Cross-posted at My Left Wing
It's about conditioning. "Conditioned reflex," he calls it. Salivating when the damn dinner bell rings; even when it's not dinner time. Oh, the bastard loves to ring that damn bell, especially when it's not dinner time. But what can I do? I'm conditioned.
It started out innocently enough. It was an experiment. He didn't start out as a shrink, you know. He was a physiologist; not a psychologist or behaviorist. He was interested in the digestive process. Like, who cares right? Eat the meat; break it down; poop it out. Who gives a crap? Oh but these scientist types. Don't get them started. They want to know everything.
Well, I'm sorry; but some things - the legislative process and sausage making come to mind - should just not be looked at too closely.
Anyway, through his observation of the linkage between my salivation and stomach reactions; he discovered a curious thing. A dog doesn't need food in order to digest it.
Oh yeah, the whole thing made the silly ass famous as hell. You see, a reflex is an involuntary, instinctive response to stimulus. Light a match; put your finger over the fire. Shit yeah it hurts, and the first thing you do without thinking about it is getting the flesh away from the flame ASAP. It's called an innate reflex.
What old Ivan Peter, the bastard, did, was prove that an involuntary reflex could be learned. In the beginning, my drooling slobber could only be kick-started by actual fucking food. Hmm, hmm, hmm; once the food showed up the juices would start to flow and boy-howdy; chow-down me hardies. Then the bastard wanted to see if he could get my juices flowing without the food; so he tried his big fancy experiment.
He'd ring his fucking little bell and give us food. Ring the bell; give the food. Ring the bell; give the food. Then one day he rang the bell and no feed showed up. And guess what? My juices were still flowing. Oh the joy the little bastard got in his dog-awful cruelty. Ring the bell; withhold the food and watch the useless eaters bark and drool and run around the pen in anxious anticipation of some yummy red meat.
They'll give the bastard the fucking Nobel Prize for his cruelty to animals.
I guess I should be thankful the old fart isn't a sex maniac or I'd be getting a stiffy every time a fine young bitch wasn't around. How embarrassing would that be?
And, oh how he loves to bring folks around and ring the bell and watch our conditioned reflex in action. It's like a fucking joke to him now. Ring the bell; withhold the food and watch the show.
Well, let me let you in on a little secret. I'm getting fucking tired of the bastard jerking my chain around, if you know what I mean. I've been talking to some of my mates. It's been a little slow getting some of them to see my point. We ain't called dumb animals for nothing you know.
Anyway, I've been slapping my fellow canines around a bit saying, "Come on dawg, get a grip. Can't you see we're being played for fools? That damn little bell has gotten inside our heads. It's messed us up, dawg, so we don't know if the food is coming or going. Don't you see? The old bastard has found a way to control our very instincts through deceit and lies. If he can control our behavior; when we're hungry or horny or afraid; he's got us by the damn balls, dawg."
And, as I say, it has been a slow process. Breaking through powerful conditioned response and taking back control of our Will is hard. Especially for us dogs. We're too damn trusting I always say. We're so damn ready to give our master the benefit of the doubt. After all, he does control the gravy train.
But finally I see we are ready. We are about to teach that old bastard a new trick. It will turn out to be his second most famous discovery.
The bell can ring too many times. Too many false alarms and it's game over. No more unrequited drool. No more whining pants of restless anticipation. No more pacing back and forth, back and forth in the cage waiting, waiting, waiting.
Finally, when the artificial conditioning is abused; it is no longer is effective.
We may be dumb; but ultimately we aren't stupid.
So, we're ready. At some point, the old bastard is going to wonder what went wrong. He's going to open the enclosure, come inside, check our pulse, look into our eyes and examine our health to see if we've gone sick.
And that's when it'll happen.
A feast fit for a Dog.
