I think this question makes an enormous assumption.
If my dog suddenly developed the ability to speak, why do we assume she would also develop higher intelligence?
We imagine this magical moment when our pets finally tell us what they’ve been thinking all these years. They would tell us how much they love us. They would explain why they’re afraid of thunderstorms. They would thank us for rescuing them. Maybe they would finally reveal some deep canine wisdom about loyalty, forgiveness and living in the moment.
I don’t think that’s what would happen.
I think we’d hear, “Food.”
Then, thirty seconds later, “Food?”
Then, “Are you going to eat that?”
And after we explained that we were not going to give them our food, they would stare at us for another minute and say, “Food now?”
Dogs are wonderful animals, but we have a pretty generous definition of canine genius. Teach a dog to jump through a hoop and we’re impressed. Teach one to pull open a door using a towel tied to the handle and we’re ready to send the video to Harvard.
That’s not the same thing as rational thought.
Princess and Sammy know things. They know routines. They recognize people. They understand tone. They can communicate remarkably well without words. They know when we’re leaving, when we’re coming home, when dinner is late and when somebody has opened something in the kitchen that might possibly contain cheese.
But I’m not convinced there’s a great philosophical conversation trapped inside either one of them.
And maybe that’s a good thing.
Part of what makes dogs so wonderful is that we get to interpret their silence generously. That long stare means devotion. The head resting on your leg means unconditional love. Following you from room to room means they simply cannot bear to be apart from you.
Give them speech, and we might discover the truth.
“You’re sitting in my spot.”
“Scratch lower.”
“Why did you stop?”
“There’s somebody outside.”
“There isn’t somebody outside anymore, but I’m going to keep barking.”
“Remember when you gave me chicken three days ago?”
“Can I have chicken?”
“Chicken?”
And somewhere during a four-hour road trip, the dog in the back seat would inevitably discover the canine equivalent of, “Are we there yet?”
As I write this, there’s a dog behind me staring directly at my back. I don’t have to turn around to know what she’s doing. She’s watching. Waiting. Trying to determine whether I have food or whether there’s any possibility that food might soon become involved.
I know exactly what she’s thinking.
And I’m very glad she can’t say it.
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Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
