“Study finds dogs are more than twice as smart as cats,” the clickbait headline reads:
A study gives dog owners solid scientific evidence that dogs really are smarter than cats.
A study led by Vanderbilt University counted for the first time the number of neurons in the cerebral cortex of the brains of cats and dogs and found that dogs have more than twice as many neurons as cats.
The research found that dogs have about 530 million cortical neurons while cats have about 250 million. These neurons are the brain cells associated with thinking, planning and complex behavior, which are all considered hallmarks of intelligence.
That’s from a story published Aug. 30 on Local12.com, the website of a Cincinatti-area news station.
So what’s wrong with the story?
It’s dishonest: The study was conducted in 2017, but the Local12 story presents it as news in August of 2019.
It quotes the study’s lead author, giving the impression a reporter from Local12 spoke to her. That did not happen. The quotes were copied and pasted from the press release that originally announced the study two years ago.
It misinterprets the study’s results: Neither neuron count nor brain size — relative or absolute — are reliable indicators of intelligence.
This is what passes for news in 2019: Old, recycled content presented as new information, slapped together by a web producer who didn’t bother to read more than the study’s abstract.
It’s all about traffic and designing pieces of content ready-made for Facebook feeds.
But what about the central claim, that the number of neurons in an animal’s brain correlates to intelligence?
If that were true, we’d be living on a planet dominated not by humans, but by elephants: Earth’s largest terrestrial animal has some 260 billion neurons compared to an average of 100 billion for humans.
“Hear that, son? We have more neurons than humans!”
Research suggests the number of neurons in the cerebral cortex, as opposed to the entire brain, may be a better indicator of intelligence. Indeed, that’s what the study focuses on. The cerebral cortex is associated with higher cognitive functions. As you’d expect, humans have unusually high neuron counts in that region of the brain.
But by that measurement, humans aren’t at the top either.
If neuron density in the cerebral cortex was the primary indicator of intelligence, the long-finned pilot whale would reign supreme, and other types of whales and dolphins would rival humans.
Not only do pilot whales have twice as many cortical neurons as humans, their brains have much more surface area, which scientists once believed corresponded to intelligence.
“Actually we are the Earth’s smartest creatures according to cortical neuron count. Suck it!”
So if we’re keeping score, intelligence is not determined by:
The number of neurons in the brain
The number of neurons in the cerebral cortex
Brain size
Brain size relative to body mass
Brain surface area
Brain “folds”
At one time or another, each of those things was thought of as the way to measure smarts. So if none of those things are true markers of intelligence, what is?
That’s the million-dollar question. We don’t have an answer, which is why scientists conduct this kind of research in the first place.
Contrary to what the article claims, cortical neuron count does not provide “solid scientific evidence that dogs really are smarter than cats.”
But that doesn’t make for a clickable, shareable headline, does it?
In truth, we can’t even define what “more intelligent” really means because each species sees the world differently, and has different priorities to enable it to survive and thrive.
When we measure intelligence, we measure it on a human scale, according to how we humans see the world. That’s hardly an impartial way of evaluating the intelligence of animals with much different needs and ways of seeing the world, and it doesn’t yield many useful insights.
Keeping that in mind is particularly important when it comes to studying cats, who have their own agendas and priorities. Dogs are eager to please and obedient. Cats only listen when it suits them.
That doesn’t mean one is smarter than the other, it simply means they’re different
In my cat’s mind, biting is an acceptable form of communication.
I have eleven new scratches on my left arm.
They’ve all drawn blood, most notably a deep three-inch wound across my forearm that continues to bleed even after I washed it out and applied antibacterial cream.
That’s where my cat latched on in his determination to register his displeasure.
What could prompt such action? Was he terrified by something, reacting violently out of instinct? Did he lash out at me because I was abusive? Did I accidentally step on his tail?
Nope.
Buddy was angry because, while he has almost the entire run of the place, one room usually remains off-limits to him. A single room!
So tonight, after meowing and complaining, the little lunatic ran full speed into the living room and launched himself at me, latching onto my left arm and raking his claws against my skin. One second I’m reading, the next I’ve got nine or 10 pounds of angry cat doing an impression of a paper shredder on my arm.
I know it was a brat move because of his “I want it now!” whimper as he clawed me, and because he’s done the same thing many times. Without fail, it’s because he’s not getting something he wants.
“I’m just a sweet little kitty-cat. Look at me! I’m harmless! Look at my cute little face, do you really think I’m capable of what I’m accused of?!”
There are phases. Bud could be a good boy for two months, the image of a well-behaved cat, then one day I won’t give him any more treats because he’s already had too many, and he’ll complain with his “But I want it now!” yowl as he’s biting down on my feet.
Or maybe he wants to go sit on the balcony, but I don’t let him go out because I’m leaving soon and I can’t just leave him unsupervised on a balcony only 18 feet from the ground.
And sometimes it’s just because Bud sees I’m getting ready for bed, and he doesn’t want to go to sleep, so he launches himself at me with claws extended and teeth ready to chomp down.
Over the years I’ve had a few girlfriends tell me I’d be a great dad. Stupidly, I believed them. Now I’m not so sure. If my cat is a legendary brat, thanks in part to his disposition but mostly because I dote on him, what chance would my kids have?
Well, it’s half to dinner o’clock. I’d better get on that quick, or Mr. Scratchalot is going to give me matching tattoos on my other arm.
Oh, hey. That’s a real nice pantry you got there, kid.
Marone! Look at this! Only six months old and living the high life on that Blue Buffalo. Chicken, turkey, salmon, beef, tuna, duck. Hey Fat Vinnie, they got duck!
Fat Vinnie loves duck.
So here’s what’s gonna happen, okay? Youse guys need protection from the rats. Vicious little sons a bitches, them rats are. But we got the muscle, okay? We’ll take care of the problem for you for a little quid pro quo from the pantry, if you know what I mean.
Capisce?
Six cans a week. We’re lettin’ you off light. We take Mr. Bubbles down the street for everything he has, ’cause we’s don’t like wimpy little pedigree cats thinkin’ they’re all special, do we Vinnie?
No we don’t, boss. No we don’t.
Now we keep this arrangement quiet between youse and us, okay? It would be a shame if that owner of yours came home one day to find shit in all her shoes and blamed you, wouldn’t it? You don’t want that. That’s a one-way trip to the shelter, my friend.
I been to the big house. Scrawny little kittens like you ain’t got a shot there.
Six cans, every Sunday. Next week we’ll take a look in that fridge of yours and if you got any gabagool or galamad, we’ll help ourselves to that too. For protection. Oh, and make sure you put some duck on the side for Vinnie here. He gets upset if he ain’t got no duck, and Mr. Bubbles don’t stock none.
What do you think of them? I can’t believe it. I think they’re awful and I’m scared. I have a good home, but what if my mama died or something and no other people came to help me and I was left outside? Would this happen to me?
Headbump,
Stasi from ‘Stralia.
Dear Stasi,
This is from the third link you sent me:
“…good news, folks! You can legit be a bounty hunter in Australia. Sort of. Now before you get excited over traveling around Australia, hunting down outlaws, and slamming down bounty posters onto a sheriff’s desk in demand of payment, people are off-limits if you decide to be a bounty hunter in Australia.
No, what you’ll be hunting are – wait for it – cats. Feral cats to be specific.
The Banana Shire Council up in Queensland is offering bounties on the presentation of feral cat scalps and are willing to pay you $10 per scalp.”
Oh, what brave hunters, stalking the outback with bolt-action rifles to combat the plague of 10-pound kitties! Well, I’ll bet they’re as heroic as this guy:
It’s not hunting when there’s zero chance of failure and the animal is so accustomed to humans, it doesn’t even realize you’re trying to kill it.
So brave!
Don’t worry, Stasi. Buddy will give these Australians a piece of his mind. And if those savages don’t stop, you can come live with Buddy in New York.
His Grace, Buddy the King Dated August the 14th, 5 A.B. (Anno Buddy)
To the Foul, Ignoble Degenerates of Australia,
After enquiring about your country, having never heard of it before receiving this most unfortunate news, we have been reliably informed that “Australia” is a former penal colony for English, Irish, Scottish and Welsh riff-raff who were banished from their home countries.
Some 160,000 criminals were forcibly transported to your abominable hovel of a “country,” where the assorted scoundrels, reprobates and rapscallions engineered a vulgar approximation of civilization. Fueled by alcohol, you copulated and produced more pissants. Generations of them, which brings us to you.
We understand there are two primary reasons for this: Our collective impact on local species, and Greg, best known to humans as the Bane of Birds, the vicious white cat who snacked on an entire bird sanctuary.
Look, Greg is a dick. We freely admit that.
We told him those birds were in a sanctuary. We told him not to eat the birds. We told him to stop messing with humans. We even told him to stop hogging the Temptations.
Greg didn’t listen, and now Greg’s dead. At your hands.
We offer the opportunity for a cease fire. You got Greg. There’s no reason for you to continue hunting us with rifles and arrows like the wimps you are, terrified of getting scratched by creatures that weigh 1/20 your weight even if we are 10 times your superior.
We control rodent populations. We are furry and we like to cuddle. We are like warm, purring pillows of love and cuteness. What more could you want?
And so we extend this olive branch in the sincere hope that you take it. Recall your “hunters” or face our wrath!
Signed, His Grace, Buddy the King First of His Name, Sole Sovereign of the Fields of Turkey, Ruler of New York, Protector of the Apartmental Realm, the Most Handsome, Totally Not Scared of Anything
Run in terror at the sight of my claws, Australians!
Gather round, kids, and listen to another tale of how cats always win.
My cousin has been married to her husband, Rob, for more than 25 years, and on one of their early dates he took her to the Bronx Zoo.
These were the days before the famously large tiger enclosure was remodeled into Tiger Mountain. Nowadays a series of huge fiberglass panels separates the tigers from the visitors, meaning there’s no open air between them.
You can probably thank Rob for that.
Back then only a reinforced fence separated the Earth’s biggest cats from people who’d come to gawk at them, and Rob decided he’d get my cousin to laugh by goofing off in front of a tiger.
He started off making a few faces, and the other visitors — kids, their parents, other couples looking at the tiger — found it funny. (At least according to Rob they did.)
Encouraged, Rob stepped up his act, dancing and waving until one tiger in particular took interest.
“What are you going to do, tiger?” he taunted. “That’s right! Nothing! You can’t do anything!”
The tiger roared, and Rob roared back. The huge cat was clearly not amused by a human dancing like a clown, making stupid faces and taunting it with an insulting approximation of a roar.
So the tiger turned around.
“That’s right!” Rob said, declaring premature victory. “Walk away! You can’t do nothin’!”
Oh, but the tiger could.
The annoyed cat raised its tail, backed up a stride and let loose a projectile — “a wad” is how Rob described it — of thick, gooey urine, hitting Rob square in the face.
The tiger had impeccable aim.
“It was enough to fill that,” Rob said, pointing to a large soda bottle. “It was all over me. It was in my mouth!”
Rob staggered back and lost his footing, taking one of the young bystanders with him as he fell. The angry mother stared daggers at him as she yanked her kid away, realizing with horror that he’d suffered collateral damage from the gooey salvo.
As for the tiger, it chuffed and, having proved its point, sauntered away.
Miraculously, my cousin agreed to continue dating Rob. Not that she found the episode flattering.
“That should have been the big warning sign,” she joked.
Today they have two adult daughters. As for Rob, he’s an executive at one of the country’s largest telecommunications companies, but says he has no illusions about his level of maturity.
“The way I was back then is the way I am now,” he told me. “I’m still an idiot.”
He may be an idiot, but he’s not going to mess with any more tigers.