Dogs have a sixth sense. Sometimes they know what you’re going to do before you do it.

Pepper, the Border collie and lab mix that was part of the family for 16 years, had it, as did our last dog, Binky, a Doberman greyhound mix we adopted from the Warwick Animal Shelter. Keeping a secret from them was impossible if it had anything to do with food or traveling.

You could reason the two dogs really understood what we were talking about and pretended to be asleep as Carol and I talked about taking the family out for dinner the following night or that one of us would have to be away that weekend. But I don’t believe that was the case, although I wonder about Pepper’s uncanny ability to know when we planned to take her to the vet.

She would disappear. We’d conduct a search, finding her cowering under a bed or the porch, eyes wide and terrified. And when we finally got her to the office, I’d need to carry her in. She’d slide between our legs, ignoring our efforts to get her to relax, tolerating our petting and ignoring dog treats we’d put in front of her nose.

This posture of fear and submission continued through the examination that was always followed by a rabies shot. Once that was over she’d relax. But the moment of joy came when we lifted her off the examination table and prepared to leave. The end of her tail would start to wag and when she knew we were really going to leave after I had written a check or handed over a credit card, it was in full swing. There was no need to coax her to the door. She was ready to bolt for the car.

Binky wasn’t as fearful of the vet, although he didn’t have a love for the place. He’d take interest in sniffing the place over, especially all the signatures outside the door. Once inside he was more subdued, adopting the appropriate medical waiting room temperament. That’s staring ahead and not looking at others also waiting. If he could have, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find him pawing through one of the magazines while listening to the voices beyond the wall and the scrabbling of clawed feet on linoleum, a sure sign that he was going to be next. Sometimes the patient ahead was a cat, Binky’s nemesis. He made it his business to keep the yard clear of cats, especially the black and white one that would taunt him from the other side of the chain link fence and worse yet sit in the middle of the lawn while he barked from inside the house. But cats at the vet were in a DMZ. Binky would perk up at the sight of a cat at the vet, but that was it, no straining at the leash, no threatening bark.

The vet was the Switzerland of the pet world, at least for Binky.

And then there’s our latest co-inhabitant, Ollie. The vet doesn’t faze him. He enjoys the visit, especially when there are dogs and cats to meet. It’s a smell excursion for him. He loves casing the place, often so focused that he need to tug at him as a reminder that we can’t spend the day at the vet.

But as different as they were about a visit to the vet, all three had an intuition about traveling. Before the bags were packed, Pepper wouldn’t let us out of her sight. She’s follow us from room to room and anxiously stationed herself by the door as things came together in preparation of packing the car. Our reassurances she was included had no calming effect.

Binky took things a step further. He’d lie by the car, or better yet, if a window was open leap inside and claim his seat.

Ollie’s demeanor changes. He knows something is up, adopting this inquisitive yet sorrowful expression that says, “Don’t forget me.”

As for food, all three shared this sense.

Of course they know when you’ve got some kibble in your pocket. That’s understandable.

What I’m talking about is knowing food is on the way before it arrives. The doggie bag from the restaurant is a good example.

All three knew when we went out for dinner, we’d often return with something. You might say it was their “welcome home” expectation. Licking the Styrofoam container is a ritual, even if the leftovers go into the fridge for a second meal.

And forbid that you leave the plastic bag and the container in the car. You’re reminded by longing glimpses at the door that you’ve forgotten something.

There’s also something to be said for their ability to know when things aren’t right, whether it be concerns about a member of the family or friend who is going through a troubling period or something as personal as a headache.

Their companionship is comforting…and frequently rewarded with a round of playing with the “pullie” or, as they already know, a treat.