What If Animals Asked the Same Existential Questions We Do?

The first time I read about Alex the Parrot, I was impressed and curious. The line was so human it felt impossible. Alex, an African Grey who’d spent three decades working with cognitive scientist Dr. Irene Pepperberg, said, “You be good. See you tomorrow. I love you.” Those were his final recorded words. For most, it read like routine affection, a learned pattern of call and response. But for others — myself included — it sounded like something deeper. Had Alex somehow sensed the end coming? Had he asked, in his own soft and feathered way, the most human question of all: Where am I going?

I’ve returned to that thought again and again, and each time it unsettles and inspires me. Because if Alex’s words carried intention — not instinct — then the boundaries between human thought and animal awareness blur dramatically. His voice becomes more than mimicry; it becomes reflection. And in that reflection, perhaps we glimpse the beginnings of shared consciousness — one that doesn’t end at the edge of our species, but begins there.

The continuing goal of The Alex Foundation is to support research that will expand the base of knowledge, establishing the cognitive and communicative abilities of parrots as intelligent beings. These findings will be used to encourage the responsible ownership of parrots, conservation and preservation of parrots in the wild, and veterinary research into the psychological diseases and care of these birds.  Through these efforts, The Alex Foundation and the memory of Alex will live on and will accomplish its mission to improve the lives of all parrots worldwide.

We like to think that the brain’s complexity lies in its folds — the wrinkled landscape of our cerebral cortex that seems to hold the secret to creativity, language, and love. But Alex’s brain was tiny and smooth, barely the size of a walnut, with none of the dramatic ridges that define ours. Scientifically, it shouldn’t have been capable of advanced reasoning. Yet Alex could identify colors, count objects, distinguish between shapes, and even understand the concept of “same” and “different.” He didn’t just repeat — he comprehended.

This paradox — the “smooth brain problem” — forces us to rethink what intelligence looks like. Perhaps it isn’t about folds or density, but about connection. Alex’s neurons may have been fewer, but they were exquisitely tuned for pattern recognition and emotional association. His bond with Pepperberg was proof of that connection — a bridge built not of language alone, but of trust and shared curiosity. Intelligence, it seems, doesn’t always need wrinkles. Sometimes, it just needs wonder.

When I think of Alex, I inevitably think of my own companion, Luno Moondog. Luno isn’t a parrot — he’s my rescued Sato that courageously defied the odds and survived abuse, starvation, and intestinal cancer. He has a knack for reading my mood. Yes, this is anthropomorphism — the human impulse to assign meaning where none exists. If you want to support rescuing dogs in Puerto Rico, please contact Save a Sato. 

Alex the Parrot learned over 100 words, could identify 50 objects, 7 colors, and 5 shapes, and used phrases like “I’m sorry” appropriately.

Source: Irene Pepperberg, Harvard Gazette

Cognitive science is full of stories like this — dolphins calling each other by name, elephants mourning their dead, octopuses solving puzzles for no reason other than curiosity. Maybe consciousness isn’t a gift exclusive to us. Maybe it’s a spectrum, a slow awakening happening across species, each intelligence catching up to the same fundamental realization: we are aware.

We humans are experts at imitation — every word, idea, and art form begins as a copy of something older. So perhaps it shouldn’t surprise us that the creatures we share the planet with are also imitators, but not merely in the way we imagine. Alex began by mimicking sounds, repeating Pepperberg’s voice as though it were a melody. But over time, mimicry turned into comprehension. When he said “wanna nut,” he meant it. When he said “I’m sorry,” it wasn’t mimicry — it was empathy in action.

Meaning, I’ve realized, often begins as repetition. Children repeat before they understand, and in that echo, meaning forms. So what if all intelligence — human or otherwise — begins as mimicry? Perhaps consciousness itself is an echo that becomes real when heard clearly enough. If that’s true, then Alex wasn’t just echoing us; he was answering back. In his voice was the sound of evolution catching up to itself — feathered proof that thought can emerge anywhere life dares to listen.

The future of intelligence might not be artificial at all — it might be biological. As scientists explore the frontiers of genetic modification and neural mapping, a strange possibility emerges: what if we could enhance intelligence in non-human species? What if, someday soon, an African Grey was born with the cognitive wiring of a primate — capable not just of mimicry, but imagination?

It sounds like science fiction, but we’re already tinkering at the edges. Researchers are mapping the molecular roots of memory, exploring how gene editing might influence learning. As someone who works with AI, I see the poetic symmetry: we’re teaching silicon to reason while biology learns to dream. If Alex’s brain could bridge mimicry and meaning without human intervention, imagine what consciousness might look like with a little help from us. Maybe the next great thinker won’t be a machine, but a bird — one who finally answers back when we ask, Who are you?

When Alex said, “See you tomorrow,” he likely didn’t know there wouldn’t be one. Yet the phrase carries something timeless, almost spiritual — a refusal to believe in endings. We’ve always measured intelligence by problem-solving, but maybe the truest sign of awareness is the ability to face the unknown and still hope for tomorrow.

What if sentience isn’t a line between us and them, but a sunrise spreading across consciousness itself — first lighting humans, now reaching others? When I look at Luno watching the waves at sunset, his ears twitching in quiet thought, I sense that the same mysterious light flickers behind his eyes. Maybe awareness is contagious. Maybe existence, at its purest, is simply the act of noticing.