How Dogs Love Us: A Neuroscientist and His Adopted Dog Decode the Canine Brain

by Berns, Gregory

  The brain-imaging results showed that dogs had mental processes substantially similar to our own. And if that is true, shouldn’t they be afforded rights similar to humans? I suspect that society is many years away from considering that proposition. However, recent rulings by the US Supreme Court have included neuroscientific findings that open the door to such a possibility. In 2010, the court ruled that juvenile offenders cannot be sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. As part of the ruling, the court cited brain-imaging evidence that the human brain is not mature at age thirteen, supporting the notion that children, even teenagers, are not fully responsible for their actions. Although this case has nothing to do with dog sentience, the court opened the door for neuroscience in the courtroom. Perhaps someday we may see a case arguing for a dog’s rights based on brain-imaging findings.

  Many people will find the argument for dogs’ rights troubling. After all, most dogs of the world are cared for by no one. Perhaps a fifth of the world dog population is lucky enough to live in the company of humans, and some fraction of those dogs actually live a comfortable life. Most people just don’t care about dogs.

  But if dogs have more capacity for social cognition than we previously thought, then we must reevaluate where they belong on the spectrum of animal consciousness. And this necessitates a reevaluation of their rights. Dolphins, whales, chimpanzees, and elephants, for example, have all been recognized as having substantial cognitive capacities, even self-awareness, and as a result are increasingly being protected from hunting (although many people do not recognize these protections). Throughout human history, there has been an undeniable trend toward granting basic rights of self-determination and liberty to groups of people that were once thought inferior. People of color, women, and gays and lesbians have all benefited from a general recognition of equality.

  Will animals be next? Because animals cannot speak, it will take a technological revolution like brain imaging to show that they have many of the same mental processes humans do.

  Unfortunately, scientists will continue to resist the obvious. Many scientists rely on animals for experimentation. The animals, of course, have no choice in the matter. It is terminal for them. Even within the small group of scientists who have since begun using MRI to study dogs’ brains, there is still a general disregard for the dogs’ welfare. By buying “purpose-bred” dogs, many of these labs continue to support the disgusting industry of breeding dogs specifically for research. And, to my knowledge, my lab is still the only group that cares enough about its canine volunteers to go through the considerable effort of training them to wear ear protection.

  We still need animals for research. But the vast majority of this research is currently for humans’ benefit. We need less of that and more research that directly benefits the animals themselves. Let’s start with dogs.

  23

  Lyra

  THE SCIENTIFIC PAPER DESCRIBING our first results with the hand signals was published on a Friday afternoon. The event signaled the conclusion of the first chapter of the Dog Project. For the first time in months, I had a weekend with nothing to do, and I planned to take full advantage of the leisure time.

  It was May in Atlanta—one of two perfect times of the year, the other being in October. In these months, and only in these months, the atmosphere achieved a momentary stability as the air from the Gulf of Mexico was perfectly balanced by fronts settling in from the north. The air was warm but not humid. The pollen had disappeared. And the city was lush with new growth.

  I lounged on the porch and enjoyed the spring air while Callie bounded in and out of the house with her favorite toy—a blue Kong. The Kong, shaped like a snowman, was just the right size so that Callie could get her mouth around the small end. Amazingly, the squeaker was still intact. She loved to carry it around, teasing me to take it away from her and darting away as soon as I got close. As I dozed off, I could hear her in the distance working the squeaker. The hours slipped away.

  Helen woke me.

  “Dad,” she said, “Callie is whimpering.”

  Callie was in the family room, still chewing and squeaking her Kong. She appeared fine. Except she was chewing and making little whining noises.

  I wrestled away the toy and threw it in the other room. Callie retrieved it and settled down just out of my reach, per her usual game. She continued to chew and whine. Callie was not generally a whiner. Apart from the time when she ate her way into the emergency room, I had never heard her complain about anything. Strangely, she seemed fine. I shrugged and told Helen not to worry.

  “Maybe she’s inventing a new game.”

  I returned to the porch to resume my nap, and Helen went back to playing a video game.

  Soon, the sun dipped behind the tall southern pines, signaling the dogs’ feeding time. Callie had stopped chewing and whining and was asleep on the couch. Normally, Lyra would be right there in the kitchen barking up a storm to feed her. I called for her but got no response.

  It didn’t take long to find her. She was in the living room, panting heavily. A pile of foul-smelling poop lay next to her.

  Oh, Lyra, I thought, another accident. For the last several months, Lyra had intermittently had some mild digestive issues. Maybe once a week she would urp up a small amount of yellow stomach fluid. It never seemed to bother her, and she would always eat normally. It is a fact of living with dogs that from time to time you share your home with their stomach contents. Newton used to love chewing off the tags from articles of clothing. This inevitably resulted in him vomiting a few hours later. You get used to it.

  While Kat cleaned up the mess, I fed Callie.

  I had assumed that Lyra would hear the food in the kitchen and appear shortly. When she didn’t, I went to check on her.

  She was lying on her side. I rushed to her and stroked her head. I didn’t want to upset the girls. Lyra’s eyes were open, but she wasn’t focusing on anything. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. I buried my face in her ear, whispering her name and trying desperately to suppress my rising sense of panic. But as soon as I did, I could feel that her lips and nose were cold. Her gums were pale. I ran to get Kat.

  “Something is seriously wrong with Lyra,” I told her. “We have to get her to the emergency room right now.”

  While Kat got a towel to lift Lyra, I broke the news to Helen.

  “Helen, Lyra is really sick.” Fighting back tears, I went on. “We have to take her to the vet right now.” Helen immediately sensed the seriousness of the situation.

  “Can I come?” she said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Is she going to be okay?”

  Tears started down my cheek. I hugged her.

  “I don’t know.”

  Kat and I rolled Lyra onto a beach towel and carried her to the minivan, where we carefully placed her in the back. Helen sat down next to her and stroked her head. It was all a bit much for Maddy, who asked to stay at home. Kat agreed to stay with Maddy while Helen and I sped off to the ER, only five minutes away.

  It was an early Saturday evening and a crowd of people, cats, and dogs was filling the vet ER. An old man was trying to sign in a schnauzer. I ignored him and demanded immediate help.

  “How much does your dog weigh?” asked the receptionist.

  “Eighty pounds.”

  “Two techs to the front desk for immediate assistance!” she barked into the PA system.

  In less than a minute, two women appeared with a gurney, and we rushed to the parking lot. I opened the tailgate of the minivan. Helen was still sitting with Lyra. I could tell from the techs’ facial expressions that this was not good.

  “How long has she been breathing that way?” one asked.

  “Less than an hour,” I said.

  They lifted Lyra onto the gurney and rushed her into the back of the hospital. Helen and I sat down in the waiting room. Numbly, I pulled her tight.

  We didn’t have to wait long. Another young woman, with lon
g blond hair and kind eyes, introduced herself.

  “I’m Dr. Martin, the staff veterinarian tonight.”

  I looked at her, fearing the worst.

  “Lyra’s blood pressure is extremely low, and we can’t get an IV started in any of her paws,” she explained. “We need to make a cut in her neck and put the IV there to give her fluids. Is that okay?”

  I said yes, and she rushed away.

  The receptionist motioned me to the front desk to sign paperwork. Having been there before, I knew they wanted me to guarantee payment. Of course I would. The last form, though, I was not prepared for. Did we want CPR performed if Lyra’s heart stopped? If not, then she would be a DNR: do not resuscitate.

  Even in humans, CPR offers a fifty-fifty chance at best. If Lyra’s heart stopped, that could mean chest compressions, defibrillation, intubation, even open cardiac massage.

  I called Kat.

  “They want to know if she should be DNR,” I said.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She’s in shock, but they don’t know why,” I said. “They’re doing a neck cut-down to get fluids into her, but they need to know if we want them to do CPR if her heart stops.”

  Kat was an ICU nurse. She knew what was down that road.

  “I don’t want her intubated,” she said. “I don’t want her to suffer.”

  I didn’t either. I checked the box for DNR and sat down with Helen. After fifteen minutes the vet came out and explained the situation. They had managed to get an IV into Lyra’s neck and she seemed to be responding to the fluids they were giving her. Her blood pressure, though, remained unstable. The lab work showed that the level of potassium in her blood was elevated. Everything else was normal.

  “Does she have Addison’s disease?” the vet asked.

  Addison’s disease, technically called adrenal insufficiency, is a somewhat rare disease in both humans and dogs in which the adrenal glands cease to function. The adrenal glands sit atop each kidney and produce several hormones that are necessary to maintain vital functions of the body. Adrenaline is produced there and helps maintain blood pressure and heart rate. The adrenal glands also produce hormones that allow the body to absorb sodium from food. Nobody knows what causes Addison’s disease. It often progresses so slowly, with only the vaguest of symptoms, that it is sometimes never diagnosed. Until the patient enters an Addisonian crisis. A crisis can be triggered by the slightest of stress—a viral illness or even a mild injury. Without the necessary hormones to rev up the body to fight the stress, the patient collapses into shock.

  Nobody had ever suggested that Lyra might have Addison’s disease. It hadn’t occurred to me, Kat, or her regular vet. But the question made me wonder. Lyra had never been a high-energy dog. Could the “Sloth,” as we called her, simply have been fatigued and weak? Those would be classic symptoms. The intermittent vomiting could have been a sign too. I didn’t know.

  Kat arrived and we all went back to see Lyra in the ICU.

  She appeared to be sleeping. I was grateful that she didn’t appear to be in any pain. Several bags of different fluids were hung on an IV pole. Helen lay down beside her and stroked her head with the tenderest of touches. The vets were giving her steroids, presumptively assuming that she had Addison’s disease, but it was all guesswork. There wasn’t anything more we could do by staying at the hospital. Lyra appeared stabilized, and our presence could potentially excite her, which could send her into shock again.

  I hugged her gently and whispered in her ear, “I love you, Lyra,” and wiped my tears on her fur. The vet promised she would call if anything changed.

  The five-minute drive back to the house felt like it lasted an hour. None of us said anything.

  The phone was ringing when we walked in the door. It was the vet. Right after we had left, Lyra vomited blood and started hemorrhaging from the other end too. If we didn’t do something right away, she was going to bleed to death into her digestive tract.

  “She has DIC,” said the vet. I repeated that to Kat.

  Disseminated intravascular coagulation, or DIC, occurs for unknown reasons following trauma or shock. The body goes haywire, clotting in places it shouldn’t be and using up the clotting factors in the process. The end result is uncontrolled bleeding, which is what was happening to Lyra. When it happens in people, only the most aggressive care can save the patient, and even then, the prognosis is poor. In the world of veterinary care, DIC is grimly referred to as “dead in cage.”

  Kat started to cry.

  The vet wanted to give her a transfusion of dog plasma, which would contain clotting factors to stop the bleeding.

  “Do you think it will work?” I asked the vet.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Lyra’s condition is grave. If we can stop the bleeding, she has a chance.” I gave the okay.

  “If anything changes, please call us right away.”

  Nobody wanted to sleep that night. To distract ourselves, we stayed up and watched TV until midnight. Maddy wanted to be alone, and Helen slept with Kat and me. Callie curled up at the end of the bed, confused.

  In the morning, I waited as long as I could before calling the hospital. The doctor on call for the day reported that Lyra’s lab values seemed stable. Her blood count had not dropped much, indicating that she hadn’t lost too much blood. But her clotting factors were still out of whack, and she was still bleeding out of her GI tract. The plan for the day was to try to keep her blood pressure stable.

  Around noon the entire family piled into the minivan, and we drove to the hospital. Even Maddy, who normally shied away from intense emotion, seemed to realize that this might be the last time she was going to see Lyra and agreed to come. Her face was twisted up as she tried to contain her feelings.

  At the hospital, Lyra was in the same pen as the previous night. She was still sleeping and appeared comfortable. Helen curled up with her, and Lyra sensed her presence. She raised her head and sniffed Helen. The corner of Lyra’s mouth turned up ever so slightly in a smile of recognition, and she went back to sleep. Helen covered her up with a blanket that the two of them slept with.

  We each took our turns. Watching the girls hug her, knowing in the back of my mind that this could be the last time with Lyra, was the most awful pain. I grieved for Lyra, and I grieved for the girls.

  After thirty minutes, Lyra seemed to perk up a bit. She stood up and looked around. Helen’s face brightened. But then Lyra shifted position, revealing a bright red stain where her butt had been.

  Helen rushed to me, sobbing. I started to cry too.

  The vet tech cleaned her up quickly. But since our presence wasn’t helping Lyra, we all agreed that it was time to leave.

  We tried to have a semblance of normal life at home. Callie seemed out of sorts, wandering the house looking for her big, fluffy pillow. I took to walking her around the block. Usually we walked in the morning and evening, but neither of us could get enough walking while Lyra was in the hospital. By the afternoon, we had been around the neighborhood four times.

  I waited until the evening shift at the hospital to call again. Dr. Martin was coming back on duty, and I wanted her opinion of Lyra’s condition over the last twenty-four hours.

  “She’s having runs of v-tach,” she said.

  Ventricular tachycardia, or v-tach, was a heart arrhythmia. Her heart was racing out of control.

  “We just gave her an injection of lidocaine,” Dr. Martin explained. “It stopped the v-tach for now.”

  There was no denying it. Lyra was slipping away. Her heart was racing because her blood pressure was dropping. But when the heart beats that fast there is no time for it to fill with blood, and blood pressure will continue to drop. Maybe she would go on like this for another day or so, but we had to confront the reality that her body was shutting down. Trying to save her would mean multiple drugs, transfusions, and being hooked up to a ventilator. Both Kat and I had seen this happen with people in the ICU, holding off the inevitable wh
ile the family held on to unreasonable expectations of recovery.

  It was time.

  I told Kat what the vet had said. Then we called the girls to the kitchen table and explained Lyra’s condition.

  “Girls,” I began, stifling tears, “Lyra is not doing well, and her heart is struggling to keep beating. It would be wrong to let her go on suffering, just for us.”

  There was nothing more to say.

  It is a heavy burden for an eleven- and twelve-year-old to make a choice between having their beloved dog come home or setting her free from her suffering. To spare them that guilt, Kat and I made the decision for them and simply framed it as the right thing to do. Even if I wasn’t sure myself.

  I called Dr. Martin and told her that we didn’t want Lyra to continue treatment when the prognosis was so poor. She understood and assured me that we were making the right choice.

  At the hospital, Lyra looked the same. I was relieved that she still appeared to be sleeping, even though mentally she was probably out of it, bordering on being comatose. Her heart monitor told the story. She was in v-tach, and her heart was beating two hundred times a minute, too fast to maintain blood pressure.

  While Kat signed the forms, Dr. Martin explained what would happen next. Helen absorbed the information without expression. We all sat on the floor around Lyra, each of us laying a hand on her. The first injection was an anesthetic. There was no discernible change, confirming that Lyra was already, in effect, asleep, and this knowledge lessened my guilt a little bit. The second injection, a cocktail of chemicals, was just as unremarkable. No shuddering, no movement. Just a cessation of Lyra’s shallow breathing. The slight upturn of her mouth—her doggy smile—remained permanently in place.