If dogs could speak, would we even listen?

One dog always reporting for duty. The other prefers “wake me when it’s dinnertime.”

Not long ago, I took part in a six-month certification that tested both training and teaching skills. After months of theory and video submissions, the course culminated in a week-long assessment in Canberra. We made it a family road trip, driving seven hours north with a car full of treats and dog-friendly cafes pinned all over Google maps.

One part of the assessment involved showcasing a complex chain of behaviours we had taught our dog. I had two possible partners. Zelda, my kelpie mix, who loves challenges, is a fast learner, and has incredible stamina. Or Enzo, my Italian greyhound, who spends most of his time horizontal in the sun and finds “dog training” pretty unconvincing as a life choice.

You may be surprised, but I chose Enzo.

Zelda can become quickly overstimulated and stressed in new environments, whereas Enzo takes things in his stride. He’s generally calm, confident, and sociable. Full disclosure - we got close, but we failed the behaviour chain. During the week itself, though, I couldn’t have been prouder of him. Enzo threw himself into every activity, was happy to work with other people, and loved charming all the senior lady dogs on his breaks.

Later, when I was reassessed online for the part we missed, I switched to Zelda. She mastered in two weeks what I’d spent nearly four months teaching Enzo, and performed it flawlessly.

So which of my dogs is the “smart” one here? Is intelligence about mastering human-shaped tasks with speed and precision? Or is it about behavioural flexibility, social competence, and the ability to stay regulated enough to make good choices under pressure? And what if the question isn’t who’s smartest, but who’s been setting the test?

The pull of similarity

Across cultures, humans have understood animals in many different ways: as kin, teachers, spirits, workers, neighbours. Within Western philosophy, however, humans have a long history of ranking other species by how much they resemble us. Since the days of Descartes, who claimed that animals were merely machines without minds, Western thought has often measured worth through human abilities. To think, to talk, and to act intentionally became the defining signs of moral and intellectual value, even though many animals also demonstrate complex thought, purposeful action, and communication in their own forms.

That idea has stuck hard, quietly shaping how we study, train, and consider dogs today. When a dog recognises words, follows a pointing hand, or wins a title in a human-made sport, we label this intelligence. The more closely they reflect us, the more their perceived value increases.

As writer and critic John Berger (1980) observed, modern humans often struggle to meet animals as other beings. Instead of seeing them for who they are, we sometimes use them as mirrors to reflect our own feelings and identities. Genuine encounters can give way to projection, as we look to animals more to understand ourselves than to understand them.

Measuring with human scales

Scientific inquiry often relies on what can be observed and measured, and canine cognition research is no exception. Our faith in measurement runs deep. We use data to make sense of things, to turn uncertainty into order. Studies of canine intelligence often follow this impulse, building conceptual ladders of ability and seeing how high dogs can climb.

Consider Chaser, the border collie who learned over a thousand toy names (Pilley & Reid, 2011). Or Rico, who could fast-map new words like a toddler (Kaminski et al., 2004). Or the countless videos online of dogs “talking” by pressing buttons. These accomplishments are remarkable, yet they also reflect our own worldview. The words, the objects, even the tests themselves belong to human systems of meaning. What these studies ultimately reveal is not how dogs think in their own terms, but how well they adapt to ours.

Efforts to “prove” dogs are intelligent can unintentionally reinforce the idea that intelligence only counts when it looks human. Philosopher Donna Haraway (2003) offers another way of thinking. She writes that genuine connection depends on what she calls significant otherness, the ability to stay present with difference rather than folding it back into human sameness.

More than meets the eye

Meanwhile, dogs are out there being unassuming but brilliant in ways our data often misses. Through sensory precision, movement and social attunement, dogs read the world with their noses, bodies, and hearts. 

To a dog, for example, smell isn’t just information. It’s a narrative carrying time, memory, and emotion. They can track where you’ve been, who you met, and maybe even what you felt along the way. Yet we rarely call that intelligence because it doesn’t resemble reasoning or language we understand.

The same goes for their social insight. A dog who notices tension in a person’s voice, reads another dog’s body language, or diffuses conflict with a play bow is demonstrating an intelligence that’s subtle, embodied, and relational.

Language is a prized tool for understanding, but scholar Erica Fudge (2000) reminds us that it can also narrow what we see. It draws a line between those who can “speak” and those who can’t, leaving dogs to communicate by performing language back at us. Sit. Down. Shake hands. This exchange of cues and responses can often resemble performance rather than conversation.

To really understand dogs, perhaps we need fewer tests and more attention. Haraway (2003) describes this as becoming with: learning through a shared life. Understanding grows in the ordinary moments of living together, as both species take turns as teacher and student. To know a dog is not to observe from afar, but to recognise the exchange of learning that unfolds between you.

Different ways of knowing

What if intelligence wasn’t a single ladder to climb, but a landscape of many kinds of understanding? What if we asked not who’s at the top, but how each species learns to live well within this landscape?

Every species has evolved the skills it needs to navigate in its own world. Dogs don’t need to ace a vocabulary test to survive and thrive. What keeps them alive isn’t reason or speech, but the quiet skills of attunement, cooperation, and adaptability. They interpret tone, scent, and movement, read emotion, and navigate complex social worlds with incredible skill. Think about the everyday brilliance of a dog slowing down for an older companion, anticipating a toddler’s stumble, or reading a stranger’s intent before we do.

If so much of our history with animals has been about shaping them in our image, maybe what comes next is learning to meet them in theirs. That could mean orienting care around how dogs actually experience the world, or resisting reductive labels such as “clever” or “stubborn.” It could mean stepping back from comparison and starting to truly value encounter. Because the more we ask dogs to act human, the less of them we see.

References

Berger, J. (1980). About Looking. Pantheon Books.

Fudge, E. (2000). Perceiving Animals: Humans and Beasts in Early Modern English Culture. University of Illinois Press.

Haraway, D. J. (2003). The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness. Prickly Paradigm Press.

Haraway, D. J. (2008). When Species Meet. University of Minnesota Press.

Kaminski, J., Call, J., & Fischer, J. (2004). Word learning in a domestic dog: Evidence for “fast mapping.” Science, 304(5677), 1682-1683.

Pilley, J. W., & Reid, A. K. (2011). Border collie comprehends object names as verbal referents. Behavioural Processes, 86(2), 184-195.