For many years, I was part of a small pack consisting of my wife, our dog Taylor, and me. Beautiful, smart, and enchanting, she always was a beloved pal. Of course I spoiled her, at least in the walk realm, taking her out three times a day. (But to be selfish, I am a devoted walker so needed little excuse to get out.) As we walked, I noticed that Taylor stopped regularly to take stock of her world. I likened this to reading a letter (she was a pre-texting pooch) and checking in on her community.
Most of the time, I had no clue what drew her attention but on those rare snowy days in Seattle, I was treated, slightly, to her world. Most obvious was the yellow snow, which revealed the peelegraph (or peemail, for more modern folks) network that dogs use to let others know their whereabouts, as well as other personal information far too subtle for me ever to perceive. I could also see the tracks of other animals, generally dogs, but also squirrels and birds, that she had sensed. Those days allowed me at least a small insight into the world of animals that I missed.
And, it is an astounding world, rich in senses that not only operate in ways we cannot but also function in ways that we cannot imagine. Consider Taylor's nose. When she breathed in, like us, most of her air entered her lungs, but some also traveled to the back of her snout and entered a complex maze of thin, bony walls covered in a olfactory layer of neuron-rich tissue. We also possess these olfactory detectors but at levels much less perceptive than Taylor. In addition, those little slits on the side of her nose altered the flow of her exhalations such that odors circled back into her nose. I can only wonder how this double whammy of olfactory information affects the canine peelegraph network.
(Information for this newsletter comes from Ed Yong’s An Immense World, which explores the hidden senses of animals. Well-written and mind expanding, it’s packed with information so densely that I think the footnotes even have footnotes (toenotes?).)
Taylor’s nose and her species’ abilities are just the tip of the sensory iceberg of animals. Most of us are familiar with echolocating bats and whales and perhaps magnetoreception in our local salmon but those oh-so-common, oh-so-overlooked robins in our front yards also possess an internal, magnetite-based compass that aides in migration. And, then there’s electrolocation, the ability of many species of fish to sense their world via electric currents they produce; UV vision and seeing colors (which we cannot) that could aid in pollinating and mate selection; and hearing low frequencies, which allows whale songs to travel across thousands of miles of ocean.
Despite our new discoveries of the many ways animals sense, however, we have no clue what they do with this information. Just because whales can share stories across the ocean does that mean they do so? How does a starling’s facility to see UV light impact how they interact with their own kind or with other species? What did Taylor do with her awareness that the pooch up the street walked by hours ago? We will probably never know the answers—considering how little we really know about how our senses impact our lives—but by paying attention to the senses of other species we continue to develop a fuller understanding of our amazing planet, and that can only help us to have better regard for animals.
One’s sensory perception of the world is known as umwelt, a term coined in the early 1900s by Baltic-German biologist Jakob von Uexküll from the German for environment or phenomenal world. Each of us and each species has a specific umwelten, directly related to our perception and needs. As Yong writes, Uexküll’s concept of umwelt was a radically different way of viewing and relating to animals. For much of history, people had disregarded the feeling and senses of animals, often seeing them as automatons. One 17th century philosopher wrote that “animals eat without pleasure, cry without pain, grow without knowing: they desire nothing, fear nothing, know nothing.”
What is clear and amazing and wonderful is that an animal’s umwelt is anything but nothing. They see, hear, smell, taste, and touch (as well as navigate) the world around them in so many rich and diverse ways that I cannot help being astonished and humbled. My sensory means, which mostly work fine (aided by reading glasses) and allow me to not make too many bone-headed errors regarding what I sense, is only one way of interacting with the world. How could I ever think my way is better than any other? Clearly, these animals have been and are successful—and many for far far longer than our relatively new species—in their adaptations to living.
Reading Yong’s book has forever changed my view of the world and how I sense my surroundings. (I originally wrote see instead of sense but realized that see led me to a narrower approach than I now hope to experience my umwelt.) I know that living in an urban landscape limits my encounters with many animals, who, understandably, do not choose to live among us and our often less-than-friendly-toward-animals lifestyles. So for those who do, who give me an opportunity to wonder with profound awe at the myriad ways that life manifests itself, I am grateful.
Starting to fill in my calendar. Here are a few upcoming events.
February 17 – Lummi Island Heritage Trust – 6:30pm - I am honored to be the keynote speaker at their annual meeting.
February 20 - Kirkland KCLS Library 6:30 pm - I’ll be talking about Spirit Whales and Sloth Tales.
March 17 – IslandWood – 2pm - Excited to return here and speak, this time about Spirit Whales and Sloth Tales. More info to come.
March 23 - Village Books - 6pm - Bellingham - Spirit Whales and Sloth Tales heads to Bellingham as part of the North Cascades Institute Nature of Writing series.
Have you heard the one. "Taking your dog for a walk and not letting them sniff around is like taking your friend to the museum blindfolded."
That is a good analogy (below). I had an acquaintance who, when a dog shoved its nose at him said "She's just readin' the news--figuring out where I've been, who I've been around, and what I've been doing"
I figure that my dogs' olfactory world is three dimensional and fine grained in the way our visual world is. My dogs love little more than chasing tennis balls. It is interesting to watch them search. When the ball is in motion they track it with their eyes and if they hear it hit the ground they will turn towards the sound. However, once the ball stops moving, they stop "looking" for it---at least as far as using their eyes. They scent the air and follow paths that seem intentional but not patterned. I often see them almost step on a ball that is obvious to me visually, but out of their perceptual range until they get a whiff of it. They don't even seem to try to see it with their eyes. I bet they could find a ball blindfolded--as long as it was stinky enough from use. In fact I can throw the ball away from them in the dead of night and they will eventually find it. Sure, they have better night vision than I do, but I don't think they rely on it to find the ball. Theirs is an olfactory world.
They have a more difficult time with a cold ball that hasn't been mouthed by them recently. Once it is warm and covered with fresh saliva it is easy for them to track. Sure, it is somewhat disgusting to us, but we are not dogs. Our own habits might be disgusting to us if they weren't our own.