Watchers (37 page)
His strongest—and most puzzling—response was to a photo in a magazine article about an upcoming movie from 20th Century-Fox. The film’s story involved the supernatural—ghosts, poltergeists, demons risen from Hell—and the photo that agitated him was of a slab-jawed, wickedly fanged, lantern-eyed demonic apparition. The creature was no more hideous than others in the film, less hideous than several of them, yet Einstein was affected by only that one demon.
The retriever barked at the photograph. He scurried behind the sofa and peeked around the end of it as if he thought the creature in the picture might rise off the page and come after him. He barked again, whined, and had to be coaxed back to the magazine. Upon seeing the demon a second time, Einstein growled menacingly. Frantically, he pawed at the magazine, turning its pages until, somewhat tattered, it was completely closed.
“What’s so special about
that
picture?” Nora asked the dog.
that
picture?” Nora asked the dog.
Einstein just stared at her—and shivered slightly.
Patiently, Nora reopened the magazine to the same page.
Einstein closed it again.
Nora opened it.
Einstein closed it a third time, snatched it up in his jaws, and carried it out of the room.
Travis and Nora followed the retriever into the kitchen, where they watched him go straight to the trash can. The can was one of those with a foot pedal that opened a hinged lid. Einstein put a paw on the pedal, watched the lid open, dropped the magazine into the can, and released the pedal.
“What’s that all about?” Nora wondered.
“I guess that’s one movie he definitely doesn’t want to see.”
“Our own four-footed, furry critic.”
That incident occurred Thursday afternoon. By early Friday evening, Travis’s frustration—and that of the dog—were nearing critical mass.
Sometimes Einstein exhibited uncanny intelligence, but sometimes he behaved like an ordinary dog, and these oscillations between canine genius and dopey mutt were enervating for anyone trying to understand how he could be so bright. Travis began to think that the best way to deal with the retriever was to just accept him for what he was: be prepared for his amazing feats now and then, but don’t expect him to deliver all the time. Most likely the mystery of Einstein’s unusual intelligence would never be solved.
However, Nora remained patient. She frequently reminded them that Rome wasn’t built in a day and that any worthwhile achievement required determination, persistence, tenacity, and time.
When she launched into these lectures about steadfastness and endurance, Travis sighed wearily—and Einstein yawned.
Nora was unperturbed. After they had examined the pictures in all of the books and magazines, she collected those to which Einstein had responded, spread them out across the floor, and encouraged him to make connections between one image and another.
“All of these are pictures of things that played important roles in his past,” Nora said.
“I don’t think we can be certain of that,” Travis said.
“Well, that’s what we’ve asked him to do,” she said.
“We’ve asked him to indicate pictures that might tell us something about where he’s come from.”
“But does he understand the game?”
“Yes,” she said with conviction.
The dog woofed.
Nora lifted Einstein’s paw and put it on the photograph of the violin. “Okay, pooch. You remember a violin from somewhere, and it was important to you somehow.”
“Maybe he performed at Carnegie Hall,” Travis said.
“Shut up.” To the dog Nora said, “All right. Now is the violin related to any of these other pictures? Is there a link to another image that would help us understand what the violin means to you?”
Einstein stared at her intently for a moment, as if pondering her question. Then he crossed the room, walking carefully in the narrow aisles between the rows of photographs, sniffing, his gaze flicking left and right, until he found the ad for the Sony portable stereo cassette player. He put one paw on it and looked back at Nora.
“There’s an obvious connection,” Travis said. “The violin makes music, and the cassette deck reproduces music. That’s an impressive feat of mental association for a dog, but does it really mean anything else, anything about his past?”
“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Nora said. To Einstein she said, “Did someone in your past play the violin?”
The dog stared at her.
She said, “Did your previous master have a cassette player like that one?”
The dog stared at her.
She said, “Maybe the violinist in your past used to record his own music on a cassette system?”
The dog blinked and whined.
“All right,” she said, “is there another picture here that you can associate with the violin and the tape deck?”
Einstein stared down at the Sony ad for a moment, as if thinking, then walked into another aisle between two more rows of pictures, this time stopping at a magazine open to a Blue Cross advertisement that showed a doctor in a white coat standing at the bedside of a new mother who was holding her baby. Doctor and mother were all smiles, and the baby looked as serene and innocent as the Christ child.
Crawling nearer to the dog on her hands and knees, Nora said, “Does that picture remind you of the family that owned you?”
The dog stared at her.
“Was there a mother, father, and new baby in the family you used to live with?”
The dog stared at her.
Still sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, Travis said, “Gee, maybe we’ve got a real case of reincarnation on our hands. Maybe old Einstein remembers being a doctor, a mother, or a baby in a previous life.”
Nora would not dignify that suggestion with a response.
“A violin-playing baby,” Travis said.
Einstein mewled unhappily.
On her hands and knees in a doglike position, Nora was only two or three feet from the retriever, virtually face-to-face with him. “All right. This is getting us nowhere. We’ve got to do more than just have you associate one picture with another. We’ve got to be able to ask questions about these pictures and somehow get answers.”
“Give him paper and pen,” Travis said.
“This is serious,” Nora said, impatient with Travis as she had never been with the dog.
“I know it’s serious,” he said, “but it’s also ridiculous.”
She hung her head for a moment, like a dog suffering in summer heat, then suddenly looked up at Einstein and said, “How smart are you really, pooch? You want to prove you’re a genius? You want to have our everlasting admiration and respect? Then here’s what you have to do: learn to answer my questions with a simple yes or no.”
The dog watched her closely, expectantly.
“If the answer to my question is yes—wag your tail,” Nora said. “But
only
if the answer is yes. While this test is under way, you’ve got to avoid wagging it out of habit or just because you get excited. Wagging is
only
for when you want to say yes. And when you want to say no, you bark once. Just once.”
only
if the answer is yes. While this test is under way, you’ve got to avoid wagging it out of habit or just because you get excited. Wagging is
only
for when you want to say yes. And when you want to say no, you bark once. Just once.”
Travis said, “Two barks mean ‘I’d rather be chasing cats,’ and three barks mean ‘Get me a Budweiser.’ ”
“Don’t confuse him,” Nora said sharply.
“Why not? He confuses me.”
The dog did not even glance at Travis. His large brown eyes remained focused intently on Nora as she explained the wag-for-yes and bark-for-no system again.
“All right,” she said, “let’s try it. Einstein, do you understand the yes-no signs?”
The retriever wagged his tail five or six times, then stopped.
“Coincidence,” Travis said. “Means nothing.”
Nora hesitated a moment, framing her next question, then said, “Do you know my name?”
The tail wagged, stopped.
“Is my name . . . Ellen?”
The dog barked.
No.
No.
“Is my name . . . Mary?”
One bark.
No.
No.
“Is my name . . . Nona?”
The dog rolled his eyes, as if chastising her for trying to trick him. No wagging. One bark.
“Is my name . . . Nora?”
Einstein wagged his tail furiously.
Laughing with delight, Nora crawled forward, sat up, and hugged the retriever.
“I’ll be damned,” Travis said, crawling over to join them.
Nora pointed to the photo on which the retriever still had one paw. “Did you react to this picture because it reminds you of the family you used to live with?”
One bark.
No.
No.
Travis said, “Did you ever live with any family?”
One bark.
“But you’re not a wild dog,” Nora said. “You must’ve lived somewhere before Travis found you.”
Studying the Blue Cross advertisement, Travis suddenly thought he knew all the right questions. “Did you react to this picture because of the baby?”
One bark.
No.
No.
“Because of the woman?”
No.
“Because of the man in the white lab coat?”
Much wagging:
Yes, yes, yes.
Yes, yes, yes.
“So he lived with a doctor,” Nora said. “Maybe a vet.”
“Or maybe a scientist,” Travis said as he followed the intuitive line of thought that had stricken him.
Einstein wagged a “yes” at the mention of scientist.
“Research scientist,” Travis said.
Yes.
“In a lab,” Travis said.
Yes, yes, yes.
“You’re a lab dog?” Nora asked.
Yes.
“A research animal,” Travis said.
Yes.
“And that’s why you’re so bright.”
Yes.
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