By Tim Sanders

I recently read an article by Science Editor Roger Highfield in the UK Telegraph which told about a Hungarian research team that has developed a computer program to help humans understand dog language. I like to keep abreast of what is happening in Hungary because, according to the old adage: "As Budapest goes, so goes Cedar Bluff." Since I live just seven miles from Cedar Bluff, and since I have a dog, this is obviously news which could profoundly affect both of us.

Here are a few lines from that article:

"Computer programs now appear to be the most precise tool ... to study how animals communicate, conclude Csaba Molnar from Eotvos Lorand University in Hungary and his research team, who describe tests of the new software in the journal Animal Cognition.

The software analyzed more than 6,000 barks from 14 Hungarian sheep dogs – Mudi breed – in six different situations: ‘stranger,’ ‘fight,’ ‘walk,’ ‘alone,’ ‘ball,’ and ‘play’ to learn the nuances of dog language."

A couple of things struck me about those lines. First, there was the name "Csaba Molnar," which sounded like a serious orthodontic problem, and secondly there was the notion of "nuances of dog language."

I wasn’t aware that our dachshund, Maggie, had any language nuances. Maggie is a fine dog, and very serious about her duties, which mainly involve a) warming our bed at night, and b) noticing every single thing that moves, or looks like it is about to move, or had possibly moved within the past decade, inside or outside the house, and then barking at it. If you were to meet Maggie, you might get the impression she was a bit neurotic.

Maggie is not intellectually gifted.

Maggie has three basic vocalizations, which are your basic howl, your basic whine, and your basic bark.

Maggie’s howl does not really qualify as any sort of verbal communication at all; she is simply singing, and looking for someone to harmonize with her. She only howls when Marilyn or I are in close proximity, and if one of us joins in, she will keep it up for several rousing choruses. Sometimes, when we do not know the tune, she simply gives up and walks away. And sometimes when we do know the tune, the neighbors call to complain, bringing our little choir practice to an abrupt end. It is a harmless and meaningless exercise, not unlike the American Idol show, only without the obligatory recording contracts.

Maggie’s whining, on the other hand, does convey a message. It is non-specific, though, and roughly translates to "PLEEEASE!" When she walks into the den and whines "PLEEEASE," she might want a toy, a meal, a plain biscuit, a biscuit with peanut butter, or simply to go outside and poop. Whatever the case, she never gives us any information other than the "PLEEEASE" part, and we are always obliged to follow her around the house until we happen upon just what it is she wants. She gets immense gratification out of our pitiful efforts, and enjoys watching us present her options to her.

Which brings us to Maggie’s bark. Maggie’s bark is actual, specific verbal communication, which transmits important, socially significant information that can be translated as follows:

BARK = HEY!

BARK, BARK, BARK = HEY, HEY, HEY!

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK = HEYHEYHEYHEYHEYHEY!

There is no nuance there, only the same "BARK" delivered frantically, as though some calamity involving the loss of Maggie’s pelt were certain to follow. Maggie will bark at the sliding glass door in the kitchen just as a matter of principle. "HEY!" she says, and then glares at it as if to add, "I’ve got my eye on you!" The sliding glass door rates one bark. Maggie will bark at ladybugs or at garbage bags or at neighbors she’s seen a thousand times. She’ll bark at the garbage truck when it comes down the street the very same way it’s come down the street for the past five years. She’ll bark at our son, David, when he comes home from work, despite the fact that he’s the same David she’s known all her life, and she’ll bark at our cat, her very own stepsister, who has never done her a bit of harm. All of these rate at least three barks. When the neighbor's cat ventures onto our deck to eat our cat’s food, Maggie will contribute at least fifty BARKBARKBARKS, accompanied by several leaps at the glass slider as though she would like nothing better than to capture that cat and tear it into several small pieces. She makes all of that commotion despite the fact that once, many months ago, she actually had the chance to catch a strange cat who’d wandered into our yard. The cat was a neighbor’s elderly Siamese cat, and it had worn itself out climbing over our fence and hadn’t yet got its wind back to climb over again. The cat was sitting at the far corner of our backyard, and Maggie leapt off the deck, barking maniacally, headed for her prey. She was very impressive, full of sound and fury, her little dachshund ears billowing in the wind, until she arrived within a few feet of the cat and realized it was not about to move. Then she immediately hit the brakes, screeched to a halt, and turned to plan B, which consisted of barking several more times and then peeing on the ground. The cat didn’t seem to care for this, and eventually ambled back to the fence and clambered back over. After it left, Maggie sniffed where she’d peed, as though surprised that plan B had worked so much better than all of her very meaningful barking.

Dr. Molnar and his team plan to continue their research, eventually designing a computer program that would allow dogs to convey specific messages, such as "burglar with crowbar" or "Jehovah’s Witness with Watchtower" to their owners. In the meantime I’ll have to rely on Maggie’s primitive, non-nuanced communicative skills.

And if worse comes to worse, she can resort to plan C, which is where she barks, pees, and then poops on the floor. It is very effective.