Lately it seems the search for life on Mars boils down to the possibility of finding traces of minute organisms in rocks.
Meanwhile, here on Earth we’re swimming in species, both extant and ancestral. You can’t stick a pole in the ground without hitting something. Or the remains of something.
One of the reasons I love Florida is the abundant wildlife. And I’m not talking plastic lawn flamingos. Or the mechanical animals over at Disney’s Bear Jamboree. No. I’m talking about the dolphins, sharks, turtles and jellyfish in the oceans. The alligators, manatee and numerous wading birds in the lazy rivers. The spiders, lizards and frogs in my very backyard. Florida is currently rich in wildlife. And it’s been that way for a long while.
A bit of science news from earlier this week reminded me that mastodons (or maybe mammoths) once roamed Florida’s sandy lands.
Researchers from the Smithsonian Institution and the University of Florida have announced the discovery of a bone fragment, approximately 13,000 years old, in Florida with an incised image of a mammoth or mastodon. This engraving is the oldest and only known example of Ice Age art to depict a proboscidean (the order of animals with trunks) in the Americas. [source]
So cool. Mastodons in Florida? And humans living among them, capable of capturing them not on film but chiseled bone?! Very cool.
A quick Google search of the total number of current species on Earth yields numbers between 2 and 100 million. It seems the count is at 1.7 million “so far,” with the final ceiling unknown.
That’s the number of extant species. As for the total number of current and “ancestral” species, this is even more unknown and likely unknowable. Estimates say that you’d need to multiply the current number by at least 100, if not 10,000 or more, and you would approach it.
Meanwhile, on Mars I hear crickets. Unfortunately, those crickets are in my head.
[recycled material - first appeared here]
What do you call a fossil of a “transitional species” between ancient, hippo-like creatures and modern whales? A whippo? An orcapotamus? I call it a whopper of a nightmare for Creationists.
Check out these elements to a new study into whale evolution:
1) “hippos are the cetaceans’ closest living relatives.” This has been known for some time. Cetaceans include whales, dolphins and porpoises — carnivorous, swimming, air-breathing animals.
2) “Cetacean ancestors probably moved into water before changing their diet (and their teeth) to include carnivory; Indohyus, a 48-million year-old semi-aquatic herbivore, and hippos fall closest to cetaceans when the evolutionary relationships of the larger group are reconstructed.”
3) “‘Indohyus is interesting because this fossil combines an herbivore’s dentition with adaptations such as ear bones that are adapted for hearing under water and are traditionally associated with whales only.’”
Indohyus now joins Ambulocetus as gap-fillers in the evolution of the whale. Ambulocetus, by the way, has been nicknamed the “walking whale,” for it had half-limb/foot, half-flipper appendages. And could pursue prey in the shallows and depths.
Fascinating. Well, for me. For some minds shackled with anachronistic dogma — troubling. Why would the great Creator encapsulate within rocks the skeletons of whippos? Did the Intelligent Designer not finish his job, thus we find evidence of orcapotamus-like species stumbling their way to a more final design?
Maybe I ought to add wheatgrass to my diet. Never tried the stuff. I’m certainly not averse to greens. On a regular basis I chew and swallow leafy vegetable matter including lettuce, cabbage, spinach, turnip greens, and chard. All cooked, except for the lettuce and sometimes the cabbage, if I’m making coleslaw.
Why might I want to add grass to my diet? A team of scientists has recently concluded that one of our great, great, hominid … cousins, really, did not subsist on a diet high in nuts and seeds, as previously supposed. Instead, “he” chewed and swallowed a great deal of grasses and sedges.
Study co-author Kevin Uno, a University of Utah Ph.D. student in geology, adds: “This study provides evidence that Paranthropus boisei was not cracking nuts, but was instead eating mainly tropical grasses or sedges. It was not competing for food with most other primates, who ate fruits, leaves and nuts; but with grazers — zebras’ ancestors, suids [ancestors of pigs and warthogs] and hippos.” [source]
Son of a . . . cow?!
Thanks to this finding, should we pull a delayed “monkey see, monkey do?” Well, maybe not. First, one study is never definitive. Second, the ancestor in question is identified, in part, by his large, flat set of molars and “powerful jaw.” You and I, on the other hand, have relatively dinky molars and pathetically weak jaws.
So if you are going to eat greens, go for the more delicate stuff. Or, if needed, cook it. Don’t try to be a cow, man.
Of all his creatures, the Bible God, it is obvious, loves naked apes the most. Why? I guess because we bipedal primates can talk. With the book he supposedly dictated weighing in at approximately eight hundred thousand words, the Bible god is a bit of a chatterbox himself.
To believe in a god whose central concern is human beings — this, to me, is anthropocentric homo-dreams. Why do people lack the imagination to see beyond human concerns and conceits?
“God” is traditionally depicted, when depicted, as a grey-haired patriarch/alpha. How do you like that . . . he’s one of our own kind, although this is always stated in the reverse, that we are his kind. Sure, this coincidence is logical, in an elementary way. What anthropocentric hominid could worship an almighty German Shepherd?
No doubt, Christianity’s great popularity has something to do with the fact that it’s primary protagonist, Jesus, is half human. Who doesn’t feel half human now and again?
The attributes of gods fit the worldview and desires of the group they serve. That is why few Texan Baptists could accept a black, female Jesus. Be ‘of, ‘subservient to, and take guidance from a god like that? Think again!
But back to the notion of a bipedal deity. News flash: Our species holds no exalted position in the natural world. Except in our own minds. Sure, relative to our values we’re pretty hot stuff. For instance, we design, install, and use flush toilets. Let’s see a squirrel do that.
The natural world, however, is a congress rather than a kingdom.
Many species of oak tree are native to Florida. Such as the Laurel oak above (I believe) from a nearby wild area. Where you find oak trees you will also find acorns. And where you find acorns, say hello to the squirrels.
On the subject of squirrels, I’ve recently made an interesting discovery about them. More specifically, about what is likely not an innate fear of theirs.
Many species have innate fears, most often to their benefit. The lack of one can be disastrous. For example, when humans have settled areas for the first time they have frequently encountered very “friendly” and delicious animals. Entire bird populations have been wiped out, for example. Those victims of human dinner plans lacked an innate fear of large predators.
Back to my scientific discovery. No surprise: we have squirrels in our trees (many of them oak). And because I enjoy feeding the birds, I have experienced the ongoing challenge of squirrel-proofing the feeders. (Funny, the little vandals completely ignore my red velvet ropes and the signs reading, “reserved for cardinals, chickadees, titmice and blackbirds in small parties only.”) And so I come up with new and innovative ways to discourage their dining.
It seems that in the most recent, local generation of squirrels an Evil Knievel was born. The thing launches off the roof above my window, hitting the baffle above the sunflower feeder with such force it startles me every time. And the dude somehow hangs on. Furthermore, he or she then manages to do an advanced trapeze maneuver to get onto the feeder beneath. Well, about 1 in three times the maneuver works. But apparently falling more than six feet to the turf isn’t enough of a price to negate the periodic payoff.
While our backyard squirrels fear being chased by me or the dogs, they don’t flinch a whit when I yell “get off my feeder!” And so the other day while in a department store I ran across a $10 foam-pellet shooting toy gun, and thought this might be a way to classically condition said squirrel to “give it up.”
And here is my discovery: it seems squirrels, or at least my local Evil, show no innate concern over being hit in the hind end with a foam pellet. The reaction I witnessed could be described as a “Huh? That’s odd.” Period. A second shot in the shoulder generated an even milder response.
Darn squirrel should know when it is being assaulted. The nerve of that thing! Or maybe the lack of nerve.
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