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Rain lashed against the window, the rhythmic drumming a familiar lullaby to the old dog, Milo. Curled beside the fireplace, he watched the embers dance, their flickering glow painting memories on the backs of his eyelids. He remembered chasing butterflies as a pup, the exhilaration of the hunt, the sweet scent of summer meadows clinging to his fur.
A twig snapped outside, pulling Milo from his reverie. Ears perked, he lifted his head, instantly recalling the countless times that sound meant a raccoon prowling for scraps. His body tensed, not in blind fear, but in calculated caution. Years of experience had woven a tapestry of memories, each thread a past encounter, each knot a learned response.
He didn’t need to see the raccoon to predict its next move. It would circle the house, drawn by the scent of dinner, then attempt an entry point - the back door, most likely. With a sigh, Milo thumped his tail against the floor, a pre-emptive warning.
His human, Sarah, stirred on the couch. “Something wrong, boy?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
Milo whined softly, his gaze fixed on the back door. Sarah followed his line of sight, understanding dawning in her eyes. She rose slowly, the familiar creak of the floorboards another thread in the vast tapestry of their shared memories.
Together, they moved as a unit, a silent symphony honed by experience. Sarah grabbed a flashlight, the beam a comforting presence in the dark. Milo crept towards the back door, using his knowledge of the house’s layout to position himself for a strategic intercept.
The raccoon, as predicted, was there, its beady eyes reflecting the flashlight’s beam. A growl rumbled from Milo’s throat, a sound born not just of instinct, but of the countless past confrontations that had taught him the language of dominance. The raccoon, recognizing the futility of its attempt, slunk away, melting back into the storm.
Milo relaxed, a satisfied rumble escaping his chest. He hadn’t needed complex commands or spoken language. The dance between him and Sarah, the memories woven into their very being, had been enough. In that quiet victory, under the glow of the dying fire, a testament to countless shared experiences, flickered the essence of intelligence – a world built not just on actions, but on the powerful interplay of memory and prediction.
TODO: using gemini, cooy & paste and ask: what questions are left unaswered based on this text? suggest topics to further ekaboaret on…
todo: prompt: based on the following text, give me 3 ideas how i can complete the statement & explain further: (paste text)
What is intelligence? Is it simply a matter of complex behavior? Or is there something more to it? I believe the most convincing definition of intelligence was given by the co-creator of the Palm Pilot, Jeff Hawkins, who posits you need two things to be intelligent: memory and prediction.
Hawkins argues that intelligence shouldn’t be solely defined by how an organism acts. Instead, it’s the ability to form memories of past experiences and use those memories to predict future outcomes. This concept goes beyond just reacting to stimuli.
In my view, then our efforts to create intelligent machines may need to be refocused. ..
Problem: there isn’t a clear, agreed upon, definition of intelligence.
Solution: intelligence is not behavior, it’s memory plus prediction.