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Informationen zum Autor Alexandra Horowitz is a term assistant professor of psychology at Barnard College. She has a Ph.D. in Cognitive Science and has studied the cognition of humans, rhinoceroses, bonobos, and dogs. She has researched dogs professionally for eight years. Before her scientific career, she worked as a lexicographer at Merriam-Webster and was on the staff at The New Yorker . She currently lives in New York City with Finnegan, a dog of indeterminate parentage and determinate character, and the fond memories of dogs past. Klappentext A fresh look at what goes on inside the minds of dogs "that causes one's dog-loving heart to flutter with astonishment and gratitude” (The New York Times Book Review)—from a cognitive scientist with a background at The New Yorker. As one of the millions of dog owners in America, Horowitz is naturally curious to learn what her dog thinks about and knows. And as a scientist, she is intent on understanding the minds of animals that cannot speak for themselves. Now, in clear, crisp prose, Horowitz introduces the reader to dogs' perceptual and cognitive abilities and then reveals what it might be like to be a dog. How many of us have wondered what it must be like for a dog to experience life from two feet off the ground, amidst the smells of the sidewalk, gazing at our ankles or knees? How does a tiny dog manage to play successfully with a Great Dane? Why must a person on a bicycle be chased? Inside of a Dog explains these things and much more, and the answers are both delightful and surprising. It also contains up-to-the-minute research on dogs' detection of disease, the secrets of their tails, and their skill at reading our attention that Horowitz puts into useful context. With a light touch and the weight of science behind her, Alexandra Horowitz examines the familiar but mysterious animal we think we know best but may actually understand the least, and explains how dogs perceive their daily worlds, each other, and that other quirky animal—the human. Prelude First you see the head. Over the crest of the hill appears a muzzle, drooling. It is as yet not visibly attached to anything. A limb jangles into view, followed in unhasty succession by a second, third, and fourth, bearing a hundred and forty pounds of body between them. The wolfhound, three feet at his shoulder and five feet to his tail, spies the long-haired Chihuahua, half a dog high, hidden in the grasses between her owner’s feet. The Chihuahua is six pounds, each of them trembling. With one languorous leap, his ears perked high, the wolfhound arrives in front of the Chihuahua. The Chihuahua looks demurely away; the wolfhound bends down to Chihuahua level and nips her side. The Chihuahua looks back at the hound, who raises his rear end up in the air, tail held high, in preparation to attack. Instead of fleeing from this apparent danger, the Chihuahua matches his pose and leaps onto the wolfhound’s face, embracing his nose with her tiny paws. They begin to play. For five minutes these dogs tumble, grab, bite, and lunge at each other. The wolfhound throws himself onto his side and the little dog responds with attacks to his face, belly, and paws. A swipe by the hound sends the Chihuahua scurrying backward, and she timidly sidesteps out of his reach. The hound barks, jumps up, and arrives back on his feet with a thud. At this, the Chihuahua races toward one of those feet and bites it, hard. They are in mid-embrace—the hound with his mouth surrounding the body of the Chihuahua, the Chihuahua kicking back at the hound’s face—when an owner snaps a leash on the hound’s collar and pulls him upright and away. The Chihuahua rights herself, looks after them, barks once, and trots back to her owner. These dogs are so incommensurable with each other that they may as well be different species. The ease of play between them always puzzled me. Th...
