Apples and Oranges

Defining intelligence is frustrating because although a testable definition may elude us, we feel we know intelligence when we see it.

– Biologist and author Sonja Yoerg

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I know intelligence when I see it. I get to observe my dog Paco every day, and I’m here to tell you, he is one smart pooch.

I bring this up in the context of the age-old question: which animal is smarter, the dog or the cat?

In my biased opinion, dogs are smarter on average than cats. Not better; just smarter.

I reach this conclusion because when I look into a dog’s eyes, I see cognition and awareness. In the eyes of a cat, I see a dimmer bulb. It may as well be a reptile or a bird.

Cats can interact with people warmly and affectionately, no question, but it seems to be on a more primitive, emotional level, not intellectual.

When you point at something, most dogs understand that you want them to look in that direction. Some dogs even use their own gazes to get YOU to look at something. Other animals, even monkeys, never do that.

I did an experiment with Paco recently to test, in my own amateurish way, just how clever and observant he is.

When Paco is indoors and ready to go out for a potty break, he usually approaches and fixes me with a “border collie stare” to get my attention. This is his way of beaming the thought into my head.

When I become aware of this, I get up and head for the door, with Paco scrambling to get there first.

Normally, to get outside, I use either the back door or the garage door. Paco waits for me to commit to one door or the other.

For the experiment, I stood up, went to a point between the two doors, and without committing, simply stared back at him.

Finally, without turning my head, I cut my eyes toward the back door. Instantly, Paco took off in that direction.

The next time I set up the experiment, I cut my eyes toward the garage door. Paco knew immediately what that meant and bolted in that direction.

His habit now is to take his cue from my glance. If he’s too far away, or the light is dim, I point.

That story, I readily admit, is pure, cherry-picked, anecdotal evidence.

The scientific evidence about cat and dog intelligence breaks both ways. In fact, science hasn’t officially made a call one way or the other.

Recently, I read about a study at the University of Michigan that tested the memories of a group of cats and dogs. According to the researchers, the cats in the test group performed significantly better than the dogs.

Being a dog person, I bristled when I read that. How could cats, haughty and disdainful creatures that they are, score better than the noble dog?

But they did. In the UM study, the dogs were able to remember the location of a hidden treat for up to five minutes. The cats remembered the location for up to 16 hours — longer than monkeys and orangutans.

Some cat lovers jumped on the memory study as evidence that cats are more intelligent than dogs.

Puh-leeze.

Remembering the location of the treat is impressive, but it doesn’t prove superior intelligence.

Cats excel in many things — agility, self-defense, self-sufficiency, stalking, stealth. They are models of adaptability and efficiency.

But that doesn’t equate  to intelligence. Sharks and crocodiles are well-adapted and efficient. So are snakes and spiders.

The thing is, cats and dogs are so fundamentally different that we can’t find a reliable basis for an apples-to-apples comparison.

Like us, dogs are hard-wired to be social creatures. It benefits them to interact and cooperate. The nature of the pack is to work together.

Cats, as solitary hunters of small prey, don’t have that social imperative. Thus, dogs relate to people, and cooperate with researchers, and make good test subjects; cats do not.

Then there is the huge difficulty of defining intelligence itself. The brain is still a largely unknown organ. Scientific testing is difficult and iffy.

When I read about the UM memory study, I figured it was time to read up on the latest thinking — pun intended — in brain research and intelligence.

Why would I suddenly want to do science research? Well, as a journalism major, I received a rather shallow formal education in the sciences.

But wouldn’t you know, I discovered after college that the sciences — natural and social, from astronomy and physics to history and psychology — interest me greatly. Today, that interest is like a hobby.

But back to the research.

Decades ago, the experts concluded that intelligence is not a single thing, but an array of things. This concept is called the theory of multiple intelligences.

The theory says that humans manifest intelligence in eight specific categories.

(1) Linguistic intelligence — “word smart”
(2) Logical-mathematical intelligence — “number/reasoning smart”
(3) Spatial intelligence — “picture smart” (ability to visualize with the mind’s eye)
(4) Bodily-Kinesthetic intelligence — “body smart” (ability to handle objects skillfully)
(5) Musical intelligence — “music smart”
(6) Interpersonal intelligence –”people smart” (understanding others)
(7) Intrapersonal intelligence — “self smart” (understanding yourself)
(8) Naturalist intelligence — “nature smart” (awareness of nature and its patterns)

This theory only addresses human intelligence. But if you apply it to dogs and cats, it underscores how they, like us, differ in strengths and weaknesses.

For example, dogs, as social animals, likely would score higher in (6). Cats, as nocturnal predators, probably would excel in (4). You get the idea.

The logical question from that exercise is: which animal, dog or cat, would have the higher average in the eight categories?

I have an opinion on that.

But what do I know? I’m a journalism major.

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Elevator Music

Some people think the housecat is God’s gift to the world. This is from “Cats and Dogs,” a 1926 essay by the horror and fantasy writer H. P. Lovecraft…

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Between dogs and cats my degree of choice is so great that it would never occur to me to compare the two.

I have no active dislike for dogs, any more than I have for monkeys, human beings, tradesmen, cows, sheep, or pterodactyls; but for the cat I have entertained a particular respect and affection ever since the earliest days of my infancy.

In its flawless grace and superior self-sufficiency I have seen a symbol of the perfect beauty and bland impersonality of the universe itself, objectively considered, and in its air of silent mystery there resides for me all the wonder and fascination of the unknown.

The dog appeals to cheap and facile emotions; the cat to the deepest founts of imagination and cosmic perception in the human mind.

————

Who knew (pompous) that Mr. Lovecraft held cats in such (pompous) high esteem?

Not everyone sees cats in terms of flawless grace and silent mystery. The following is from “Why Dogs are Better than Cats” by Bradley Trevor Greive, 2009…

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What do dogs have that cats don’t? Far greater intelligence and sociability for starters. There’s really no comparison: a dog is a true animal companion, whereas cats are, by and large, sociopathic, semi-vegetative fluff-balls.

Cats are cute, I’ll grant you that, but as pets they are basically plush toys with bad attitudes. There are some people who, for reasons of limited time, space, income, mobility, intelligence, and possibly self-respect, are better off choosing a cat — but I feel sorry for them.

Compared to a dog, having a cat in your home is like listening to elevator music: vaguely irritating but perhaps better than nothing.

Whereas dogs truly share your home and see you as family, to a cat your home is either a prison or just a safe, warm cave where threats are low and food and water are plentiful.

————

Ouch. Major snarkasm there.

Finally, there are the peace-makers. This is from a 2004 article by Nancy Peterson of the Humane Society of the United States…

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Between dog lovers and cat lovers, one controversy remains supreme: Which animal is smarter?

It’s a myth to believe cats have a higher intelligence simply because they are thought to be manipulative and mysterious, just as it’s not accurate to believe a dog’s mind operates on a higher plane simply because he can be easily trained to perform and behave. The truth is, both animals display strong smarts in their selective areas of specialty.

It’s just like with people — some are smarter, some are more intelligent and some have more common sense. A dog is a dog, and a cat is a cat. It’s like comparing apples and oranges. I think they’re very different creatures, and we should appreciate what each species has to offer.

————

Can’t we all just get along?

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Obsession

I want to stop obsessing about my dog’s obsession, but I can’t.

– Lexi Grant

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I’ve written several times about Kelly, my first border collie, my best girl. Kelly was — how shall I put this — the best dog that ever graced the planet.

That’s just the way I see it. No disrespect intended to your dog, or to my buddy Paco.

When Kelly was young, I introduced her to the pursuit of Frisbees. As you may know, many border collies are quite skilled at that activity.  Kelly wasn’t interested. Not in the slightest.

That’s because she was a tennis ball enthusiast — a natural-born, passionate devotee of all things fuzzy and yellow.

Kelly adored tennis balls. She loved to chase and retrieve them, chew on them, and bat them with a paw around the living room like a hockey player. She always kept a few handy for idle gnawing. They were soggy, drippy, nasty things that I tolerated, but avoided.

Except when time came to “play ball.”

For Kelly and me, playing ball was a daily routine. For years, the minute I got home from work, our ritual was to go outside for a rigorous session of throw and retrieve.

It was Kelly’s favorite activity in all the world. To her, a game of catch was the greatest pleasure in life — better than a morning on the trail, better than treats. She approached the game with the intensity and concentration of a border collie working sheep: eyes ablaze, nostrils flaring.

The ritual was always the same. We went outside to an open area, Kelly carrying a ball in her mouth. She dropped the ball at my feet. When I picked it up, she went into a crouch, ready to run.

Then I reared back and threw the ball with all my strength, in an arc designed to achieve maximum distance. When the ball left my hand, Kelly took off like a rocket in pursuit.

Each time without fail, she caught up to the ball and, as deftly as a major league infielder, snagged it in her mouth on one bounce. Never more than one bounce.

Triumphantly, she returned in an easy canter and dropped the ball at my feet, ready for more.

A typical session consisted of about 10 such repetitions. By then, both of us were tired. Kelly was ready for supper. I was ready to wash my left hand, which was sticky with a mixture of dirt, grass, and dog drool.

In the summer of 1991, Kelly’s tennis ball obsession finally caught up with us.

One morning when we awoke, she seemed unusually lethargic. I could tell she wasn’t her normal self. She was listless and droopy-eyed and wouldn’t eat her breakfast.

I’ve always heard that when dogs are sick, they eat grass. A little later, when Kelly was outside on her rope, I saw her grazing away. It was time to call the vet.

Two hours later, Kelly was lying on the examination table, still sluggish, having her tummy poked and prodded by the vet.

The vet said Kelly was bloated, and she guided my hand to Kelly’s underside. Sure enough, Kelly’s stomach was, as they say in these parts, as tight as a tick.

The vet ordered x-rays and sent me to the waiting room.

Half an hour later, she called me back to the exam room to show me the results. On her face was a look of both satisfaction — for having diagnosed the problem — and amusement — for understanding its cause.

She pointed to the x-ray and tapped on a dark, elongated mass inside Kelly’s stomach. Instantly, I had a sinking feeling in my own stomach.

“See that dark stuff right there?” she said. “That’s grass. Kelly has been eating grass because she feels sick.”

I said with relief that I thought she had cancer.

The vet laughed. “No, not cancer. Something less complicated.”

She pointed to the x-ray again. “See that object there?” It was an odd-shaped something, smoothly curved on one side, ragged on the other. It looked like a large chunk of orange peel.

The object, said the vet, was something Kelly had swallowed. It was wedged at the bottom of her stomach, blocking the exit. The grass, along with everything else, had no place to go.

Then it dawned on me what the vet had already figured out: the object was a chunk of tennis ball.

I had never known Kelly to chew up a tennis ball and swallow the pieces, but the proof was right there on the x-ray.

The vet said the blockage was a freak occurrence. Except for one large chunk, Kelly had chewed the tennis ball into tiny, harmless bits. But that chunk was big enough, and positioned just right, to bring Kelly’s inner working to a halt.

Kelly needed immediate surgery. They wheeled her away on a gurney, and I was sent home to fret.

A few hours later, the vet called. Kelly was out of surgery. She was still sedated, but all was well. The chunk of tennis ball, along with a pound or so of grass, had been removed with no complications. Kelly’s inner parts has been thoroughly cleaned and disinfected, and she could come home in a couple of days.

Kelly recovered and healed quickly, and life soon got back to normal. However, right after the surgery, the vet and I talked about how to deal with Kelly’s tennis ball obsession.

We knew that if Kelly ate a tennis ball once, she probably would do it again. We needed a plan to avoid that eventuality. Gastric surgery is expensive.

In the end, we settled on a simple strategy. The tennis balls remained where they were, strewn around the house, and our daily games of catch continued as before. I simply had to monitor the collection of tennis balls for damage.

As long as a ball was intact, it could stay. Once Kelly punctured it, which she eventually did to all of them, into the trash it went.

The strategy was a success; no more tennis balls were consumed.

That was in 1991. Kelly lived for 12 more active and happy years. When she died in 2003, I was living in Monroe, Georgia. After a brief period, I gathered up her chew toys and tennis balls, intending to throw everything out.

But at the last minute, I weakened. I saved two tennis balls and tossed them back onto the carpet. They stayed there until I sold the house and moved to Jefferson in 2006.

And naturally, I brought them with me. They’re still on my living room floor today.

The cleaning lady knows not to disturb them.

"Hurry up! I'm waiting!"

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Misjudging the Moment, Part 2

More evidence that the dominant species hasn’t quite tamed the planet…

 

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Misjudging the Moment, Part 1

Sometimes, big brains and opposable thumbs just aren’t enough…

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Mitzi

Last week, I was in nearby Commerce, and I had an hour to kill, so I stopped at one of the antique stores downtown.

That particular store, in addition to carrying the usual selection of old and unwanted stuff, has quite a bit of North Georgia pottery and folk art. I don’t need any more of either, but it’s always fun to look.

They have a whole wall of paintings by John “Cornbread” Anderson, a self-taught local guy whose primitive art has become quite popular.

As a result of his success, Cornbread is able to fetch a goodly sum for his paintings. I like his work, but he has priced himself out of my range.

Coon in the Full Moon by John "Cornbread" Anderson, acrylic on wood, 19" x 32", $450.

Come to think of it, I said the same thing about Howard Finster a few decades ago.

Anyway, I was browsing slowly along through the store, kind of zoned out. I was the only customer. The place was quiet except for the creaking of the old wood floor and an occasional mumble of conversation from the man and woman at the front desk.

The store is laid out in a horseshoe. I had made my way around the curve and was nearing the front counter again.

Suddenly, the high-pitched, crazed snarling of something horrific — Tasmanian Devil? Rabid weasel? Fiend from Hell? — shattered the silence.

This abrupt, piercing assault came from floor level, not far from my right foot.

Reflexively, I jumped — straight up, probably trying to catch up with my heart. When I came down, I honestly believe I was several paces away from where I ascended.

“No, Mitzi, no!” the man at the counter yelled. He was tugging on a leash, at the end of which was a small, enraged dog, straining to get at me.

“Bad dog, Mitzi! Bad dog!” the man scolded. “You stop that!” He pulled the furiously barking Mitzi behind the counter and closed the small wooden half-door.

As soon as the door was closed and Mitzi couldn’t see me, the barking fit stopped.

From the quick glimpse I got of Mitzi, she appeared to be a Shih Tzu or a Lhasa Apso. That was surprising. From my experience, dogs of that type might be cranky, but usually aren’t insane.

The man at the counter was tall, lean, and in his 70s. He apologized profusely for Mitzi’s sneak attack.

“I would have closed the door sooner, but I didn’t hear you coming,” he said. “She’s harmless, really. She just makes a lot of noise.”

Noisy, yes. Harmless… I wasn’t sure about that.

“Well,” I said, “She didn’t get me, and my heart has restarted, so no harm done.”

“John, you better take Mitzi home,” chimed in the woman. “Can’t have her drivin’ away customers.”

“Guess I better,” the man replied. He turned to me. “Mitzi and me, we just came to visit Mama — ain’t that right, Mitzi? You ready to go home?”

Mitzi didn’t reply, but she trotted out from behind the counter on her leash and followed John toward the front door without argument. She was oblivious to me this time. I guess she figured she had put me in my place.

Before Mitzi and her master reached the front door, the dangling shopkeeper’s bell jangled. The door opened, and two middle-aged women entered. Mitzi spotted them and resumed hellhound mode.

The women were startled, but not to the degree I had been. Mitzi was in plain sight, 15 feet away from them, and clearly on a leash. But the manic barking was unsettling.

A flurry of excited chatter ensued, accompanied by Mitzi’s crazed, unrelenting barkfest.

“Gracious sakes!”

“Ladies, I am so sorry!”

“Gave me such a fright!”

“Mitzi, you hush now!”

“He’s a pretty little dog, isn’t he?”

“Okay, Mitzi, say goodbye to Mama! Bye, Mama!”

The bell jangled again as John and Mitzi exited the store. I could see them making their way to an old truck parked outside. Mitzi had quieted down again.

A palpable silence settled over the store. The two ladies commenced their browsing. I turned to the woman behind the counter. “That was exciting,” I said.

“Mitzi is the most ill-tempered dog that ever was,” she said, shaking her head. “I hate it when John brings her down here, but I don’t say anything. It’s an excuse for him to get out of the house.”

“Mitzi looks like either a Lhasa Apso or a Shih Tzu,” I said. “Is that right?”

“I have no idea. What was that first thing you said?”

“Lhasa Apso.”

“Latsa Atso… I heard of them. We got Mitzi from a neighbor, and I don’t know what she is. Other than mean.”

“My family had a Lhasa years ago,” I told her. “But she was calm and quiet, more like a housecat than a dog.”

“I would trade Mitzi for a housecat in a heartbeat,” she replied, “But John loves her to death. And she loves John. He’s about the only thing that dog loves.”

“You said he brings her down here every day?”

“Every day without fail. He’ll sit and talk for 10 minutes, and Mitzi will lay down on the floor over there, and after a while, off they’ll go.”

“Does she always ambush your customers?”

“Oh, no. We keep the door closed so she can’t see out. Today, it was your bad luck that we forgot.”

“Hearing people walking around doesn’t set her off?”

“Mitzi? Lord, no. She’s deaf as a post!”

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Conehead

Paco is wearing a cone on his head this week. He picked up a bacterial skin infection somewhere, which led to an itch that demanded scratching, which only made the condition worse.

I bathed him twice, and that helped. But he spent yesterday morning, while I was out, chewing vigorously on an itchy spot. It was ugly.

So off we went to the vet. The vet gave Paco a cortisone shot, put him on antibiotics for a week, and strapped a plastic cone on his head to prevent further vigorousness.

The pills worked immediately, thank goodness, and the itching/scratching stopped. But the cone will stay in place for a few days. I don’t trust him.

Paco tolerates having a rigid plastic whatsit on his head pretty well, but he constantly misjudges the extra clearance it requires. He is forever crashing into doors, walls, and other solid objects that never presented a problem before.

Whacks, thunks, and bonks resound through the house numerous times a day as poor Paco crashes into something else.

He also collides regularly with my leg. Being an affectionate pooch, he is accustomed to standing close to me in order to get a pat or an ear-scratching.

No problem in ordinary circumstances. But I’ve been jabbed by that damned cone way too many times. It hurts. It’s like a weapon.

Hmmm…

Maybe it’s his revenge for having to wear the thing.

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Sneak Attack

My dog Paco is a border collie, and he is a gentle and loving animal. You could establish a religion on his personal qualities.

Paco is the Gandhi of canines. He loves all creatures, great and small. He never attacks other animals, only herds them.

If another dog goes territorial on him, Paco diffuses the situation by showing no aggression whatsoever. He has never been in a fight.

But Paco has one blemish on his record: he once bit my granddaughter Maddie.

It happened in the summer of 2006, when Maddie was an energetic two-year-old. I was babysitting for the afternoon at her place.

Maddie and Paco were accustomed to being around each other. She thought of him as an entertaining curiosity. He was benign and polite around her, although it was clear he was uncomfortable with the decibel level.

That afternoon, Maddie was quietly munching Cheerios and watching SpongeBob SquarePants on television. Paco, taking advantage of a break in the usual bedlam that Maddie represented, was asleep in front of the couch at my feet.

At a commercial break, Maddie set aside her bowl of Cheerios, got up, and came toward me.

Suddenly, she let out a piercing scream, broke into a gallop, and launched herself into the air.

Still screaming, she landed with an oomph squarely on top of the sleeping, unsuspecting Paco.

Paco awoke in a panic and leapt up, tossing Maddie into the air. In the same instant, he whirled around in the direction of whatever had landed on him.

Maybe he bit Maddie on purpose. Maybe his teeth simply grazed her forehead in the frenzy of the moment. I’ll never know.

But two seconds later, Maddie was sitting on the floor wailing, and Paco had retreated to another room.

“Paco bit me!” Maddie yelled between sobs. “Paco bit me!”

I scooped her up to comfort her. On her left temple was a single red spot the size of a grain of rice. His tooth didn’t break the skin, but it was going to leave a mark.

Maddie continued to tell me in disbelief that Paco had bit her. She sat curled up in my lap, clutching Buddy (her ever-present stuffed BFF) and sucking her thumb. Slowly, the whimpering subsided.

I touched her forehead near the tooth mark. “Does it hurt?” I asked.

“Yes. Paco bit me. Paco is a bad dog.”

“Oh, I think Paco was just scared,” I said. “He was asleep, and you startled him. He wouldn’t hurt you on purpose.”

We sat there quietly for a minute, rocking back and forth. Maddie was collecting herself, and I was trying to get my head around the event.

The thing was, my dog just bit my granddaughter. In her own house. Her parents were going to be horrified. And angry.

They might banish Paco from Maddie’s presence forever. They might do the same to me.

Poor Maddie, who was always so comfortable around Paco — would she develop a fear of dogs?

Poor Paco, who was always so tolerant of Maddie — would he strike again?

On all counts, down the line, I was wrong.

Dustin and Leslie were surprised, but not overly upset. They considered the incident to be an aberration, not likely to happen again.

As for Maddie, she was totally untraumatized. By the end of the afternoon, she was back to petting and hugging Paco as if nothing had happened.

Paco, he seemed unaffected, too.

Of us all, I was the most distressed.

Later that week, Paco had an appointment for his annual physical. I told the vet about the unpleasantness that had occurred.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Do I need to enroll Paco in an obedience class or something?”

“It wasn’t the dog who needed to learn a lesson,” said the vet.

“Your granddaughter found out what happens when you jump on top of a sleeping dog,” he said.  “I guarantee she’ll never do it again.

“Case closed. Forget about it.”

Easy for him to say.

"No treats for you!" -- Paco and Maddie a few weeks later, back to normal.

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Paco

After my dog Kelly died in 2003, I vowed never again to have a pet.

And I meant it. The loss of my girl Kelly was horrific, and I had no desire to go through that kind of grief again.

But, five months after Kelly died, I spotted my next dog Paco on cable television.

At the time, of course, I didn’t know he was the future Paco. But there he was, on the local government channel, part of the Pet Parade of animals available for adoption from Walton County Animal Control.

The future Paco caught my eye immediately. He was a border collie, like Kelly, although his markings were unusual: a mostly white coat with a few black highlights.

There was that improbable black dot in the center of his forehead. And that ridiculous patch of pink on top of his long, collie-style muzzle.

When the technician brought him in front of the camera, the future Paco was quite animated, in a decidedly happy and friendly way. Clearly, this was a good-natured pooch.

But no matter. I had taken a no-more-pets vow.

Pet Parade ran weekly on cable. The routine: an animal would be featured once, twice, maybe three times. After that, they weren’t seen again — leaving you to wonder if they had been adopted or euthanized.

The future Paco, on the other hand, became a regular on the program. Eight weeks after his first appearance on Pet Parade, he still was appearing in the lineup.

One morning, I found myself in my car, driving to Walton County Animal Control in Monroe.

I told myself I was going there simply out of curiosity. The facility was only five minutes from home, and I wanted to find out why that particular dog was still on television after all that time.

And yes, I wanted to see the dog, too. Out of mere curiosity, you understand; I had taken a vow.

I parked and went into the office, still in denial.

“The border collie?” said the technician. “Yeah, he’s a real good dog. We could tell that right away.”

“Keeping him around hasn’t been a problem,” he said. “We aren’t very crowded right now.”

He looked at me knowingly. “We figured somebody would show up sooner or later to adopt him.”

“Oh, I’m not here to adopt him,” I said. “I was just curious.”

“Let’s go see him,” said the technician, and we walked down the hall to the cages.

Amid a canine symphony of barking, I got my first look at the future Paco.

He was a terrible mess, muddy, dirty, and matted, but delirious with joy to see us. When we stopped in front of his cage, he danced in a circle on his hind legs, vocalizing happily with a sound I soon would become familiar with: Paco’s trademark yodeling howl.

The dog was enchanting.

“Let’s talk,” I said to the technician, and we went to his office.

The future Paco, the tech told me, had been found by Animal Control late one afternoon wandering down a dirt road in a remote part of Walton County. The dog  wore a purple nylon collar with no tags. He was friendly and made no attempt to flee.

After the officers picked him up, they spent the rest of the afternoon knocking on doors in the area, trying to find the owner. No luck.

Poor Paco was rail-thin and weighed just 36 pounds. They estimated he was about two years old. He had not been neutered.

“We think he was kennel-raised,” said the technician. “He seems to relate to the other dogs better when they’re on the other side of a fence. Put him in a cage with other dogs, and he gets quiet.”

That was a clue that Paco had socialization issues, but I missed it.

It was too late anyway. Ten minutes later, the papers were signed, $40 exchanged hands, and Paco and I were on our way home.

Mysteriously, Paco was already housebroken. He got into the routine of residential living quickly and effortlessly. He spent his days inside while I was at work, and he never caused the slightest problem.

Naturally, I introduced him to trail-hiking, and he took to that with relish.

As for his underdeveloped social skills, evidence of that surfaced on Day One.

Border collies, as you may know, are famous for their love of chasing Frisbees and tennis balls. For some of them, like my girl Kelly, that love is an obsession, complete with wild, staring eyes and flaring nostrils.

At the time, several of Kelly’s well-chewed tennis balls were still around the house. I left them there on purpose.

I picked up one of the tennis balls and held it aloft for Paco to see. He looked at the ball and back at me.

“Catch it, Paco!” I said and lofted the ball in a gentle arc in front of him.

If that had been Kelly, she would have snagged the ball out of the air with lightning speed, then returned it to me for an encore.

In Paco’s case, the ball bounced off his snout and rolled away. He sat there and looked at me quizzically.

I tossed the tennis ball to him several more times, but the result was the same. He had no interest in the yellow thing whatsoever — had no clue what it was.

In short order, I found other idiosyncrasies in Paco’s behavior that indicated he didn’t have a normal upbringing in his previous life:

He had no idea what a Frisbee was. No surprise there.

He had no knowledge of, or interest in, dog toys of any kind.

He didn’t know that rawhide chewies are for chewing.

And when I gave him his first treat, an Alpo Liver Snap, he didn’t understand that it was something to eat.

It was sad to behold. Poor Paco had led a sheltered life.

But soon, the little guy become better socialized.

He quickly grasped the concept of snacks and treats; that was easy. He mastered the art of munching on rawhide chewies, too.

To facilitate play, I bought him a Kong toy, one of those hollow rubber things. You place treats inside, and the dog rolls it around to dislodge the treats. Paco enjoys that immensely, until the treats are gone. After that, he ignores it.

Today, Paco is about seven years old, give or take, and he is a happy, contented member of the household.

He is a fine roommate and companion. He’s good with kids, and he loves all living creatures — dogs, cats, deer, squirrels, people, even bugs.

Being a dog, he is supremely intuitive; being a border collie, he is extra intelligent. Paco knows my habits and body language well enough to be able to anticipate my moves very accurately. In fact, predicting my actions in advance has become his mission in life.

Although he still ignores most of the dog toys in the house, he occasionally romps around with a rawhide chewy, tossing it in the air like a toy. Play is play, I guess.

As for Kelly’s old tennis balls and Frisbees, I still keep them around the house. And I’ve tried many times to get Paco interested in playing with them. Not a chance.

By the way, Walton County required me to get Paco neutered within 30 days of the adoption. Sorry, little dude. The law is the law.

For a long time, I said that my greatest failing as a parent is the fact that, if my sons eat grits at all, they put sugar on them.

I probably should amend that: I’ve raised a border collie who doesn’t chase tennis balls.

2003 -- Paco at 36 pounds, his coat choppy from dematting.

2004 -- Taking a dip in the Chattooga River.

2006 -- Maddie and Paco at play.

2008 -- A quick cool-down on the trail.

2010 -- Relaxing at home.

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Encounter Most Fowl

Okay, I know — I live in a small, rural Southern town, and I can’t expect life here to be the same as in, say, Malibu or Brooklyn.

But really, chickens roaming loose is a bit much.

I got new neighbors a couple of months ago, and shortly after they moved in, I began to hear the crowing of a rooster at dawn.

I assume it crows daily, but I wouldn’t know; I get up with the chickens very rarely these days.

I don’t know how many chickens live next door, and frankly, I don’t care. Nor do I care if the neighbors raise chickens. The crowing and clucking sounds are pleasant enough, and the whole idea is rather amusing.

But yesterday, one of the birds paid me a visit. I was not amused.

Just before lunch, I grabbed my car keys, told Paco goodbye, and walked out the back door into the garage. I tapped the buttons and stood waiting for the garage doors to open.

As the doors went up, I did a double-take as two scrawny chicken feet, and slowly the rest of a chicken, came into view.

The bird stood unmoving and looked at me in that glassy-eyed way chickens have. I think I then addressed it — probably said something like, “What the –?”

It was clear what had happened. The chicken somehow got loose from its enclosure and wandered the 50 yards through the woods to my house.

Well, I was on my way to Athens, and I had no time for niceties. Advancing and waving, I shouted, “Get lost, chicken! Go home!”

The chicken clucked in alarm, flapped its wings, and, instead of fleeing away from the house, ran inside the garage.

I muttered a profanity and glanced up the hill toward my neighbor’s house. No cars were in the driveway. The chicken and I were on our own.

The chicken stood at the end of the car peering sideways at me. Being a normal American, I fished out my cell phone and took a picture.

With the formalities out of the way, I turned to the task of rousting the chicken from the garage so I could leave.

It was no easy task. First, I attempted a flanking maneuver. I went quietly to the front of the vehicle, so the chicken would run outward instead of inward, and with much stamping of feet, I charged.

Instead of exiting the garage, the chicken ran squawking under the car.

I muttered a profanity again and walked around to the passenger side of the car. I leaned down and looked under the vehicle. There was the chicken, cowering out of reach, squawking rhythmically in alarm. This was not turning out as I expected.

With no small amount of irritation building, I grabbed a broom and began probing beneath the car. I knew by the squawks when I located the chicken.

The bird retreated from under the car on the driver’s side and stumbled a few steps along the wall, vocalizing wildly. It finally stopped behind a stepladder.

So far, the chicken was winning. Having minimal experience with barnyard fowl, I wasn’t sure how best to gain the upper hand.

If I rushed it or used the broom, the bird probably would go back under the car. I decided to take advantage of my opposable thumbs — to grab it barehanded by its scrawny neck.

Up to that point, the chicken was alarmed, but no more than the average chicken.

However, when I reached down and attempted to catch it, the chicken came unhinged.

Until that moment, I had never heard a chicken in full-out panic mode. It was awful.

The squawking became a terrible, steady screeching. The chicken ran forward, reached the corner of the garage, and thrust its head against the wall. It stayed there, shaking and making guttural sounds.

Damn, I thought, this chicken is utterly terrified. Who knew chickens had the brains to be so afraid?

For a moment, I thought about driving away and leaving the garage door open. The chicken would collect its wits in time and go elsewhere.

It was a nice thought, but not a very smart one. Especially in these hard economic times, one shouldn’t drive away and leave one’s garage door open. By so doing, one could lose a lot of tools.

So that left me with a chicken problem. I didn’t want the poor thing to die of heart failure, but on the other hand, I wanted to go to Athens. For both of our sakes, I needed to act quickly.

So I did.

The chicken was standing defeated and defenseless in the corner of the garage. Using the business end of the broom, I pinned the bird to the floor. Then I reached forward and grabbed it, firmly but carefully, by the neck.

The chicken went bonkers, of course, flailing crazily and vocalizing like a mad fiend, but the battle was over.

In triumph, I walked out of the garage carrying the struggling bird. In a cloud of feathers, I released it onto the lawn.

As soon as I let it go, the chicken stopped squawking that terrible hellish screech and resumed an ordinary cluck. In a nanosecond, it disappeared to safety under the shrubbery.

Quickly, before birdbrain somehow blundered back inside the garage, I leapt into the car, backed out, and closed the garage doors. The chicken was still under the shrubbery when I drove away.

Chances are, I will never again in my life encounter a runaway chicken. But I know I’ll be peering into the shrubbery for weeks to come.

The fugitive fowl.

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