Bunker Mulligan "Let us endeavor so to live that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry." ~Mark Twain

One of my favorite visits each day is to Big Gold Dog. Today, Pancho talks about the cognitive powers dogs have.

A new German study cited here says that most dogs understand language at a rate the scientists said was equivalent to that of a 3-year-old child…or an ape or dolphin. I’d prefer to communicate with an ape or dolphin more than with most 3 year olds, but that’s another story.

I have two dogs, Jack and Chester. Jack is a Jack Russell, and I named him. Such is the power of my intellect. Chester is a rat, or chihuahua, I’m not really sure. He was a wanderer when we found him, and weighed about a pound. He is named for the skeleton in The Goonies, Chester Copperpot.

Like others of the breed, Jack is a lighning bolt with hair. Even now at nearly eight years old, he loves to run. Like Wallace’s dogs, Jack comprehends.

I returned from the golf course this morning having already decided to take the boys out for some running. I simply mentioned “fuzzy ball” (tennis ball), and Jack was scrambling around the house looking for it. I said something about field, and he was jumping up and down excitedly. “Let’s go! Why aren’t we already in the truck and on our way?”

Off we go, heads out the window. At the local school, I simply throw the ball, Jack runs, and brings it back for more. There is technique involved, as I am reminded if I throw the ball incorrectly. I must judge his speed (he sprints as soon as the ball in in my hand) and throw the ball so it bounces far enough ahead of him that he can jump and catch it in the air. Too far, and he has to adjust his timing for a second bounce, Too short, and he has to stop and wait. Proper technique allows him to time his jump to snag the ball at the top of its bounce.

Chester explores while all this is going on.

I then mention swimming. Game over. Let’s go. Jack understands “swimming suit,” and even knows which drawer it is in. We get in the pool, and the throwing game resumes. Chester doesn’t like the water. His feet are too small to propel him.

Jack is now worn out, sleeping on the back of the couch. But he will jump back to life if the words “cat” or “cookie” are uttered.

I think I’ll let him rest.