Animal Instinct--or Intelligence

by WYMAN RICHARDSON, M.D.

1

WHENEVER I venture the suggestion that either bird or animal has acted intelligently, my scientific friends begin to hoot. Only man can show signs of intelligence, they say; to which I reply that man seems easily able to hide this fact. “What is intelligence?" I ask. The answer sometimes given is that intelligence means the power to reason, which involves the use of memory and the ability to count. Birds and animals cannot count, at least not much; they have little memory; they therefore cannot reason.

One winter Sunday, many years ago, when I was stationed at Camp Devens, I went for a walk through an eight-inch fall of light snow. Suddenly a deer jumped up, not thirty yards off, and bounded away in great leaps, until his flashing tail disappeared behind a windfall. This was the last I saw of him, in spite of the fact that he was my companion for most of the day. I followed his tracks into a swampy wood. He discovered that I was following him and made a circle about a quarter mile in diameter. I went around it twice before I found the spot where he jumped out. Again we took a loop and came back to the same circle, which he then crisscrossed several times. And again I followed him out. This happened three times. Finally he tried a new tactic and went straight away for five or six miles. Eventually, however, we started to turn. I found some hair on a barbed-wire fence that he had jumped, and wondered which of us was the more tired. We turned more and more, and sure enough, another six miles and we were back in the original maze. By tins time I had so tramped down the area, and the light was becoming so poor, that I could not find exit tracks. I gave up the chase, tired and filled with admiration for the beast’s intelligence,

“That wasn’t intelligence,” said my scientific friend. “That was instinct.”

Try sometime to get a clear definition of instinct. Most people know what it means, but I have never found anyone who could or would tell me what it actually is.

Well, maybe the deer was just responding to experience previously gained; perhaps, in other words, he had developed a “conditioned reflex.” This is the term which is used by scientists to account for animal intelligence. In this instance there was no reasoning involved, they would say; otherwise the deer would have known that I was depending on sight and not on smell, and would have abandoned his maze. However, as it turned out, this might have been a very foolish thing to do. Besides, I am not saying that a deer has human intelligence; he may have something better — at least better for a deer.

The setting sun was just about to touch the brow of Skiff Mill. Suddenly my spine tingled as the honking of distant geese came down from the sky. Soon they flew overhead, high, from the north, about twelve of them, their white breasts reflecting a golden sheen. The old gander was in the lead as the geese circled the marsh once, all of them talking and gabbling, trying to decide whether to stop or to fly on south. Then a sterner note crept in; the other honkers became silent, and the old gander gave his orders. The flock continued to circle slowly, at 600 feet; but the gander came flown to about 100 feet and swung around the entire marsh. Finally he found a place he liked, and called again. The whole flock suddenly broke ranks and sideslipped and zigzagged out of the air, with a roar of wings. At the last moment, they came together and gracefully settled down on the Beach Marsh.

How then describe the behavior of this magnificent bird which showed all the qualities of leadership, involving a cautious weighing of risks, great courage, and absolute unselfishness? Was this instinct? Or a combination of previously conditioned reflexes? Call it that if you will; you are simply quibbling over terminology .

“Fatty Spilliker” was a very large foxhound. His largeness was due to fat, as his name, which some old-time comic strip readers may remember, implies. Consequently, he was extraordinarily slow on his feet; but he had a wonderful nose and great tenacity. I can remember one time when he stuck to a trail for two nights and one day. When he finally came back to camp, he was close to a state of exhaustion shock. Anyhow, Fatty Spilliker started a fox in Fulcher’s Swamp, and could be heard baying away at a great rate. Finally his owner took a gun and hid himself behind an old, tumbled-down shack that overlooked the swamp. Pretty soon, at the edge of the bushes, Fatty came lumbering along, every once in a while giving forth with his peculiarly melancholic wail. And about thirty feet behind him came the fox, which had lapped Fatty and was now close upon him. Hound and round they went, until Mr. Fox tired of his sport and raced off across the hills to the railroad track, where, I have no doubt, he ran down a rail for several hundred yards.

Here we have an animal showing not only intelligence but a sense of humor. This is important because some people insist that a sense of humor is an integral part of human intelligence. I have never heard a fox laugh, but I am willing to bet that this fox had a good laugh at Fatty’s expense when later he safely returned to his burrow beside the crooked cedar.

“Flash” was a chestnut-colored Chesapeake Bay retriever, somewhat along in years, He was an extremely “intelligent" dog, who did his work diligently and without mistake, never getting himself into trouble, and, through it all, saving for the Camp large numbers of ducks that otherwise would have been lost. He never went on ice too thin to hold him; nor did he allow himsell, while swimming after a wing-broken but otherwise healthy duck, to become so exhausted that a boat expedition was required to save his life.

Some may not agree, but I always thought he showed how great was his brain in the following incident. He and his uncle, “ Bright,” had been waiting around for hours, good and hungry, while the crew at the Camp had been eating dinner. At this particular meal my father, who had a peculiar passion for tripe, had tried to make his family eat and appreciate it. Unfortunately, nobody shared his views, and a large platter of tripe was returned to the kitchen. John, who helped us run the place, took the platter and dumped the contents into the dogs’ pans as they crowded around with mouths drooling. They made a simultaneous leap for their dinner, took one sniff, and then slunk off around the corner of the house, their tails between their legs.

Among birds, the wily black duck certainly has a deserved reputation for seeming intelligent. Anyone who has spent long hours lying, half frozen, flat on his back, with blackened face and camouflaged boat, wailing for ducks to come within forty yards of him, will swear to this bird’s intelligence. The high-flying old devils will circle and circle, each time setting their wings as if they were coming right in, and then they will flare just out of range as something not quite to their liking shows up. They will light in mid-channel, swim up by the set at 100 yards, and back down again, finally working into the sedge at a safe point well away from harm.

Crows, aside from an apparent individual intelligence, have a very well organized society. I agree with the late Ernest Thompson Seton that they have a rather elaborate “language.”Often, in the early morning, I have watched them gather on the roof of my brother’s house and talk over the day’s plans. During this time, they are in touch, by voice, with distant scouts. Finally the caucus is ended, and they will straggle off to an appointed destination. At all times, however, they appear to be in communication with the entire crow population, by means of deliberately placed liaison units; for let a big owl or a fox appear, and in no time a hundred crows will be badgering him.

There are many stories about lame crows, but I like best the one my cousin tells. His crow enjoyed sitting on the top of the archery target, while they were practicing the York round (say at eighty yards). An arrow would come whizzing into the red, plunk! The crow would simply turn his eye. He would cock his head again and watch an arrow thump into the gold. Next time, he would lightly jump up a scant six inches and let the arrow pass under him, or duck slightly and let the arrow pass over. He never appeared to become nervously upset over this problem, thereby perhaps emphasizing his unintelligent behavior.

2

THE question naturally arises, How do birds, animals, and even fishes find their way about? Many birds migrate long distances. Yet banding operations seem to indicate that they do not often get lost; for year after year the same bird will return to the same station.

I remember, late one September, watching the antics of a “winter” (greater) yellowlegs. It was one of those beautiful, rather still, crisp, clear days frequently seen during early autumn on outer Cape Cod. The sun was gelling high, and large, puffy, while convection clouds were forming. The yellowlegs started to fly in wide circles over our hill. After reaching an altitude of about 300 feet, he set his wings and began to soar. I never had seen a yellowlegs do this before, and never have since. Soaring in circles, with no wing motion, he rapidly gained height, rising almost as rapidly as would that monarch of the air, the duck hawk. Soon the bird was invisible against the deep blue of the sky, but he would reappear as he circled under a big white cloud. Finally, a tiny speck, he straightened out, and took a course slightly to the west of southwest, and disappeared into the blue.

Did he gain such height in order to get his bearings? Or did he do so to take advantage of favorable upper air currents?

If birds follow their migration routes by picking up landmarks, it is obvious that the young of the year must be shown the way. There is some evidence that Canada geese do actually follow landmarks, and that the elders of the family, or of several families, take their children with them, presumably to leach the way. The familiar V of flying geese is always, at least when it can be determined, headed by an old bird. Incidentally, this formation appears to be the most efficient, but throws considerable burden on the leader. I have observed, and others have commented on, the changing of leaders, which undoubtedly occurs often during a migration flight. When a thick fog ” unexpectedly’ descends (and I use the word “unexpectedly” because Canada geese seem to be quite choosy about what weather they fly in), frequently a flock of geese will become obviously lost, take three turns around the Congregational Church, inspect the few commuters on the five-fifteen, and finally light, and spend the night, in the ball park.

In the spring, migrating Canada geese, when they pass the Nauset Coast Guard Station at Eastham on Cape Cod, are taking a course that is almost exactly east-northeast, magnetic. However, when they reach the region of the Gaspe Peninsula and the island of Anticosti, they suddenly — at about the same spot, I am told make a right angle and fly to the northwest. Thus they come to their usual breeding grounds north and east of Hudson Bay, along Hudson Strait, and across it to the south coast of Baffin Island.

These observations tend to suggest that Canada geese make considerable use of previously learned landmarks when on long flights. I believe, however, that this is rather unusual with most birds.

For instance, the great flights of black-bellied plover seen on the outer Cape are headed by adults, those smartly dressed, black-fronted and whitebrowed, rather proud owners of the August sand flats. Later on, in September, come the youngsters, the “pale-bellies,” often in large numbers. At this time, “black-breasters” are few and far between. One could, of course, assume an army of immature plovers led by one or two adults, the whole kept in company by constant calling back and forth. There is no doubt about the fact that individuals in migrating flocks maintain a liaison by constant calling, as anyone who has slept under the stars during active migration can attest. However, the disproportion between the numbers of immature palebellies and their black-fronted elders is too great to make this theory attractive. It seems to me almost certain that these newly leathered birds find their own way down the coast.

And what about those ocean wanderers like the fulmars and the shearwaters? Do they know where they are? Incidentally, at least some of the shearwaters reverse the “normal”; that is, they nest in the southern hemisphere during our northern winter, and migrate north when temperate northern zones are enjoying summer.

The Manx shearwater is an exception and, during our summer, nests in Males. One of two brooding birds which were removed from their nests and released in Venice returned to its nesting site in fourteen days, but the other waited until a year later. It has been implied that the slow bird refutes the evidence of the fast one. To me the amazing thing is that both returned to their native Wales.

3

ORNITHOLOGISTS have long speculated about the possibility of oceanic birds using trade-wind swells to direct their course. F. W. Preston in the Auk (General Notes, January, 1949) has offered what is to me a new suggestion. He points out that, at certain seasons, specialized cloud formations may develop and remain constant over specific ocean currents. Such clouds, or fog banks, could be used by birds as easily as mountains, coasts, or rivers. This theory also brings to mind the possibility that oceanic birds might be guided by the color of the water. The difference in color between the Gulf Stream and the Labrador Current is obvious to all mariners; and there must be many other areas where thick plankton might offer more or less constant color differentiation.

Some years ago, noddy and sooty terns were taken from their nests on the Florida Keys, banded, and put aboard east bound ships. They were liberated after several days at distances up to 850 miles, and most of them returned to their nests.

More recently, a study of Leach’s petrels was made by Alfred O. Gross and his associates. These fork-tailed petrels — possibly “Mother Carey’s chickens” to you -make their burrowed nests in the cliffs of the region of the Bay of Fundy. Brooding petrels were captured, banded, taken across the peninsula, and liberated. Some were also put in holds of freighters, placed on phonograph disks so that they were being constantly rotated, and then set free. I do not remember the exact distances traveled, but they were in the order of 400 to 800 miles. The distances were limited by the fact that there was no way to keep the birds alive.

Anyone who has observed the dainty ballet of the feeding petrel, as it pirouettes lightly over the surface of the water, with outstretched feet, must realize that it will not accept a diet of Wheaties and peanut butter. However, the distances achieved were considerable, and a very high percentage of the birds returned to their burrows. Some of the nearer birds took their time; and some of the further birds arrived home in a few days. The reverse was also true; some of the birds released from the ships took two weeks or so. Nevertheless, the fact remains that most of the birds returned.

As to fishes, one thinks of the possibly orderly migration of such fish as the cod, haddock, striped bass, and mackerel. I am particularly intrigued by the eels. As I understand it, the North American Atlantic eels leave the rivers, make for the Sargasso Sea, and there (or not far from there) lay their eggs. The European Atlantic eels do the same thing, leaving something like a 300-mile gap for the sake of privacy. When the eggs hatch, the larvae immediately make for their respective shores, which they reach in two years or so.

This is all the more remarkable since the American eels, especially those headed for north of Cape Cod, need to leave the friendly Gulf Stream and struggle up against the Labrador Current. On the other hand, the European eels must have to put on the brakes, and swim in circles, in order not to reach their home river too soon; that is to say, before they have grown to the elver stage where they have assumed the adult eel shape. However this may be, how does this tiny baby eel find its way back to continental shores? Unlike the salmon there is, as yet, no evidence that the eel returns to its parent stream.

It is well known, of course, that the Atlantic salmon returns to the stream in which it was born. What the salmon does with its time off is still a matter for considerable speculation; and how it finds its way back has not been explained. Some think the salmon remains at great depths in the ocean, but still within the sunken valley of its own river.

Now what about animals? There are innumerable stories about homing dogs. Over and over again, from varying distances and under varying conditions, they have found their way home. The question is, How do these birds, animals, and fishes find their way about?

I believe that these creatures have a definite “direction center” in their brains. I suspect that this center is very sensitive to some one of the known, or perhaps unknown, forces which are continually bombarding the earth. I think that these centers can pick up the electromagnetic forces which cause a magnetized needle to point toward the north. In other words, I believe birds, animals, and perhaps fishes have, in fact, a protoplasmic, biologic compass. Man has evolved beyond the necessity for such apparatus, and so has lost it, as he has lost to a great extent his sense of smell and touch. Consequently, man must carry a compass, conceived and made by his brain and hands, if he wishes to preserve his life when the tide floods the flats just as a thick fog shuts in. Such a theory might in part explain the alleged confusion of the homing pigeon when approaching high-powered radio stations.

I thought these ideas were original, but, as often happens, I have since found out that many others have been thinking along the same lines. In the September, 1947, issue of Life, H. U Yeagley suggests that birds in some way can sense the rotational force of the earth (“Coriolis force”) as well as the magnetic force. He made a chart showing where these two lines of force would cross at the same angle and with the same intensity as at his dovecot in Pennsylvania. Such a situation occurred in Kearney, Nebraska; and he promptly took out a batch of homing pigeons and released them without giving them the opportunity to learn the terrain. He obtained a reasonably high percentage of returns, which he considered significant. He further claimed that, if you tied weak magnets to the wings of homing pigeons, they did very badly compared with unfettered controls. Others, though willing to concede that, mathematically speaking, the results were somewhat outside the range of pure chance, seem inclined to discount both the theory and the reported observations.

D. R. Griffin has followed, by airplane, gannets which were taken from their nests on Bonaventure Island in the Gulf of the St. Lawrence and released, presumably in unfamiliar territory, over northern Maine. The gannets followed a most erratic course, flying hither and yon, with no apparent purpose. Griffin concludes that these gannets were simply looking around for landmarks. One could, however, take the point of view that they were trying to “bracket” a weak magnetic or other signal from some fixed point. Also, it seems to me that he fails to explain what good this erratic flight of the gannets, in unfamiliar territory, could have done them. The extraordinary thing is that they all did return to their breeding island.

Whatever the answer to all this may be, let no one underestimate the power of nerve tissue, whether in man or fish. Man’s thoughts are accompanied by electrical discharges which can be measured. The force of these discharges seems picayune indeed when compared with that generated by some fishes. This is a wise provision of nature, when one considers that the electrical discharges from these fishes can knock a man down, or even, it is said, kill him.

Is it, then, too fantastic to believe that these “lower” animals actually have a direction center in their brains, by means of which they find their way about?