Are We Smart Enough to Know How Smart Animals Are? (21 page)

During a live demonstration of Panzee’s skills, Charlie told me that caretakers generally have a higher opinion of apes’ mental abilities than does the typical philosopher or psychologist. This high opinion was essential for his experiment, he explained, because it meant that Panzee was dealing with people who took her seriously. All those recruited by Panzee said they were at first surprised by her behavior but soon understood what she wanted them to do. By following her pointing, beckoning, panting, and calling, they had no trouble finding the candies hidden in the forest. Without her instructions, they would never have known where to look. Panzee never pointed in the wrong direction, or to locations that had been used on previous occasions. The result was communication about a past event, present in the ape’s memory, to ignorant members of a different species. If the human followed the instructions correctly and got closer to the food, Panzee would vigorously bob her head in affirmation (like “Yes! Yes!”), and like us, she’d lift her hand up, giving higher points, if the item was farther away. She realized that she knew something that the other didn’t know, and was intelligent enough to recruit humans as willing slaves to obtain the goodies of her desire.
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Just to illustrate how creative chimps can be in this regard, here is a typical incident at our field station. A young female grunted at me from behind a fence and kept looking at me with shiny eyes (indicating that she knew something exciting) alternated with pointed stares into the grass near my feet. I couldn’t figure out what she wanted, until she spat. From the trajectory, I noticed a small green grape. When I gave it to her, she ran to another spot and repeated her performance. Having memorized the locations of fruits dropped by the caretakers, she proved an accurate spitter, collecting three rewards this way.

Clever Hans in Reverse

So why did we at first reach the wrong conclusion about animal perspective taking, and why has it happened so many times before and since? Claims about absent capacities range from the idea that primates do not care about the welfare of others, do not imitate, or even fail to understand gravity. Imagine this for flightless animals that travel high above the ground! In my own career, I have faced resistance to the notion that primates reconcile after fights or console those who are distressed. Or at least I heard the counterclaim that they do not
truly
do so—as in, they do not “truly imitate” or “truly console”—which immediately gets one into debates about how to distinguish what looks like consolation or imitation from the real thing. At times, the overwhelming negativity got to me, as an entire literature burgeoned that was more excited about the cognitive deficits of other species than about their actual accomplishments.
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It would be like having a career adviser who all the time tells you that you are too dumb for this or too dumb for that. What a depressing attitude!

The fundamental problem with all these denials is that it is impossible to prove a negative. This is no minor issue. When anyone claims the absence of a given capacity in other species, and speculates that it must therefore have arisen recently in our lineage, we hardly need to inspect the data to appreciate the shakiness of such a claim. All we can ever conclude with some certainty is that we have failed to find a given skill in the species that we have examined. We cannot go much further than this, and we certainly may not turn it into an affirmation of absence. Scientists do so all the time, though, whenever the human-animal comparison is at stake. The zeal to find out what sets us apart overrides all reasonable caution.

Not even with regard to the Monster of Loch Ness or the Abominable Snowman will you ever hear anyone claim to have proven its nonexistence, even though this would fit the expectations of most of us. And why do governments still spend billions of dollars to search for extraterrestrial civilizations while there is no shred of evidence to encourage this quest? Isn’t it time to conclude once and for all that these civilizations simply don’t exist? But this conclusion will never be reached. That respected psychologists ignore the recommendation to tread lightly around absent evidence is most puzzling, therefore. One reason is that they test apes and children in the same manner—at least in their minds—while coming up with contrary results. Applying a battery of cognitive tasks to both apes and children and finding not a single result in the apes’ favor, they tout the differences as proof of human uniqueness. Otherwise, why didn’t the apes fare better? To understand the flaw in this logic, we need to go back to Clever Hans, the counting horse. But instead of using Hans to illustrate why animal capacities are sometimes overrated, this time we are concerned with the unfair advantage that human capacities enjoy.

The outcome of ape-child comparisons themselves suggests the answer. When tested on physical tasks, such as memory, causality, and the use of tools, apes perform at about the same level as two-and-a-half-year-old children, but when it comes to social skills, such as learning from others or following others’ signals, they are left in the dust.
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Social problem solving requires interaction with an experimenter, however, whereas physical problem solving does not. This raises the possibility that the human interface is key. The typical format of an experiment is to let apes interact with a white-coated barely familiar human. Since experimenters are supposed to be bland and neutral, they do not engage in schmoozing, petting, or other niceties. This doesn’t help make the ape feel at ease and identify with the experimenter. Children, however, are encouraged to do so. Moreover, only the children are interacting with a member of their own species, which helps them even more. Nevertheless, experimenters comparing apes and children insist that all their subjects are treated exactly the same. The inherent bias of this arrangement has become harder to ignore, however, now that we know more about ape attitudes. A recent eye-tracking study (which precisely measured where subjects looked) reached the unsurprising conclusion that apes consider members of their own species special: they follow the gaze of another ape more closely than they follow the human gaze.
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This may be all we need to explain why apes fare poorly on social tasks presented by members of our species.

There are only a dozen institutes that test ape cognition, and I have visited most of them. I have noticed procedures in which humans barely interact with their subjects and ones in which they have close physical contact. The latter can safely be done only by those who raised the apes themselves or have at least known them since infancy. Since apes are much stronger than we are and have been known to kill people, the up-close-and-personal approach is not for everyone. The other extreme derives from the traditional approach in the psychology lab: carrying a rat or a pigeon into a testing room with as little contact as possible. The ideal here is a nonexistent experimenter, meaning the absence of any personal relation. In some labs apes are called into a room and given only a few minutes to perform before they are sent out again without any playful or friendly contact, almost like a military drill. Imagine if children were tested under such circumstances: how would they fare?

At our center in Atlanta, all our chimps are reared by their own kind and so are more ape- than human-oriented. They are “chimpy,” as we say, relative to apes that have a less social background or were raised by humans. We never share the same space with them, but we do interact through the bars, and we always play or groom before testing. We talk to them to put them at ease, give them goodies, and in general try to create a relaxed atmosphere. We want them to look upon our tasks as a game rather than as work, and certainly never put them under pressure. If they are tense because of events in their group, or because another chimp is banging on the outside door or hooting his lungs out, we wait until everyone has calmed down, or we reschedule the test. There is no point testing apes who are not ready. If such procedures are not followed, apes may act as if they don’t understand the problem at hand, whereas the real issue is high anxiety and distraction. Many negative results in the literature may be explained this way.

The methodology sections of scientific papers rarely offer a look in the “kitchen,” but I think it is crucial. My own approach has always been to be firm and friendly. Firm, meaning that we are consistent and don’t make capricious demands but also don’t let the animals walk all over us, such as when they only want to play around and get free sweets. But we are also friendly, without punishment, anger, or attempts to dominate. The latter still happens all too often in experiments and is counterproductive with such headstrong animals. Why would an ape follow the points and prompts of a human experimenter whom he sees as a rival? This is another potential source of negative outcomes.

My own team typically cajoles, bribes, and sweet-talks its primate partners. Sometimes I feel like a motivational speaker, such as when Peony, one of our oldest females, ignored a task that we had set up for her. For twenty minutes, she lay in the corner. I sat down right next to her and told her, in a calm voice, that I didn’t have all day and it would be great if she would get going. She slowly got up, glancing at me, and strolled to the next room, where she sat down for the task. Of course—as discussed in the previous chapter in relation to Robert Yerkes—it is unlikely that Peony followed the details of what I had said. She was sensitive to my tone of voice and knew all along what we wanted.

However good our relations with apes, the idea that we can test them in exactly the same way we test children is an illusion of the same order as someone throwing both fish and cats into a swimming pool and believing he is treating them the same way. Think of the children as the fish. While testing them, psychologists smile and talk all the time, giving instructions where to look or what to do. “Look at the little froggy!” tells a child so much more than an ape will ever know about the green plastic blob in your hand. Moreover, children are usually tested with a parent in the room, often sitting on their lap. Having permission to run around and an experimenter of their own species, they have an enormous leg up over the ape sitting behind bars without verbal hints or parental support.

True, developmental psychologists try to reduce the influence of parents by telling them not to talk or point, and they may give them sunglasses or a baseball cap to cover their eyes. These measures, however, reveal their woeful underestimation of the power of a parent’s motivation to see their child succeed. When it comes to their precious offspring, few people care about the objective truth. We can be glad that Oskar Pfungst designed far more rigorous controls while examining Clever Hans. In fact, Pfungst found that the wide-rimmed hat of the horse owner greatly benefited Hans, since hats amplify head movements. In the same way that the owner vociferously denied his effect on the horse even after it had been proven, parents of children may be completely honest about suppressing cues. But adults have far too many ways to unintentionally guide the choices of a child on their lap, through slight body movements, gaze direction, halted breathing, sighs, squeezes, strokes, and whispered encouragements. Letting parents attend the testing of a child is asking for trouble—the sort of trouble we avoid in animal testing.

The American primatologist Allan Gardner—who was first to teach American Sign Language to an ape—discussed human biases under the heading “Pygmalion leading.” Pygmalion, in ancient mythology, was a Cypriot sculptor who fell in love with his own statue of a woman. The story has been used as a metaphor of how teachers raise the performance of certain children by expecting the world of them. They fall in love with their own prediction, which serves as a self-fulfilling prophecy. Remember how Charlie Menzel felt that only people who hold apes in high esteem will fully appreciate what they are trying to communicate? His was a plea for raised expectations, which unfortunately is not the situation apes typically face. Children, in contrast, are treated in such a nurturing manner that they inevitably confirm the mental superiority ascribed to them.
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Experimenters admire and stimulate them from the outset, making them feel like fish in the water, whereas they often treat apes more like albino rats: keeping them at a distance, and in the dark, while depriving them of the verbal encouragement we offer members of our own species.

The cognition of children and apes is tested in superficially similar ways. Yet children are not kept behind a barrier; they are talked to and often sit on their parents’ laps, all of which helps them connect with the experimenter and receive unintentional hints. The greatest difference, however, is that only apes face a member of another species. Given how much these comparisons disadvantage one class of subjects, they remain inconclusive.

Needless to say, I view most ape-child comparisons as fatally flawed.
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Recall that apes have been tested for ToM by having them guess what humans know or don’t know. The problem here is that captive apes have every reason to believe that we are omniscient! Suppose my assistant calls to tell me that Socko, the alpha male, has been wounded in a fight. I head over to the field station, walk up to him, and ask him to turn around, which he does—having known me since he was a baby—to show me his behind with the gash. Now try to look at this from Socko’s perspective. Chimps are smart animals, always trying to figure out what’s going on. Of course, he wonders how I know about his injury—I must be an all-knowing god. As such, human experimenters are about the last to be used to find out if apes understand the connection between seeing and knowing. All we are testing is the ape’s theory of the
human
mind. It is no accident that we made substantial progress only after egg-hunt scenarios pitted apes against other apes.