Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Know thyself, Thyme?

As I was searching for something else on the internet last night, I found an interesting article about self-recognition research in rhesus monkeys.

I know. You're thinking, "What? Rhesus monkeys? What?"

Bear with me, it's not really about monkeys. It's about self-awareness in animals and especially our feral pony Thyme.

Self-awareness is notoriously hard to demonstrate in creatures who can't talk. The list of species that scientists are willing to credit with self-awareness is extremely short. One of the most common tests used to determine if an animal is self-aware is the so-called 'mirror test'. The mirror test is like candid camera with animals. Unbeknownst to the animal, the researcher puts an odorless mark on the animal's body in a spot the animal can't see. For chimps it might be a red dot on the forehead. For elephants they placed the mark on the animal's back. Then they show the animal a mirror. If the animal touches the mark on their body rather than the mark in the mirror, voila, they are said to recognize themselves and thus have self-awareness. Only a few species have ever passed this test. Chimps, elephants, dolphins, 18-month-old humans. Maybe a few others, but not rhesus monkeys, and certainly not horses. Rhesus monkeys (and presumably horses) are like cats.  Put them in front of a mirror, they seem to think they are looking at another monkey, not themselves.

Personally, I've always found this way of defining self-awareness in animals pretty narrow. There are so many other ways in which we humans demonstrate our self-awareness, for instance self-agency. And so I come to Thyme.

The feral pony demonstrated spectacular recognition of her own agency yesterday. I have mentioned that I am (slowly) clicker training Thyme in hopes of being able to one day handle this completely untouchable pony. As of yesterday, we had progressed to the point of having her touch a target when offered. I use the end of a broken mop handle with a perfect round green circle at the tip. I hold the target out towards her, over the top of a gate or fence, and let her approach it. All she has to do is touch the tip lightly with her nose, without mouthing it, and she gets the reward (a click or sometimes a bite of grain.) She learned this easily and has done it repeatedly over a couple of sessions. She's generally calm, slow-moving, and thoughtful while she does this.

Yesterday, I decided to up the stakes a bit. In exactly this same context, with her on one side of the fence, me on the other, the target held out in front of her, everybody calm, nobody moving fast, and everything exactly as before...instead of letting her make the final two inches of approach and touch the target, I reached across those last two inches and touched her lightly myself. Same green mop handle, same small range of movements, same (general) point of contact, but I touched her, instead of letting her touch me.

The feral pony went through the roof. Jumped two feet straight up in the air, turned tail and fled. Her message could not have been clearer. You touched me! Get away from me! That was not the deal! I don't care if it's the same green stick I've been playing with all this time. I don't care if it's the same nose I've been using all along. I didn't do it. You did it. That. is. not. our. deal! Crazy woman! 

And that is what the article was about. A researcher taught rhesus macaques how to play a game on a computer and then showed that the monkeys could readily tell the difference between actions on the screen that they caused themselves and actions that they didn't cause. Since all the actions on the computer screen looked alike, the monkeys must have been able to use awareness of their own actions to tell the difference, and if they're aware of their own actions, they must have some sort of self-awareness. 

Totally cool demonstration.

And Thyme can do it too.

I wonder if I could teach her to play video games?

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Friday, February 22, 2013

Where ice goes to die


We had a thaw today.

The day started off with an ice storm, frozen roads and a snow day for the 11-year-old, but by afternoon it was 40 degrees.

I took the opportunity to free the buckets in the barn from all the ice. What a relief.

I'm putting the hammer away now. No more ice this year. I mean it. None.

Next year -- heated buckets.


Thursday, February 21, 2013

The cat behind the sofa

I haven't said much about the cats here at Tyche's Run. I imagine this oversight is because their numbers have grown so large that they have become part of the furniture, practically the air we breathe. There are more than you can shake a stick at. You couldn't swing a cat, if you were so inclined, without hitting...well, a cat. It positively rains cats and...um... cats.... Yes, they have become as common as a bad cliche, and thus hardly worth remarking upon.

You get the idea. I suspect we have more cats than we should.

You may wonder if there is a story behind this large, but unremarkable collection of cats and the answer is, no, not just a story -- there are many stories. But today, I'd like only to remark on one little cat.  One little cat named Tortellini.

Why?

Because Tortellini has come out from behind the sofa.

Let me back up. When the 11-year-old was 10, we bought this farm. Along with the house, the falling down barns, the junk-filled sheds, and the overgrown fields came four equally neglected cats. After some discussion, the 11-year-old dubbed them the Pasta cats -- Ravioli, Risotto, Fettucini and Tortellini. Ravioli and Risotto had been family pets, but the other two were a young mother and son pair of feral cats that someone else had dumped on the previous owners. Tortellini, the mother, was the most feral of the two. Completely unapproachable.

The four cats came inside for the first time in their lives when we arrived, and there they have stayed. Ravioli, Risotto, and even Fettucini, have adapted well to being part of the Tyche's Run managery. It took some time, but they gradually mixed with the other animals and with us. Fettucini began playing with the other youngsters, Risotto began seeking out laps to snooze on, and even the elder Ravioli has never been above enjoying a good ear scratching.  But Tortellini, has always remained apart. The shyest and most feral of the bunch, she has adopted an out of sight, out of mind strategy. She has camped out behind the sofa in the back room. Apart from the occasional glimpse of her tail as it disappeared around corners and under furniture, we have seen little of her.

Until now.

Recently, I have begun catching her out in the open. In the kitchen for goodness sake, during the day for crying out loud, so God and everybody else can see her and remark, "Oh look, here's Tortellini."



Case in point, this morning as I passed through the kitchen in one direction, I spotted Risotto and Rosebud (one of the Groundhog kittens, but that's a different story) curled up together over a hot air vent. I couldn't help but pull out my iphone to snap a picture. (Risotto is the black and white in the back. Rosebud is the fluffy gray one in the front.) But then, two minutes later as I returned through the kitchen going the other way, I found this novel addition, gasp, in plain view, out in the open, in the full light of day:



Yes, Tortellini has definitely come out from behind the sofa.