The Inner Life of Animals. Peter Wohlleben

sow assumed the role of midwife and helped them prepare for the births of their own babies.²¹

      The question then becomes, if researchers know so much about the intelligence of pigs, why isn’t the image of the smart pig publicized more? I suspect it has to do with eating pork. If people knew what kind of an animal they had on their plate, many would completely lose their appetite. We already know this from primates: could any of us eat an ape?

      6

       GRATITUDE

      IT SHOULD BE clear by now that whether they are driven by their circumstances or our desires, whether they want to or not, animals love people (and, of course, the reverse is true). I consider gratitude to be a closely related emotion. And animals can certainly feel gratitude, as well. Owners of dogs with checkered pasts that have been welcomed into families later in life are particularly well placed to confirm this.

      Our cocker spaniel, Barry, didn’t come to us until he was nine years old. Actually, after the death of our Münsterländer, Maxi, we wanted to draw the dog chapter of our lives to a close. Or so we thought. Despite the fact that my wife, Miriam, was absolutely opposed to a new family member, our daughter set out to convince us otherwise. She didn’t get much resistance from me, because I couldn’t really imagine life without a dog. When my daughter accompanied me to a fall market at a nearby country store, both of us were aware of what might happen. The Euskirchen animal shelter was going to have a parade of its guests, hoping to find homes for them that day. My daughter and I were hugely disappointed when the only animals on display were rabbits, because we already had plenty of those at home. After waiting around the market all day, making multiple tours of the stalls, here we were, confronted with this—no dogs. Right at the very end, there was an announcement that a future occupant was going to be shown by one of its former owners before being delivered to the shelter: Barry. Our hearts beat faster. The dog was apparently extremely good natured, a model passenger in the car, and he was neutered. Perfect! We leapt up from the bench and stepped forward. A short test walk, a handshake to seal the agreement for three days’ probation, and we took off right away with the dog in the car, headed for Hümmel.

      The three-day trial was important, because Miriam didn’t suspect anything yet. She came back late that night after an engagement. She was taking her coat off, when my daughter asked: “Do you notice anything different?” My wife looked around and shook her head. “Then take a look down at your feet,” I prompted. And in that instant, it happened. Barry looked up at her, wagging his tail, and my wife took him into her heart right then and there for the rest of his life. And the dog was grateful—grateful that his long and arduous journey had finally ended. His owner, an old lady suffering from dementia, had had to give him up. He’d gone through two different families, and now he had found his forever home with us. It’s true that for the rest of his life, he worried that there might be yet another handover, but other than that Barry was always happy and friendly. He was grateful. It was as simple as that—or was it?

      After all, how are you supposed to measure gratitude or—what’s almost as difficult—to define it? If you check on the web, you’ll find a lot of discussion but nothing definitive. Some animal lovers think of gratitude as their due, a response many owners expect from their animals in return for the care they give them. I wouldn’t even bother to search for this kind of gratitude in animals, for it would merely be an expression of subservience smacking of servility. Essentially, and this is in reference to people, what emerges from most definitions is that gratitude is a positive emotion arising from an enjoyable experience caused by someone or something else. In order to be grateful, you need to be able to recognize that someone (or life) has done you a good turn.

      The Roman politician and philosopher Cicero considered gratitude to be the greatest of all virtues, and he thought dogs were capable of feeling it. But now it gets tricky. How can I know whether an animal recognizes who or what has caused its enjoyable experience? In contrast to the joy itself (which is easy to recognize in a dog), there’s also the question of whether the dog gives any thought to the cause of its joy. It’s relatively simple to answer this question. There’s food, for starters. The dog is happy about its meal and knows exactly who filled its bowl. In fact, dogs often encourage their owner to repeat the process. But is this really gratitude? You could just as easily call it begging. Doesn’t true gratitude include a mindset, a way of looking at life? An ability to celebrate small pleasures without constantly craving more? Seen from this perspective, gratitude is when joy and contentment about circumstances that are not of your own making coincide. Unfortunately, this kind of gratitude cannot yet be proven in animals—we can do no more than speculate about their inner outlook on life. In Barry’s case, at least, my family and I are certain that he was both happy and content to have found his final home with us, even if we don’t have any scientific proof.

      But how about other examples in the animal world? Might they shed more light on the issue? There is the story of a humpback whale in the Sea of Cortez in Mexico that put on an hour-long display of breaching and flipper flapping after a man called Michael Fishbach spent hours cutting off a fishing net in which it had been hopelessly entangled. When Fishbach encountered the whale, it looked as though it would not be able to survive for much longer. Fishbach immediately entered the water armed with just a small knife. As soon as the whale was free, it put on a glorious acrobatic display. Perhaps it was just happy not to be entangled in the net anymore—or perhaps it was performing for the people in the small boat to thank them for rescuing it from certain death.²²

      Then there is this story of gratitude closer to home about wild birds that voluntarily shared their treasures with a young girl in Seattle. Crows like to collect shiny things and, of course, crows also like to eat. When Gabi was four, like many four-year-olds, she was not a particularly neat eater, and sometimes she dropped her food on the ground when she was outside. The crows lost no time snatching it up. A couple of years later, Gabi began intentionally sharing her lunch with the crows as she walked to the school bus stop. Then she began feeding the crows on a daily basis in her backyard. Soon after that, the birds began bringing her gifts: bits of glass, screws, pieces of bone, broken jewelry. One time Gabi’s mother, Lisa, dropped the lens cap of her camera when she was photographing the crows and thought it was lost, only to find it right there a few days later on the bird feeder. The crows had even carefully washed it before returning it. Is this gratitude, perhaps? Crows are certainly known for recognizing people and for having strong emotional reactions to those they don’t like. In this case, it seems they liked Gabi very much, and perhaps they were grateful and thanking her for looking after them for all those years.²³

      7

       LIES AND DECEPTION

      CAN ANIMALS LIE? If you define the term loosely, then quite a few can. The hoverfly, whose yellow and black stripes make it look like a wasp, “lies” to its enemies by making them believe it is dangerous. It must be said that the fly is unaware of its deception, because it doesn’t actively undertake it; it was just born looking that way. It’s the same with the European peacock butterfly. With big “eyes” on its wings, it signals to its enemies that it’s bigger than it really is and is too large for them to tackle. But let’s put these examples of passive lying aside and take a look to see which animals are the real tricksters with deception on their minds.

      One of these, for example, would be our rooster, Fridolin. He’s a portly representative of his species and as white as driven snow, which is just as he should be because he’s a white Australorp. Fridolin lives with two hens in a nearly 200-square-yard run designed to keep out foxes and hawks. Two hens are quite enough to provide us with the eggs that we need. Fridolin, however, sees things differently. Such a small flock doesn’t keep him as busy as he’d like to be, and with a sex drive like his, he could easily satisfy a couple of dozen lovers. Circumstances, however, dictate that he has to concentrate all his loving on Lotta and Polly. The hens are not at all keen on constant coupling and therefore quickly give Fridolin the slip as he prepares to make that final pounce. If he somehow manages to land on the back of one of his ladies despite her best efforts to avoid him, he spreads his wings to keep his balance. At the same time, he grabs hold of the neck feathers of