We dog-lovers tend to get carried away by the exceptional intellect of our favorite animal. Not necessarily dogs in general, nor even other dogs, but our dog... who happens to be a unique genius. As the saying goes: The only thing that's missing is the ability to speak. But dogs bark, and that's exactly what Sophia has been doing, non-stop, for the last twenty minutes.
Why? You see the stone slab in the form of a mysterious jungle beast (maybe a petrified bunyip that swum here from Australia back in the age of dinosaurs). Well, Sophia knows that there's a terrified lizard curled up behind it, hiding. I don't know why Sophia's annoyed by the presence of the tiny reptile. It's not as if she wants to eat the lizard, although it's likely that she would smack it with her paw, just for fun, and traumatize the poor lizard. No, Sophia is barking out of sheer silly doggish behavior. However it's reassuring at times to discover such trivial manifestations of canine stupidity. I realize, on such occasions, that I should cease to have a guilt complex about never having sent Sophia to a superior school for exceptionally intelligent dogs.
Now, having taken the liberty of speaking in these derogatory terms about my dear Sophia, I must admit two things:
— I'm impressed by Sophia's ability to smell the presence of a tiny lizard hiding behind a rock. I wouldn't be capable of doing so, even if the lizard farted.
— Back in the days when dangerous reptiles used to hide behind rocks at the entrance to caverns where my ancestors resided, the barking of Sophia's ancestors no doubt saved human lives. Otherwise, one of my potential ancestors would have got gobbled up by a boa, and I wouldn't even be here today to talk to you about Sophia. We must be grateful to barking dogs. Thanks, Sophia. In a moment, I'll go downstairs and move the slab, so that you can have some fun attacking and destroying that lizard.