Want to get smart? Ask Fido

I am happy to report to you that I am intelligent.

I know this because an item slashed from the pages of Psychology Today crossed my desk this week saying that research has found that people who talk to their pets are more intelligent than those who don’t.

So, there you go. I talk to my dog, ergo I’m smart. In fact, I graduated Phi Beta Crappa.

And guess what? There’s even a name for it: Anthropomorphism. It means assigning human qualities to non-human things.

Now, let me be perfectly clear about my own anthropomorphism, the only non-human thing that I regularly converse with is my dog. I make it a practice not to speak with things like turnips, doorknobs or any

kind of tool. Although, in all candor, my dog Rosie’s IQ is extremely comparable to a turnip — but she is much cuter and a willing listener.

Alan Beck, the director of Purdue University’s Center for the HumanAnimal Bond, declares that 97% of pet owners talk to their pets. The other 3%, he says, are liars. So, I don’t feel so bad now when Rosie asks for help with her homework.

My conversations with animals pretty much began with our former dog, Bill. For his entire life,

Bill was my muse. He always seemed to give me great ideas for this column, although I could only write about his life’s work of keeping the world safe from marauding squirrels so many times. I always thought that were it not for his lack of opposable thumbs, he could have cut me out altogether and written this yarn by himself.

I tried to practice communicating with family pets (because I wanted to be smart) before Bill’s arrival. It was with my son’s pet boa constrictor. The first thing I learned when the snake didn’t seem to be quick to communicate with me is that all snakes are deaf. That pretty much left out any meaningful discussion. In retrospect, the only thought the snake had was, “I wonder if I can ingest that giant head,” or maybe, “Why don’t you stop thinking I’m listening and run out and get me a nice rat?”

In reading the research on anthropomorphism, it explains our desire to communicate with animals by describing our hypersensitivity to eyes. We believe we can tell what our four-legged brethren are thinking by looking into their eyes.

Bill’s eyes told a story. He was either contemplating Darwin’s theory of evolution, or plotting the Sicilian Defense in his mental chess match with Garry Kasparov. Rosie’s eyes, on the other hand, fall somewhere between undying love and “I have to pee so bad my eyes are watering.”

Where most dog owners can’t keep their little darling off the bed at night, we can’t keep Rosie on the bed. Sleeping in any proximity to us for Rosie is akin to curling up with a hyena. She is kind enough to offer the option of us coming down on the floor with her, but only at a safe distance.

So, bolstered by the idea that my anthropomorphism is directly related to intelligence, I must tell you that I draw the line at another form of the condition called pareidolia. This is an instinct so strong that we see faces in objects.

So, if you’ve ever seen what appears to be the face of Lady Gaga in a butternut squash or a pancake, there is a pareidolia Twitter account with 561,000 followers just waiting to embrace your finding with those of all the biblical icons found in various baked goods.

I’m just not sure I can be an anthropomorphism zealot to that extent. I don’t need to be that smart.

But I’ll ask Rosie just to be sure.