I was on deadline, struggling to communicate with my computer (and failing). Cali came over and ever-so-gently nudged me. I patted her and kept working. Another nudge. I had taken a ball-throwing break about 10 minutes earlier, so I distractedly said, “Not now,” and kept working.
Another nudge. I ignored her. More nudges. Insistent, but so, so gentle and sweet. I patted her, told her to wait a few minutes, told her she was cute. Not what she wanted. This went on for about 10 minutes, I’m embarrassed to admit.
Finally, deciding that rebooting my computer was the only possible step, I shut everything down, rebooted, and got up. “OK, Cali, where’s your ball?” I asked, wandering outside.
Cali wasn’t outside. Neither was her ball. I called her again and looked around the yard. No Cali, no ball.
I went inside. Cali was standing in front of the sofa. She came to me, then walked back to the sofa. Touched it gently. Looked under it. Touched it. Looked at me.
The ball was under the sofa. Actually two balls were under the sofa, one dry, dusty, covered with tufts of fur. So much for my housekeeping skills. And my communication skills.
I gave her back the ball. She graciously allowed me to throw it twice, but really, all she wanted was her ball. And her long-lost second ball. She happily stretched out in the yard nuzzling the balls as I went back to work.
I’m constantly amazed by how clearly our dogs communicate — if we’re paying attention. And of course, this clear and detailed exchange reveals how little actual words matter to human-dog conversations. No, our communication does not suffer from dogs’ inability to speak human language. It suffers from our inability to pay attention, to focus on what they are saying — without words, but with eloquence nonetheless.
Regular readers may be following the saga of Cali at the dog park. To bring the ball or not to bring the ball?
After getting some wonderful feedback from several readers, I decided to give the “no ball” regimen another shot. I stopped taking the ball to the park and started actively encouraging Cali to play with other dogs.
An important note here: I go to the same park at roughly the same time nearly every day. The same group of dogs is there. Occasionally, I am early or late, or there’s a new dog or an infrequent visitor. But I know most of the dogs there. A dog park with lots of unfamiliar dogs would not necessarily be a good place to encourage a shy dog to play with other dogs. But (mostly) I know that the dogs — and owners — are good people.
So, after several days spent mainly with Cali sitting, staring at me, willing me, trying to mind meld me: “Throw a ball … Throw a ball” while I talked to the amused other dog people, it happened. She played with another dog.
She played with Daisy, a sweet Rhodesian ridgeback. She played with Zoe, a small mixed-breed. She had a great time with Bella, a gorgeous young Bernese mountain dog. She even played with Ronen, a large black Lab who’s a good friend of Alberta’s but more energetic than Cali usually will tolerate. She ran in circles around Lola and Lila and Lizzie as they played, barking and play bowing, but lacking the confidence to fully join in. She tried to engage other dogs, too, not always sure but definitely making the effort.
These bursts of play were short, but exhilarating. She returned, panting and smiling, to sit next to me and, yes, stare and mind-meld. But it was great progress.
Then the husky showed up.
I’d seen this young female husky a few times, and she seemed intense and high-energy, but otherwise fine. On this morning, though, her mom had decided to bring treats (really good ones, it seems) to try to work on the young dog’s recall.
Mom pulled out treats. Cali wandered over to investigate. I called Cali back. She came (good girl!!) but then wandered over again. Mom was calling her dog all this time. I called Cali back but, before she came back to me, the Husky saw Mom, treats — and another dog closing in. She attacked. I called Cali again, Cali ran toward me, but the husky ran after her and grabbed her again. Cali cried. I screamed at the husky as I ran toward them. I had a leash in my hand and swatted at the husky, who backed up. I grabbed Cali.
Cali and I went over to our usual group of people and I checked her for damage (there was none) and we all told her what a good girl she was. We then left. I was worried that the experience would dampen her enthusiasm for the park and make her fear other dogs.
On the walk home, she warily eyed a friendly dog who wanted to say hi. She tucked her tail and looked at me. We kept our distance.
But the next morning, she was eager to go to the park. We were early, and there were few dogs there, but she did play with a small terrier mix. The next morning, our usual friends were there, and Cali played briefly with a new puppy on her first visit to the park. And she barked and circled Lola and her friends as they played. So it seems that the attack hasn’t slowed Cali’s progress. What a relief.
Even so, if I see any huskies in the park, I am steering clear.
Jana has been very playful lately. While she’s the park policedog, barking at any younger dogs who get too carried away having fun and being rambunctious, she’s more relaxed at home.
I don’t know if the cooler weather has anything to do with her increased playfulness or she’s just feeling good. She often picks up a rope toy and asks for a game of tug or just grabs a favorite toy and plays with it.
A long time ago, she had a “Gefilte Fish” toy that would sigh, “Oy Vey!” and then make a bubbling sound whenever she squeezed it. It never failed to elicit a laugh from me, and she got in the habit of getting the toy, standing near me, and Oy Vey-ing away. She’d squeeze, I’d laugh on cue, and she’d do a delighted little prance. After about 15 seconds, the fish would stop burbling, and she’d look at me and do it again. And again. Over and over some days, just to make me laugh.
She was only about 2, and I think that is when I discovered that Jana has a silly sense of humor.
That sense of humor is evident in her recent game with the glowing ball that Deni sent for Hanukkah. The ball flashes red for a few seconds if it is bounced on the floor.
When she’s not playing tug, Jana is likely to dig through the toy basket for the glowy ball, bounce it, then roll it around in her mouth. She looks like a fire-breathing golden retriever. Since she thinks she’s a princess, I laugh and call her a fire-breathing princess. And this antic always gets a laugh. She really does play to her audience.
A few weeks ago, Cali showed protective behavior when another dog at the park seemed to be interested in her ball. I wrote about it in a post that was published on Dec. 14, No More Toys.
I did stop taking the ball. We’d walk to the park, and Cali would get more and more excited as we got closer. I’d turn her loose and tell her to go play. And she’d sit and stare at me.
Day one. Fixed stare. Day two. Fixed stare. Days three, four, five … this went on for more than a week.
Cali did not play with another dog. She did walk around the park, following me, stopping every few feet to sit in front of me and stare.
Deni suggested that I bring a non-ball toy and try to get Cali to play with Ronen, Alberta’s Labrador friend. Cali watched Ronen run off with the tug toy. Then Cali sat. And stared at me.
A couple of times, there were no other dogs at the park when we got there. Cali sat and stared at me. Just the two of us, alone in a huge meadow, perfect for ball playing. I decided to bring a ball and only let Cali play with it if no other dogs were around.
Who was I kidding?
Now, Cali’s sit-and-stare-at-mes were punctuated by brief pop-ups. Up onto her hind feet, quick poke with her nose to my backpack (or pocket), where the ball was. Then pop back into her sit. And stare at me.
I was trying to out-stubborn Cali? I was delusional. Cali is very stubborn. Or, from her perspective, extremely patient.
My firm resolution softened. I decided to let her play ball if there were only a couple of other dogs there. Well, maybe if there were only four or five dogs. Or more, but not big ones. Or if they were far down the field … You can see where this is going.
So, once again, we play ball at the park.
I do stay far from the other dogs, and I put the ball away if the more rambunctious ball stealers are there. For her part, Cali is (a little) better about bringing the ball back to me. Sometimes. And she hasn’t so much as given another dog a dirty look.
It’s so obvious that even the young girl at the park knew it: Taking toys to the dog park is a bad idea because the dogs might fight over them. So spoke the wise sage, who couldn’t have been older than eight.
And yet, for months (years?), I’ve been taking Cali to the park to play ball. She’s obsessed with her ball. Only her ball; she won’t touch any other ball. And when she’s there, she gets nervous if too many other dogs are playing nearby. They might take her ball. It has happened; and, with some dogs, it’s a challenge to get her precious ball back.
With all that I know about dogs, you’d think I would see the writing on the wall. Smell the coffee. Choose your cliché. I didn’t, until this morning, when Cali actually lunged at another dog.
Yes. Sweet, gentle Cali, who loves all humans and nearly all non-humans. Who wants to befriend the cats and birds and squirrels that Jana is trying so hard to chase. Cali, who comically crouches and grovels, trying to convince tiny Chihuahuas and toy poodles that she’s eager to play with or submit to — not harm — them.
Barley, who owns the above-mentioned wise child and their mom, is a goofy, energetic, one-year-old golden doodle. He’s at that precarious stage where he’s lost his “puppy license” but doesn’t yet understand all the rules of civilized dog play. When he gets out of bounds, the grown-up dogs at the park reprimand him rather than tolerating the puppyish misbehavior. Most are very appropriate; he usually reacts well, and the play continues. We are very lucky to have an extremely nice group of regular dogs and dog parents, and the dog play is nearly always healthy and energetic; I’ve rarely seen dogs behave aggressively.
Barley was inviting Cali to play. His energy might well have been too much for her; she’s pretty sensitive. But she usually just hunkers protectively over her ball and ignores the other dogs. Or picks up her ball and walks away.
At least, she did. Until today.
Barley ran by, seemingly trying to take her ball, and she jumped up and barked. She might have even growled a little. Cali!
I scolded her and was on my way over to leash her up and go when … she did it again! Barley’s mom was very nice about it, but I was mortified. Cali usually has better manners than that. And I should know better.
The truth is, I had been thinking about leaving the ball at home. I was not expecting Cali to lash out at another dog, but I was hoping to encourage her to play with the other dogs. When Alberta is here, Alberta plays with other dogs and tries to get Cali involved. It seems like such a great way for Cali to get exercise. A lot better than lying in the grass clutching her ball, anyhow.
So that’s it. No more toys at the dog park for Cali. And a big bonk on the head with a rolled-up newspaper for me.
I watched Cali run to and fro one morning, searching for her ball at the field where we play. She was so busy anticipating my throw that she ran full-on in the wrong direction and therefore had no idea where the ball landed.
She does not use the logical grid search technique that Wylie, the German shepherd who once shared my life, used. She often runs right past the ball without seeing it. She usually seems to follow her nose, and she always does manage to find her ball, eventually. It’s a large field and sometimes the search takes a while. She wants only her ball; she sniffs and rejects any other ball that happens to be in her path.
But her nose seemed to be broken on this particular morning. Or maybe she just had a bad cold. She ran past the ball several times, almost touching it, without noticing it.
Cali also does not appear to have read those studies that say that dogs, even very young puppies, can and do follow human pointing gestures. Or the training manuals that assure us that our body language looms large in our dogs’ minds, and they will go in the direction that our body, eyes, and feet are pointing, no matter what verbal cues we’re giving them.
Nope. My voice, arms, feet, and body were all telling her the same thing. I even walked toward the ball, stood two feet away, and pointed. No response from Cali, who glanced briefly at me before continuing her random search.
She did, ultimately, strike gold. She then watched me throw the ball once, brought it back — and lost it again on the next throw.
Another thing. Those studies about how dogs know what people can see and therefore tend to deliver the ball to a person’s front rather than her back? Cali hasn’t read those either. Or maybe she thinks that, because I am her mom, I have eyes in the back of my head (my mom did!). I tell her that doesn’t work for adopted kids. I pretend not to know where the ball is. I beg her to bring it to me. I demand that she bring it. I walk away. No luck. She loves dropping the ball behind me. Maybe she just has an odd sense of humor.
I enjoy reading all these studies about dogs’ cognitive abilities, and I really believe that (most) dogs do have great potential for problem solving, interspecies communication, and other feats of intellectual greatness. But playing with actual dogs like Cali is a good reality check sometimes.
I’m reading a wonderful book (go get it right now!), Beyond Words by Carl Safina. A review will be posted … once I finish the book. I’ve finished the sections on elephants, wolves, and, best of all, dogs. Orcas are up next.
He takes great delight in lampooning several ludicrous studies that purport to prove humans’ superiority in matters of self-awareness and “theory of mind.” In reading Safina’s analysis of the mirror test, I realized that I got it all wrong. His explanation is brilliant — and so obvious.
The mirror test has been used for decades to establish, so some researchers say, whether an animal has self-awareness. This is variously defined as recognizing that you exist as an individual separate from other individuals (and your environment) to, more absurdly, the definition put forth by the creator of the test and quoted in Safina’s book: “Self-awareness provides the ability to contemplate the past, to project into the future, and to speculate on what others are thinking.” Other definitions include the “capacity for introspection.” I’m not sure how recognizing yourself in the mirror reveals a capacity for introspection or an ability to project into the future, but the folks who wrote those definitions did not explain that detail.
The test involves surreptitiously putting some sort of mark on the test subject’s forehead. When the person (whether human, ape, dolphin, dog, etc.) looks in the mirror, if the person touches or tries to remove the mark, he or she is recognizing that the reflection is not some other creature but an image of himself or herself. I understand that. What Safina points out, though, is that that says nothing at all about self-awareness. What it reveals is an understanding of how reflection works. Seems pretty obvious, no?
He goes on to talk about what self-awareness really means — being aware that you, yourself, are separate from other “selves” and from the environment. He says that a creature that does not recognize this would assume that the reflection was itself since it would not differentiate its own “self” from anything else, but that would also make it impossible to move, eat, find a mate, or do much of anything, like survive. He provides wonderful examples of all kinds of non-humans showing exquisite understanding of their environments and other beings that populate those environments.
I’ll leave his discussion of theory of mind for another post.
So, what does all of this have to do with Jana? In a long-ago post, I described Jana’s experience with the mirror test, and I described her as not only self-aware but also as self-absorbed. While this might be true, I did not give her enough credit. You see, Safina points out that what some non-humans (and who knows, maybe some toddlers as well) do when they first encounter mirrors and do not (yet) understand reflection is that they try to engage with or attack the other being in the mirror. While many psychologists will say that this means that they are not self-aware, Safina makes the (again obvious) point that it absolutely shows self-awareness. Trying to play with or attack another being requires that understanding that you and he are not the same creature!
So. Jana. When Jana was a puppy, we had an older dog, Timo, who resented the puppy and did not play with her. My mom had two adult dogs, Buddy and Daisy, who also were not keen on playing with this relatively large, high-energy puppy. But at my mom’s apartment, Jana made a wonderful discovery: a puppy who kept play-bowing and acting friendly and excited to see her. Jana could not understand why this other puppy never moved beyond the play bow, however. Within a few weeks, Jana did recognize that the puppy in the mirror was actually her, and she stopped trying to get the puppy to play. I used to tell this story and say it meant that little Jana didn’t yet have self-awareness. How wrong I was!
Thanks, Dr. Safina, for pointing out that of course my brilliant puppy knew that she was a distinct individual — an individual who simply wanted a playmate.
I originally wrote this post for PPG Barks, the blog of a professional positive trainers networking organization. The post was rejected; I think the reason is that I am asserting that dogs deceive each other and humans. I am very interested in this topic, and I plan to revise the post further (or write an entirely new post) about dogs and deception. Meanwhile, I’d love some feedback from you. Please comment on the post or to me privately if you feel inclined. I am interested in what other dog people think about the question of doggy honesty and deception.
How much is a dog willing to bend the truth or improvise in order to get a reward?
That’s not a crazy question. Dogs routinely exhibit all of the cognitive behaviors needed to form an idea, plan, and execute deceptive or manipulative behavior. Consider:
Cookie, please
Dogs deceive each other or fake each other out to get what they want. One dog will pretend to hear someone at the door and bark the warning bark — anticipating that his doggy sibling will run to the door. The conniving canine then steals the dupe’s rawhide, toy, bed, choice spot by the TV, etc.
Dogs who have been taught to ring a bell or bark when they need to go out tend to go through at least a short period of ringing that bell constantly … or at least testing out how often they can get Mom and Dad to “hop to it” and let them out, even when all they want to do is roll in the grass or bark at the neighbor.
Is there any dog who hasn’t tried to convince her owners that they have “forgotten” to feed her?
Many dogs will retrieve items that have not been requested in hopes of getting a reward. My dogs routinely bring me extra shoes in the morning, after they’ve been asked to bring my dog-walking shoes (and have been rewarded for doing so). This is probably optimism more than dishonesty, though. I routinely reward them for bringing me things that I have dropped, whether I was aware of dropping the item or not.
It gets even more sophisticated. For example, our German shepherd used to pretend not to know where the ball had landed when we threw it and he was busy sniffing something or chasing a squirrel. A request or two to get the ball would be completely ignored. Or, to humor the annoying humans, he’d search half-heartedly for a few seconds before doing the dog equivalent of shrugging and going back to something more interesting. “OK,” we’d say. “If we’ve lost the ball, it’s time to go home.” In under 10 seconds, he’d have found and delivered that “lost” ball.
Then there’s the golden who used the bells on the door to get Mom to open the door, knowing that her annoying puppy-sister would go charging out the door … while she stood there, smiling, as Mom closed the door with puppy outside and her inside.
So. While I will concede that not all of the above examples necessarily show deceptive behavior, some do, some might, and others at least indicate an ability to manipulate humans to obtain a desired end. I believe that dogs do lie and that they sometimes deceive each other and us. And they do it for a variety of reasons, including the possibility of getting a reward.
I’ve been thinking about this since I read What the Dog Knows by Cat Warren. It’s a great book; I posted a short review here on the Thinking Dog Blog not long ago. It’s about scent-dog training, specifically, cadaver dogs. The author raises an interesting topic: False alerts. She’s brave to do this, partly because many dog people ran into what I think I am running into: Many people cling to decades-old and thoroughly debunked ideas about how limited dogs’ cognitive abilities are. But mostly she’s brave for another reason: Many handlers proclaim that their dogs are never wrong and become incensed if anyone suggests otherwise.
Some false alerts are the handler’s fault. Particularly when the handler is a beginner, and the team is at an early stage of training, the handler’s body language or other unintentional cuing might hint to the dog that “this is where” he should alert. In this case, the dog is not lying; he is trying to follow the cues he’s just learning, and thinks he’s doing what the handler wants.
Training and working in situations, like cadaver searches, where the handler is not always able to tell whether the alert is false further complicates the discussion. Some false alerts, as Warren explains, might not actually be false. She says that if they are training in a vehicle junkyard, for example, and her dog alerts on the seat of a smashed car with a shattered windshield, while that is not the target she’s searching for, she rewards the alert anyhow. The scents linger for a long time, and the dog probably did detect the scent of human decay (parts of the book do require a strong stomach!).
I’m not talking about those instances though. I wonder if — and at what stages of training — dogs intentionally, knowingly lie about detecting the target scent. There are certainly working situations where the handler might not know if the scent is present and therefore is likely to trust the dog and reward an alert. False alerts occasionally do cause problems in law enforcement.
She draws a distinction between false alerts that are outright lies and those that are more nuanced and, she says, even more insidious (though not always because of misbehavior from the dog). The dog is detecting something but is not entirely sure it’s the correct scent; or the dog has detected the scent but not found the precise location and alerts anyhow; whatever the case, in these instances, she explains, the dog isn’t consciously deciding to lie. As with human behavior, not all situations are easily explained, black or white.
Warren says she will never know whether her dog’s false alerts are inadvertent or are deliberate lies — but she does not rule out the possibility of a dog lying. She also says that her dog’s body language is so clear that she thinks she could tell if her were lying. Many humans betray their dishonesty through body language. Sometimes those “tells” are very subtle. A close study of our dogs’ body language might be our best chance at knowing when they are — and are not — trying to con us.
What do you think? Have you ever worked with a pathological doggy liar? An occasionally dishonest dog?
Of our three girls, only Cali is truly secure and comfortable in her dogness. Alberta and Jana are quite sure that they are not dogs.
How do I know this?
Cali happily goes in and out the dog door, delighted with her independence and freedom to enjoy a large yard, from which she can survey the surrounding hills and valleys. Jana and Alberta go to the people door and bark. If their staff fails to appear in a timely fashion and let them in, they bark louder. They both will, if forced, use their keys to open the dog door and step disdainfully inside. But they really shouldn’t have to resort to that.
Cali is fine being left home, particularly if she can let herself out. She calmly accepts being banished to the porch with a visiting puppy to play. She’s perfectly content hanging out with other dogs, so long as she knows and likes these dogs. Alberta, rightly, assumes that Deni should take her along everywhere she goes. Jana just plain does not want to be left with the dogs. She does not want to be excluded from adult company, relegated to the puppies’ table (or porch), or treated like a dog. If left at a dog place — she has, on rare and very stressful occasions, been left at a groomer’s or a boarding facility — her facial expression, resistance, and loud protests all say: PLEASE don’t leave me with all these dogs!
I would say that Jana and Alberta are anomalies, shaped by our treatment of them to believe that they are somehow not quite dogs — but I have met so many other dogs who seem to be equally certain that they are not dogs. Molly, for example, whom I mentioned in a recent post. Of course, she’s a standard poodle, and I for one do not think that poodles are dogs. They are so close to being human. Molly clearly agrees.
When Molly was visiting, she would not — could not — eat in the laundry room with the other dogs. Excuse me. With the dogs. She dined solo, al fresco, with a white-jacketed server in attendance. OK, so maybe Deni wasn’t wearing a white jacket, but the rest is true. Not only did she dine in solitary patio splendor, she had special meals. Chunks of cheese, biscuit crackers, slices of deli meat … the only way that Molly would eat kibble was on a cracker (biscuit) or in a turkey roll-up. She prefers white wine, not too dry and not bubbly. (OK, OK, she didn’t actually get any wine, either. But the rest is true. Really.)
But back to Cali. It is nice to have at least one dog who actually is comfortable being a dog and is happy to fulfill her role as the family dog. She’s very cuddly, for example, and loves to be petted. She’s always enthusiastic about going for a walk or out to play. She enjoys doggy things, like chasing after a tennis ball and refusing to bring it back, barking at deer, licking all the hand lotion off of my fingers, and begging for treats. She wants to be near me most of the time, even when I am doing boring (to her) things, like writing a blog post (she’s at my feet) or grading papers. Like her ancestor Oriel, Cali embodies everything people love about dogs. She’s sweet, affectionate, playful and goofy sometimes. She’s great company and very friendly. And secure in her dogness.
Cali and Jana’s cousins came to visit recently. Ziggy and Hannah live in Kansas, where summer is full of scary thunderstorms and terrifying lawnmowers. Up here on the hilltop in Montana, there are no lawnmowers at all. Thunderstorms are rare. There’s a huge play yard and lot of places to go hiking. Ziggy was excited.
Cali, Jana, and their cousins went to Missoula to visit Scarlett and her sister, Gracie. Then they went for a walk by the river, saw a huge carousel, met some really friendly Montana kids, and then, best of all, they got to go out for ice cream. The nice lady at the Big Dipper gave each dog her own cone! Ziggy and Jana and Cali ate theirs really fast, but Hannah showed her good breeding and manners, licking her cone delicately and not dripping it anywhere.
Hannah and Ziggy quickly learned to use the automatic dog door, and they each got their own key. Hannah thinks that it opens when she barks at it. She likes to bark, so that suits her just fine. Jana’s friend Molly came for a visit, and she remembered how to use the dog door right away, even though she hadn’t been over to visit in a really long time! She’s super-smart because she’s a poodle. She knows that barking is not what makes the door open.
Molly likes to bark too, but with all the girls barking, Jana and Cali’s mom couldn’t get any work done, so she told everyone to be quiet. Meanie!
The cousins and Molly loved playing out in Cali’s big play yard. They chased the ball, chased Cali or Alberta chasing the ball, ate grass, barked at deer, chased each other some more … when they got tired, they went back inside and piled onto the dog beds or stretched out on a rug. Hannah and Ziggy thought that Montana was pretty awesome. Molly, a native Montanan, couldn’t agree more.
After Hannah and Ziggy and Molly went home, Cali, Alberta, and Jana finally made plans to go to Packer Meadow. Jana loves this place and told Cali and Alberta all about it, but Cali and Alberta had never been there. It’s huge and very green. Jana remembers being there when it was so full of purple flowers that it looked like water. Speaking of water, there’s this really great stream that runs through the meadow. Brrrr. The water is very cold. But a dog can jump in and climb out and jump in and climb out and jump in and … all day (or until her mom makes her leave. Meanie.).
Unfortunately, the day they went, Packer Meadow was closed because it was too close to some huge forest fires. Good thing that Mom always has a backup plan; the girls had a great afternoon at Jana’s second-favorite place, Fort Fizzle. Jana found the first of her heart-shaped rocks there. She loves splashing in the river, finding rocks, rolling on the bank, and chasing sticks. Cali chased tennis balls; one almost got lost way out on the rocks, and Alberta wouldn’t bring it back, but Cali finally agreed to go and get it. She got a bunch of cookies for that. Maybe Mom is not such a meanie after all.
And guess what! They still get to go to Packer Meadow in a couple of weeks. Montana sure is a great place to be a dog.
I was on deadline, struggling to communicate with my computer (and failing). Cali came over and ever-so-gently nudged me. I patted her and kept working. Another nudge. I had taken a ball-throwing break about 10 minutes earlier, so I distractedly said, “Not now,” and kept working.
I went inside. Cali was standing in front of the sofa. She came to me, then walked back to the sofa. Touched it gently. Looked under it. Touched it. Looked at me.
Day one. Fixed stare. Day two. Fixed stare. Days three, four, five … this went on for more than a week.
