On the 25 April of the same year, I went on a visit to Hohenheim, taking Lola with me. While there I showed her a picture painted by Ferdinand Leeke and said: "That was done by 'Uncle' who came to stay with us at the farm, at the time when Lola was allowed to go for her first drive in the carriage with the two horses." (This event having made a great impression on her.) "Do you remember 'Uncle's' name?" I added. "Yes!" "What is it?" "leke!" The visit had taken place quite three weeks ago.
On the 20 May I took Lola to tea at S——. She did her work there excellently—both in viva voce arithmetic, as well as in the written tests put to her, and also counted dots, etc. After this the conversation became general, and Lola was not noticed. But in the course of the afternoon I told my friends that I had been to Hagenbeck's Circus a few days before, and that I had seen a monkey dressed as a man, and that it had eaten most daintily, cycled, and done other tricks. This had been a mere casual remark, and in about an hour's time I had returned home with Lola. But that same evening, when I was sitting reading, Lola came and rapped my hands—inquiring—"wer afe?" ( = who monkey?) I was at the moment so absent minded that I did not grasp what she was after—but she repeated "afe!" Then it suddenly flashed into my mind—and I did my best to illustrate the performance to her entire satisfaction. I gave an earlier conclusive proof of her memory when I mentioned her recollection of the yard-stick after the very brief explanation I had given her on the subject two months previously. Spontaneous remarks have been allotted a special chapter in this book, and may assist in proving what has already been stated, but I should like here to add an example of how animals put a matter "to themselves," as it were, when the thing heard has not been mentally digested, so to speak—or may even be quite incomprehensible to them.
On 26 July, 1916, I said: "Lola! now you think of something to ask me!" "Yes!" "Well, what is it to be?" "Yes, o h o." "What is the question? What am I to do with that word; the sentence is not complete, is it?" "What means?" "You want to know what oho means?" "Yes, yes!"
If we but consider the manner in which a dog will listen—with ears erect—to every word we say, the question Lola put to me will seem most natural! It even "comes naturally" to her to use words which are "above her head," so to speak, as for instance, when she said "surogat"—and in the case of Rolf, who referred to the "Urseele!" ( = the primeval soul!) Words such as these are "picked up" by them much in the way that children use words they do not know the meaning of: there may be something in the sound that attracts them, but sometimes they make a guess at the meaning, and in the case of animals, the guess is often a very good one. In Lola this "Art of Guessing" almost led to a sort of Romance!
In my Protocol of 14 December, I have the following entry: Yesterday I asked Lola to tell me why dogs prefer being with human beings rather than with other dogs—and I asked her the same question again to-day. Lola answered: "eid" ( = oath). "What is that? you were to answer me to-day: say something properly!" "ich eid." "Oh! I don't understand this! tell me nicely!" "Eid für hunde." "What is oath to mean?" "Zu schweigen!" ( = to be silent) "What? have you promised that to each other?" "Yes." "Who told you that?" "Frechi." (This was one of the dogs on the farm.) "Frechi? and what has that to do with you? Nonsense, had you told me so yesterday I should have known now! Say 'we are happy' otherwise I shall think you are telling me stories: now why?" "Wegen iren augen und iren sorgen one ruhe" ( = because of their eyes and their sorrows without ceasing). Lola was very tired when she had finished, but it had all been rapped out clearly and carefully, without a single correction. Later I said: "Lola, do you like being with me?" "Yes." "Why?" "ich gut ura?" Now this was quite incomprehensible, so I said: "What do dogs feel when they look at the eyes and see the sorrows of people?" "No." "Yes, tell me?" Then with hesitation: "libe...." (Liebe = love) and to this day I feel touched at these answers. How often in trouble and in sorrow have we not found relief in a dog's sympathy, and been glad to call it a friend in our sufferings? How often has not a dog's eye filled with understanding when its master has sat alone and lost in grief—coming, perhaps, and gently laying its head upon his knees—fixing its faithful gaze on him until at length he might be moved to smile, feeling that—after all—he was not alone? Dogs! may this not be your true vocation? Indeed, this thought possessed me for a long time. This sensitive aspect had not been so apparent to me until now ... I had been so keen on the objective tests and on all that they meant—and now I was almost ready to reproach myself, for had I not centred my love and intelligence on science alone: and only in a secondary sense upon the dog?...
16 December, 1916. On this date I returned to the subject, and said to Lola: "Why do dogs go to people when they see them in sorrow—what is it they then want?" "tresten" (trösten = to console).
"Tell me, Lola, of all the people you know, who has the most sorrows?" "herni ..." But she hesitated, and then turned the "r" into an "n," so that I saw she meant me (Henny)—and yet the spelling had been done with some uncertainty, so I said: "I thought you would have named someone else, whom all dogs love—do you know who I mean?" "Yes."
"Did you mean my friend?" "No." "Who then?" "her zigler!" (Herr Dr. Ziegler) "Then why did you tell a story just now? Did you think I should be pleased to think you meant me?..."
Later in the afternoon Lola was in a state of great depression; "What is the matter?" I asked. "er in or ist aus!" I questioned her more closely, so as to get at the meaning of this enigmatical remark: "What 'in ear'?" (or being meant for Ohr = ear). She replied: "eid zu sagen" ( = oath to tell—or to say) adding "ich auch aus" ... ( = I also done for). She looked absolutely miserable, and dropped down in a limp heap between rapping out each word, as though bereft of all will-power. I was beginning to feel quite distracted about her: "Lola!" I cried, "Is there no way of putting it right again? Oh, there must be!" "Yes." "Then I will help you!" but again she rapped: "er ist aus!" (Ehre ist aus = honour is gone). She could only answer concerning something she had in her head, and she did so restlessly—though quite distinctly. The whole thing seemed quite incredible! "Lola!" I urged, "how can it be put right?" "e zu...." and here Lola cowered down miserably, and remained so for the rest of the day.
17 December. To-day Lola ran away, returning at length as depressed as ever and bleeding. After I had bathed the wounds on her neck and ears I was glad to find that they were after all, no more than deep scratches. "How did this happen?" I asked. "ich one er." "How did it happen? did you run against a tree?" "Dog." "What dog?" "az...." "Tell me properly!" "kuhno." (Kuhno was a fox-terrier in a building near by.) "And were people present?" "Yes." "Who?" "wilhelm." (And this, as I later ascertained, was the case.)