The assistant pulled a pink block of foam from a shelf.
“This is how we immobilize the head,” he explained. “First, we make a mold of the monkey’s head, which is then used to make a positive cast with plaster. From that, we use a gel-type material to make a soft cast, which fits snugly around its head. We cut holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth. This gets clamped to the restraint device.”
“And the monkeys cooperate with this?” I asked.
“They learn,” he replied. “We shape their behavior through rewards. It takes about six months to train a monkey to go into the restraint device.”
“What are the boxes for?” Andrew asked.
“Those are conditioning boxes. Once the monkeys are trained to go into the restraint device, the whole rig is placed in the box. We then train them with lights and sounds.”
“Trained for what?” I asked.
“To get addicted to drugs.”
Right. Leonard’s research group was studying the biology of drug addiction. To understand addiction, you need to look at the whole process, from the first time somebody uses a drug to the point he becomes addicted. Because it is unethical, obviously, to get people addicted to drugs, Leonard uses monkeys as a stand-in.
The assistant continued. “Once they are trained to associate cues with drugs, we take the whole rig to the MRI scanner so we can see what is going on in their brains while they are craving drugs. Are you ready to go down to the scanner?”
I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Because the MRI’s strong magnetic field affects computer equipment, the control room is partitioned from the main scanner room. When we entered, a young woman draped in a surgical gown was staring intently at a computer screen with several brain images.
She was not pleased to have visitors.
“Who are you?” she snapped at me. “Have you had a TB test?”
I honestly couldn’t remember when I had last been tested for tuberculosis. Fortunately, Andrew distracted her.
“I have!” he announced cheerfully.
Leonard’s assistant explained that we were there to observe MRI scans of monkeys. The monkeys being scanned that particular day were from a different research lab. Because they had not gone through Leonard’s behavioral training, these monkeys had received a heavy dose of sedation. One monkey, surrounded by three veterinary technicians, was in the scanner when we entered, attached to monitors that reported vital signs like heart rate, breathing, and body temperature. Another monkey was on a cart, recovering from anesthesia. I almost walked right by it, until it started twitching with muscle spasms as the sedation wore off.
We took the opportunity to explain what we were trying to do with the Dog Project. The vet techs were not enthusiastic.
“You’re going to have to monitor them,” one said. “Vital signs and core body temperature.”
“How do you do that?” Andrew asked.
“Rectal probe.”
“Why would we do that to a dog that isn’t even sedated?” I asked.
“It’s standard operating policy to fully monitor all animals undergoing a procedure,” she replied.
“But we’re not doing a procedure,” I protested. “The dogs will be trained to go into the scanner willingly.”
She wasn’t buying it. “Who is going to be with the dogs?”
“Us, the dog trainer, and the owner.”
She shook her head. “I suppose you two are okay because you’re university employees, but no outside visitors.”
Although it was clear there was no convincing this woman, I pressed on. “Look, would you volunteer your dog to be in an experiment without being present?”
“I suppose not. Even so, you’ll have to convince the review committees.”
Andrew and I had seen enough. It surprised me that one of the nation’s premier animal research facilities wasn’t more encouraging about the Dog Project. But we were more determined than ever to find the right home for it.
When I got home that night, Callie and Lyra greeted me with unusual attention. Instead of jumping up and down as they usually did, they sniffed my feet intently. As I walked through the house they trailed me from a respectable distance, focused on my feet.
They knew. I had tracked monkey stink home with me.
Logistical problems aside, I realized there was no way we could do the scanning at Yerkes with all those monkeys.
6
Resonant Dogs
WHEN HELEN AND MADDY started kindergarten, I began a tradition of visiting their classes every year to teach the kids about the brain and perhaps convey some of the excitement in figuring out how it works. The first time I did “Brain Day” at the school, the principal and I had a frank discussion of what I planned to discuss.
“Will you emphasize the importance of brain health?” she asked. “Tell the kids about wearing bike helmets and how drugs damage the brain?”
“Um, sure,” I said. “How do you feel about me bringing a brain to school?”
“You mean a plastic model?”
“No. A preserved human brain.”
“In a jar?” she asked.
“A bucket,” I explained. “We have a set of teaching brains at the university that I can check out. The kids can touch it.”
A look of fascination flashed across the principal’s face, immediately replaced with one of consternation.
“We’ll need to send home a permission slip.”
She needn’t have worried. Not a single parent objected.
The kids loved Brain Day. Even a few teachers snuck into the classroom to touch the brain. I’m not sure the students ended up remembering much of what I said that first time, but it certainly made an impression when I reached into the bucket and brought out a full-sized, dripping wet human brain. Half the class said, “Cool!” while the other half simultaneously said, “Gross!”
By the time of the Dog Project, I had done Brain Day seven years in a row. Maddy was in fifth grade, her final year in elementary school, and Helen had begun middle school. The questions the students asked always fell into a predictable pattern. The bright ones asked questions like “Where do dreams and emotions come from?” Others just wanted to jam their fingers as far into the brain as they could. The last year I did Brain Day at the elementary school, a small boy raised his hand and asked a question I had never heard before.
“Have you ever studied a dog’s brain?” he asked.
The teacher chided the boy for asking silly questions.
“As a matter of fact,” I interrupted, startled by the coincidence. “We are about to do just that.”
With Helen’s transition to middle school, there wouldn’t be an opportunity to bring the brains to her science class. Sixth-grade science was devoted to geology, meteorology, and astronomy, and biology wouldn’t return until the seventh grade.
Growing up, Kat and I had gone to public schools, and we believed strongly in public education. As is true in many cities, however, the quality of the public schools in Atlanta varies widely. The schools that Helen and Maddy attended were solid but had the difficult mission of fulfilling the needs of all the kids in a very diverse district. A large number of children couldn’t afford to buy lunch and many had special needs.
At the end of her first week of classes in middle school, Helen brought home her science textbook, one apparently compiled by a team of bureaucrats who had overdosed on their daily Ritalin. Every page was crammed with full-color pictures guaranteed to distract even the most focused student from the text. The text itself was nothing more than a litany of facts to be memorized. Although it was the neighboring school district that had made national headlines for banning the word evolution from its textbooks, you could still detect a patronizing tone throughout. More than anything, it smacked of scientists-say-it-is-so (wink-wink).