inspection finished, we do some walking and turning and halting and backing. Gus doesn’t love this, and once or twice he tries his obdurate routine, stopping dead and/or pulling his head away, to see if I’ll just let him graze. But without much effort, I’m able to resist and then cajole him back in step with me. After just a few minutes of nice walking, I lead him to the toy basketball hoop that I lugged out earlier.
I figure that doing an old trick in a new venue will challenge his mind at least a little bit, yet he barely hesitates. When I toss his rubber lattice ball, it takes just a half an extra second for him to fetch it. To start, I ask only that he put it in my hand — going back to an earlier level of the trick, to compensate for the unusual surroundings. Well, Gus don’t need no stinkin’ compensation: the next time, he clearly turns toward the basket, so I cue him with “Dunk,” and as if nothing has changed from our usual indoor setting, he flaps the ball on the rim and backboard and then spits it into the net. I toss the ball farther away, and he almost trots over to it, snatches it up, and heads to the basket for a lively flap-and-dunk. He does this several times, so I figure we can up the ante yet a little more.
I set the hoop at the far end of the low wooden bridge, and I set the ball on the ground near the other end. This time, Gus does require a minute or two to wrap his mind around the new gestalt. I chirp “Pick it up!” and he walks right by the ball, then steps across the bridge and half-off again. We reset, standing on the ground near the bridge. I pick up the ball and hand it right to his mouth, he takes it, and I click and treat. The next time, I hand him the ball and get him to take one pace forward to return it to my hand; click and treat. Now I set it back on the ground, and he reaches down and picks it up, but with a little question-mark forming in a cartoon thought-bubble over his head. Quickly I render roadside assistance, singing “Good!” and tapping the basketball hoop. He drops the ball, then walks onto the bridge and shoves his face into the net. No click, but I cheerily urge him to step down and try again. And sure enough, he bites up the ball, walks onto the bridge, flaps around the hoop a few times, and dunks. Click! Peppermint!
Would a dog or a horse succeed so quickly with such a new trick arrangement? I suspect most would struggle a lot more to remember such a recently learned trick when suddenly flooded by new body sensations and surroundings and object placements.
Memo to self: try putting Reggie the brown dog’s footstool out on the sidewalk and asking him to sit on it and give a high-five. Without succumbing to his powerful canine urges to pee on the lamppost and bark at a stray cat and sniff the neighbor's garbage can.
Today is cool and breezy enough to keep the biting flies largely at bay, so I take Gus into the outdoor arena for a change of scenery. He’s tempted by the grass underfoot which I don’t let him munch on, and he’s enticed by the remnant evidence of the horses who spend their nights here. Also, he’s distracted by the worlds outside the fence: people walking around, horses in nearby paddocks, a roaring lawnmower, etc. First, the minute I remove his light blanket, he rolls in the bare dirt near the gate. Next, we walk a full circuit of the perimeter, in both directions, stopping at each and every pile of manure new and old; he places his nose right on it and inhales in a deep, scholarly manner, then moves on.
With the tour of inspection finished, we do some walking and turning and halting and backing. Gus doesn’t love this, and once or twice he tries his obdurate routine, stopping dead and/or pulling his head away, to see if I’ll just let him graze. But without much effort, I’m able to resist and then cajole him back in step with me. After just a few minutes of nice walking, I lead him to the toy basketball hoop that I lugged out earlier.
I figure that doing an old trick in a new venue will challenge his mind at least a little bit, yet he barely hesitates. When I toss his rubber lattice ball, it takes just a half an extra second for him to fetch it. To start, I ask only that he put it in my hand — going back to an earlier level of the trick, to compensate for the unusual surroundings. Well, Gus don’t need no stinkin’ compensation: the next time, he clearly turns toward the basket, so I cue him with “Dunk,” and as if nothing has changed from our usual indoor setting, he flaps the ball on the rim and backboard and then spits it into the net. I toss the ball farther away, and he almost trots over to it, snatches it up, and heads to the basket for a lively flap-and-dunk. He does this several times, so I figure we can up the ante yet a little more.
I set the hoop at the far end of the low wooden bridge, and I set the ball on the ground near the other end. This time, Gus does require a minute or two to wrap his mind around the new gestalt. I chirp “Pick it up!” and he walks right by the ball, then steps across the bridge and half-off again. We reset, standing on the ground near the bridge. I pick up the ball and hand it right to his mouth, he takes it, and I click and treat. The next time, I hand him the ball and get him to take one pace forward to return it to my hand; click and treat. Now I set it back on the ground, and he reaches down and picks it up, but with a little question-mark forming in a cartoon thought-bubble over his head. Quickly I render roadside assistance, singing “Good!” and tapping the basketball hoop. He drops the ball, then walks onto the bridge and shoves his face into the net. No click, but I cheerily urge him to step down and try again. And sure enough, he bites up the ball, walks onto the bridge, flaps around the hoop a few times, and dunks. Click! Peppermint!
Would a dog or a horse succeed so quickly with such a new trick arrangement? I suspect most would struggle a lot more to remember such a recently learned trick when suddenly flooded by new body sensations and surroundings and object placements. Memo to self: try putting Reggie the brown dog’s footstool out on the sidewalk and asking him to sit on it and give a high-five. Without succumbing to his powerful canine urges to pee on the lamppost and bark at a stray cat and sniff the neighbor's garbage can.
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