Cats in boxes

Any cat owners amongst my readers will undoubtedly know about the strange propensity of cats to climb into boxes.  Apparently it works for cats of all sizes:

With apologies to Robert Burns, a cat's a cat for a' that.

In fact, it doesn't even have to be a real box:

I've never heard a particularly convincing explanation of why cats do this.  Some people suggest it's because being in close quarters gives them a sense of security, perhaps a remnant of when they lived in the wild and slept in burrows or caves.  Me, I suspect it's just because cats are a little weird.  I've been of this opinion ever since owning a very strange cat named Puck, who used to sleep on the arm of the couch with one front and one back leg hanging limp on one side of the arm and the other two dangling over the other side, a pose that earned her the nickname "Monorail Cat."  She also had eyes that didn't quite line up, and a broken fang that caused her tongue to stick out of one side of her mouth.  She was quite a sweet-natured cat, really, but even people who love cats thought Puck looked like she had a screw loose.

The topic comes up because of a delightful piece of research in the journal Applied Animal Behaviour Science.  The paper was titled "If I Fits, I Sits: A Citizen Science Investigation into Illusory Contour Susceptibility in Domestic Cats," by Gabriella Smith and Sarah-Elizabeth Byosiere (of Hunter College) and Philippe Chouinard (of LaTrobe University), and looked at data collected from cat owners to find out if cats are fooled by the Kanizsa Rectangle Illusion.

The Kanizsa Rectangle Illusion is an image that tricks the brains into seeing contours that aren't there.  Here's one representation of it:

To most people, this looks like an opaque white rectangle laid over four black hexagons, and not what it really is -- four black hexagons with triangular wedges cut out.  Apparently the brain goes with an Ockham's Razor-ish approach to interpreting what it sees, deducing that a white rectangle on top of black hexagons is much more likely than having the cut-out bits just happening to line up perfectly.  It's amazing, though, how quickly this decision is made; we don't go through a back-and-forth "is it this, or is it that?"; the illusion is instantaneous, and so convincing that many of us can almost see the entire boundary of the rectangle even though there's nothing there.

Well, apparently, so can cats.  And, as one would expect, they sit in the middle of the nonexistent rectangle just as if it was a real box.  The authors write:

A well-known phenomenon to cat owners is the tendency of their cats to sit in enclosed spaces such as boxes, laundry baskets, and even shape outlines taped on the floor.  This investigative study asks whether domestic cats (Felis silvestris catus) are also susceptible to sitting in enclosures that are illusory in nature, utilizing cats’ attraction to box-like spaces to assess their perception of the Kanizsa square visual illusion...  [T]his study randomly assigned citizen science participants booklets of six randomized, counterbalanced daily stimuli to print out, prepare, and place on the floor in pairs.  Owners observed and videorecorded their cats’ behavior with the stimuli and reported findings from home over the course of the six daily trials...  This study revealed that cats selected the Kanizsa illusion just as often as the square and more often than the control, indicating that domestic cats may treat the subjective Kanizsa contours as they do real contours.

It's a fascinating result, and indicative that other animal species see the world much as we do.  It still doesn't explain why cats like to sit in boxes, though.  I think my conclusion ("cats are weird") covers it about as well as anything.  But at least in one way, our perceptual/interpretive centers are just as weird as the cats' are.  I'm not inclined to go sit in a box, but it does make me wonder what our pets would think if we showed them other optical illusions.

I doubt my dogs would be interested.  If what they're looking at has nothing to do with food, petting, napping, or playing, they pretty much ignore it.  Must be nice to see the world in such simple terms.

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Song of the Rifleman

As an avid birdwatcher, I've learned many of the vocalizations of our local species.  Some, especially the migratory species we only hear from May to September, I have to relearn every year, but a few of them are so distinct that my ears perk up whenever I hear them.  One of my favorites is the whirling, ethereal song of the Veery (Catharus fuscescens):

Another lovely one, often heard in the same sorts of deep-woods habitats as the Veery, is the Wood Thrush (Hylocichla mustelina):

By far the strangest bird songs I've ever heard, though, we came across when we visited the lowlands of eastern Ecuador about twenty years ago.  There were two we heard but never saw -- first, the aptly-named Screaming Piha (Lipaugus vociferans), which can be heard for miles:

And second, the Great Potoo (Nyctibius grandis), which is cryptically-colored and nocturnal, so they're almost never seen.  But when they sing at night... holy crap.  Imagine being out in the jungle, alone, at night, and hearing this:

It's no wonder the locals thought there were monsters out there.

Bird songs serve two main purposes.  They're territorial defense signals and mate attractants.  (Which led a former student of mine to say, in some astonishment, "So birds only sing when they're mad or horny?")  Songs are usually only done by males, and mostly during the breeding season.  Calls, on the other hand, are done by both males and females, at any time of the year, and can mean a variety of things from "there's food over here" to "watch out for the cat" to "hey, howsyamommaandem?"  (The latter mostly from birds in the southeastern United States.)  Those of you in the eastern half of North America certainly already have heard the difference; our local Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus) has a call, the familiar "chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee" that gives the species its name, and a song -- a two-note whistle with the second note a whole step below the first.  Listening to them, you'd never guess it was the same bird.

There's an interesting distinction in how animals vocalize.  Some vocalizations seem to be innate and hard-wired; the barking of dogs, for example, doesn't need to be learned.  A great many bird species, however, including songbirds and parrots, learn vocalizations, and deprived of examples to learn from, never sing.  (This includes the amazing mimicry of birds like the Australian Superb Lyrebird (Menura novaehollandiae), which can learn to imitate not only birdsongs but a huge variety of other sounds as well):

The topic comes up because of a study that came out this week in the journal Communications Biology about the Rifleman (Acanthisitta chloris), a tiny species from New Zealand that is one of only two surviving species in the family Acanthisittidae, the New Zealand wrens, which are only distantly related to the more familiar and widespread true wrens.  (If you're curious, its odd common name comes from the cheerful colors of the plumage, which someone decided looked like a military uniform:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons digitaltrails, Lake Sylvan - Rifleman (5626163357) (cropped), CC BY-SA 2.0]

The Rifleman is not a songbird, and (if the preceding distinction holds) should be unable to learn vocalizations; any sounds it makes should be instinctive and fixed, like the clucking of a chicken.  But the study found that there were variations in the vocalizations of different individuals, and those variations were independent of how closely related they were; what mattered was how nearby they lived to each other, implying that the alterations in sound were learned, not innate. 

"The vocal behavior that we were unravelling in this study is very similar to what is known as vocal accommodation in human linguistics," said Ines Moran, of the University of Auckland, who led the research.  "It's similar to our ability to adjust our ways of speaking in different social, dialectal, or hierarchical settings -- modulating our voices to better fit in certain social groups."

So bird vocalizations may not be as simple as we'd thought.  Like most things, I suppose.  It brings up the silly distinction that I heard over and over again from students, that there's a split between "human" and "animal."  We're clearly animals; and, conversely, what we call "animals" share a great deal more with us than we often realize.  We have a lot to learn from the other species we whom we cohabit the planet.  It's nice that we're beginning to pay more attention.

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Flocking together

One of the most mesmerizing sights in nature is the collective motion of large groups of animals.

I remember watching films by Jacques Cousteau as a kid, and being fascinated by his underwater footage of schools of fish swimming along and then turning as one, the light flickering from their silvery sides as if they were each reflective scales on a giant single organism.  Murmurations of starlings barely even look real; the flocks swirl and flow like some kind of weird, airborne fluid.  But the most astonishing example of collective motion I've ever seen was when Carol and I visited Bosque del Apache Wildlife Refuge, in central New Mexico, a few years ago, during the migration of snow geese through the region.

"Get there early," we were told.  "At least a half-hour before sunrise.  You'll be glad you did."

We arrived just as the light was growing in the eastern sky.  The wetland was full of tens of thousands of snow geese, all moving around in a relaxed sort of fashion, calling softly to each other.  The brightness in the sky grew, and then -- without any warning at all...

... BOOM.

They all exploded into the air, seemingly simultaneously.  We have wondered many times since what the signal was; there was nothing we could discern, no handful of birds that launched first, no change in the vocalizations that a human would interpret as, "Now!"  One moment everything was calm; the next, the air was a hurricane of flapping wings.  They whirled around, circling higher and higher, and within ten minutes they were all gone, coursing through the sky toward their next destination.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons CrunchySkies, Snow goose migration at Squaw Creek National Wildlife Refuge, Feb 2013, 25, CC BY-SA 3.0]

How animals manage such feats, moving as a unit without colliding or leaving members behind -- and seemingly without any central coordination -- has long fascinated zoologists.  Way back in 1987, computer simulation expert Craig Reynolds showed (using software called "Boids") that with only a handful of simple rules -- stay within so many wing-lengths of your nearest neighbors but not close enough to touch, match the speed of your neighbors within ten percent either way, steer toward the average heading of your nearest neighbors, give other members a chance to be in any given position in the group -- he was able to create simulated flocking behavior that looked absolutely convincing.  

Last week, a paper out of the Max Planck Gesellschaft showed there's another factor that's important in modeling collective motion, and this has to do with the fact that flying or swimming animals have a rhythm.  Look, for example, at a single fish swimming in an aquarium; its motion forward isn't like a car moving at a steady speed down a highway, but an oscillating swim-glide-swim-glide, giving it a pattern a little like a Slinky moving down a staircase.

Biologist Guy Amichay, who led the research, found that this gives schools of fish a pulse; he compares it to the way we alternate moving our legs while walking.  "Fish are coordinating the timing of their movements with that of their neighbor, and vice versa," Amichay said.  "This two-way rhythmic coupling is an important, but overlooked, force that binds animals in motion.  There's more rhythm to animal movement than you might expect.  In the real world most fish don't swim at fixed speeds, they oscillate."

The key in simulating this behavior is that unlike the factors that Reynolds identified, getting the oscillating movement right depends on neighboring fish doing the opposite of what their nearest neighbors are doing.  The swim-glide pattern in one fish triggers a glide-swim pattern in its friends; put another way, each swim pulse creates a delay in the swim pulse of the school members around it.  

"It's fascinating to see that reciprocity is driving this turn-taking behavior in swimming fish, because it's not always the case in biological oscillators," said study co-author Máté Nagy.  "Fireflies, for example, will synchronize even in one-way interactions.  But for humans, reciprocity comes into play in almost anything we do in pairs, be it dance, or sport, or conversation,"

"We used to think that in a busy group, a fish could be influenced by any other member that it can see," said co-author Iain Couzin. "Now, we see that the most salient bonds could be between partners that choose to rhythmically synchronize."

So zoologists have taken another step toward comprehending one of the most fascinating phenomena in nature; the ability of animals to move together.  Something to think about next time you see a school of fish or a flock of birds in flight.  Getting it right requires rapid and sophisticated coordination we are only now beginning to understand.

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The smell of time passing

We once owned a very peculiar border collie named Doolin.  Although from what I've heard, saying "very peculiar" in the same breath as "border collie" is kind of redundant.  The breed has a reputation for being extremely intelligent, hyperactive, job-oriented, and more than a little neurotic, and Doolin fit the bill in all respects.

As far as the "intelligent" part, she's the dog who learned to open the slide bolts on our fence by watching us do it only two or three times.  I wouldn't have believed it unless I'd seen it with my own eyes.  She also took her job very seriously, and by "job" I mean "life."  She had a passion for catching frisbees, but I always got the impression that it wasn't because it was fun.  It was because the Russian judge had only given her a 9.4 on the previous catch and she was determined to improve her score.

There were ways in which her intelligence was almost eerie at times.  I was away from home one time and called Carol to say hi, and apparently Doolin looked at her with question marks in her eyes.  Carol said, "Doolin, it's Daddy!"  Doolin responded by becoming extremely excited and running around the house looking in all of the likely spots -- my office, the recliner, the workshop -- as well as some somewhat less likely places like under the bed.  When the search was unsuccessful, apparently she seemed extremely worried for the rest of the evening.

Not that this was all that different from her usual expression.

One thing that always puzzled us, though, was her ability to sense when we were about to get home.  Doolin routinely went to the door and stood there on guard before Carol's car pulled into the driveway.  She did the same thing, I heard, when I was about to arrive.  In each case, there was no obvious cue that she could have relied on; we live on a fairly well-traveled stretch of rural highway and even if she heard our cars in the distance, I can't imagine they sound that different from any of the other hundreds of cars that pass by daily.  And my arrival time, especially, varied considerably from day to day, because of after-school commitments.  How, then, did she figure out we were about to get home -- or was it just dart-thrower's bias again, and we were noticing the times she got it right and ignoring all the times she didn't?

According to Alexandra Horowitz, a professor of psychology at Barnard University, there's actually something to this observation.  There are hundreds of anecdotal accounts of the same kind of behavior, enough that (although there hasn't been much in the way of a systematic study) there's almost certainly a reason behind it other than chance.  Horowitz considered the well-documented ability of dogs to follow a scent trail the right direction by sensing where the signal was weakest -- presumably the oldest part of the trail -- and heading toward where it was stronger.  The difference in intensity is minuscule, especially given that to go the right direction the dog can't directly compare the scent right here to the scent a half a kilometer away, but has to compare the scent here to the scent a couple of meters away.

What Horowitz wondered is if dogs are using scent intensity as a kind of clock -- the diminishment of a person's scent signal after they leave the house gives the dog a way of knowing how much time has elapsed.  This makes more sense than any other explanation I've heard, which include (no lie) that dogs are psychic and are telepathically sensing your approach.  Biological clocks of all kinds are only now being investigated and understood, including how they are entrained -- how the internal state is aligned to external cues.  (The most obvious examples of entrainment are the alignment of our sleep cycle to light/dark fluctuations, and seasonal behaviors in other animals like hibernation and migration in response to cues like decreasing day length.)

So it's possible that dogs are entraining this bit of their behavior using their phenomenally sensitive noses.  It'll be interesting to see what Horowitz does with her hypothesis; it's certainly worth testing.  Now, I need to wrap this up because Guinness's biological clock just went off and told him it was time to play ball.  Of course, that happens about fifty times a day, so there may not be anything particularly surprising there.

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Death metal bat

My favorite wild animals are bats.

I think the flying fox -- a large diurnal species of fruit bat -- has got to be one of the coolest animals in the world.  Think about how amazing it would be, being a flying fox.  You have great big wings and can fly anywhere you want, you get to eat figs and dates all day, and you're cute as the dickens.  What could be better than that?

Fruit-eating sky puppies, is what they are.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Trikansh sharma, Eye contact with flying fox, CC0 1.0]

Unfortunately, bats in general have gotten a bad name, even though they're unequivocally beneficial.  (The insectivorous kinds can eat up to a thousand small flying insects -- including disease-carrying mosquitoes -- in an hour.)   The negative reputation comes from two sources: first, an association with drinking blood (only three out of the thousand species of bats do that; all three live in South America and almost never bite humans); and second, that they carry rabies (which can happen -- but so do raccoons, foxes, skunks, feral cats and dogs, and even deer).

Bats are good guys.  They're also incredibly cool.  I did a piece last year about the wild adaptations for echolocating in nocturnal bats, an ability I still find mind-boggling.  Which is why I was so psyched to run across a paper this week in PLOS-Biology about the fact that their ability to produce such an amazing array of sounds is due to the same feature death metal singers use to get their signature growl. 

In "Bats Expand Their Vocal Range By Recruiting Different Laryngeal Structures for Echolocation and Social Communication," biologists Jonas Håkonsson, Cathrine Mikkelsen, Lasse Jakobsen, and Coen Elemans, of the University of Southern Denmark, write:

Echolocating bats produce very diverse vocal signals for echolocation and social communication that span an impressive frequency range of 1 to 120 kHz or 7 octaves.  This tremendous vocal range is unparalleled in mammalian sound production and thought to be produced by specialized laryngeal vocal membranes on top of vocal folds.  However, their function in vocal production remains untested. By filming vocal membranes in excised bat larynges (Myotis daubentonii) in vitro with ultra-high-speed video (up to 250,000 fps) and using deep learning networks to extract their motion, we provide the first direct observations that vocal membranes exhibit flow-induced self-sustained vibrations to produce 10 to 95 kHz echolocation and social communication calls in bats.  The vocal membranes achieve the highest fundamental frequencies (fo’s) of any mammal, but their vocal range is with 3 to 4 octaves comparable to most mammals.  We evaluate the currently outstanding hypotheses for vocal membrane function and propose that most laryngeal adaptations in echolocating bats result from selection for producing high-frequency, rapid echolocation calls to catch fast-moving prey.  Furthermore, we show that bats extend their lower vocal range by recruiting their ventricular folds—as in death metal growls—that vibrate at distinctly lower frequencies of 1 to 5 kHz for producing agonistic social calls.  The different selection pressures for echolocation and social communication facilitated the evolution of separate laryngeal structures that together vastly expanded the vocal range in bats.

NPR did a story on the research, and followed it up by talking to some death metal singers, all of whom were pretty fascinated to find out bats can do it, too.  "In a [masochistic] sort of way ... I think that when I can feel that my vocal cords are getting kind of shredded or beat up, that it sounds better," said Chase Mason, lead singer of the band Gatecreeper.  "You know, like, if there's a little taste of blood in the back of my throat, I think that I'm doing a good job...  A lot of people will compare you to sounding like a bear or something like that, like an animal growling or roaring even... I think it's cool.  It's very dark and gothic.  The imagery of a bat is always associated with the darker sort of things, like vampires and stuff.  So it definitely makes sense."

I'm still more favoring the Sky Puppy model of bats, but hey, I'm not arguing with a guy who can make noises like Chase Mason can.

In any case, add one more thing to the "cool" column for bats, which was pretty lengthy already.  It's incredible that however much we learn about nature, there are always ways it'll come back and surprise you.  That's why if you have a curious side, learn some science -- you'll never be short of new things to wonder at.

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The nose knows

The first few years my wife and I were married, we had a dog named Doolin.

At least I think Doolin was a dog.  The story is that she was born to the unholy union between a border collie and a bluetick coonhound, but there's credible evidence she was an alien infiltrator from the planet K-9, sent to study humans by pretending to be a humble house pet.  My observations suggested that she was far smarter than humans but had only recently mastered pretending to be a dog.  She is, far and away, the weirdest dog I've ever met, and I've had dogs pretty much my whole life.  She figured out how to unlatch our gates (and let herself out) by watching us; we ultimately had to put carabiners on the latches to stop her from going on walkies by herself.  She valiantly attempted to herd our four cats, an effort that was ultimately unsuccessful.  Of her many odd habits, one of the funniest was that she was never without her favorite toy, a plush jack that she carried around in her mouth -- always pointing the same way.  (We tested this by taking it from her and sticking it in her mouth the other way 'round.  She dropped it, looked at us as if we'd lost our minds, and picked it up from the other direction.)

Doolin, with her jack toy sticking out of the right side of her mouth, as it obviously should be

One of Doolin's most curious traits was an extraordinary sensitivity to us, particularly to Carol.  She seemed to watch us continuously for cues about what was going on, and sensed when one of us was upset or feeling unwell.  Most strikingly, Doolin always knew when Carol was about to get a migraine.  Starting about a half-hour before the symptoms began, Doolin followed Carol around like her shadow, and if Carol sat down, Doolin smushed herself right up against her.  It got to be that Carol knew when to prep for a migraine once she saw Doolin acting weird (well, weirder than usual, which was admittedly a pretty high bar).

I used to think that people claiming their dogs had a second sense about how they (the owners) were feeling was an example of people anthropomorphizing, or at the very least, exaggerating their pets' intelligence and emotional sensitivity.  Until I had lived for a while with Doolin.

After that, a lot of the stories I'd heard began to seem a good bit more plausible.

Just this week, some research supported the contention with hard evidence.  A team of scientists in Belfast studied the responses of four dogs to breath and sweat samples from thirty-six volunteers, before and after doing a stressful exercise -- counting backwards from 9,000 by intervals of 17, without using calculators or pen and paper.  The researchers laid it on thick, telling the participants that it was very important to the study to do the counting exercise quickly and accurately.  A wrong answer got a shouted "No!", followed by being told the most recent correct response and an instruction to pick up from there.  For most of us, this would be a pretty high-stress activity, and would cause stress hormones (like cortisol and epinephrine) to pour into our bloodstreams.

And the breakdown products of those chemicals end up in our breath, sweat, and urine.  What's remarkable is that the four dogs, which had been conditioned to be able to discern between samples containing those breakdown products from ones which did not, correctly distinguished the post-stress breath and sweat samples from the pre-stress ones 93% of the time.

I know that our current dogs are pretty sensitive as well (although nowhere near the level of acuity that Doolin had).  Cleo, our Shiba Inu rescue, is really keyed in to me especially.  I had a couple of seriously high stress things happen in the last couple of months, and whenever I was really in freak-out mode, Cleo followed me around with a very worried expression on her face.  Her curly tail is like a barometer; the tighter the curl, the happier she is.  And when I was struggling, her tail was sagging.  Clearly an unhappy dog.

Cleo the Wonder Floof

So I guess all this stuff isn't our imagination.  Dogs really do sense our emotional states, not by some kind of canine telepathy, but because of plain old biochemistry coupled with an extraordinary sense of smell.

Although I wonder about Doolin.  I still think she was an alien spy, and was relaying information about us back to the Mother Ship.  Maybe the jack toy was some kind of transmitter, I dunno.

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Living crystals

Starfish are odd creatures in just about every respect.

They belong to a phylum called Echinodermata, which is Greek for "spiny skin" and also includes such weird animals as sea urchins, sand dollars, brittle stars, sea cucumbers, and crinoids (also called "sea lilies" or "stone lilies" because they look more like some kind of weird undersea plant than they do animals).  One of the big surprises for my AP Biology students, during the unit on zoology, was that echinoderms are our closest non-vertebrate relatives.  The old distinction of vertebrate versus invertebrate turns out to reflect less of a real genetic and evolutionary split than the distinction between protostome and deuterostome; the former includes insects, crustaceans, arachnids, mollusks, annelids (e.g. earthworms), and nematodes (roundworms), while the latter is just the echinoderms and vertebrates such as ourselves.

The names protostome and deuterostome, if you're curious, are also Greek; they mean (respectively) "first mouth" and "second mouth," referring to the order in which the openings of the digestive tract form.  In protostomes, when the beachball-shaped early embryo forms an inpocket that will lead to the formation of the gut, that first opening will eventually become the mouth; the anus forms when the inpocket tunnels its way through and comes out of the other side.  In deuterostome, it happens the other way around, but early embryologists evidently thought that "mouth second" sounded more genteel than "ass first," and that's how we ended up called "deuterostomes."  (I remember the shocked look on one of my students' faces when I told the class about this fun feature of embryonic development.  She said, wide-eyed, "So, at some point, all humans are just... a butthole?"  I deadpanned back, "Yup.  Unfortunately, some people never get past that stage.")

You might wonder how echinoderms can look so different from vertebrates if we're actually on the same branch of the animal family tree.  In fact, echinoderm larva are clearly bilaterally symmetric, just like vertebrates are; they largely lose that symmetry as they mature, although the apparent pentaradial symmetry of a starfish is kind of an illusion, because they do have organs (like the water intake organ, or sieve plate) that are offset to one side.  But they lose more than their symmetry; the adults have no true circulatory system (all they end up with is a set of what are essentially water pipes), no central nervous system (just a nerve ring and branched peripheral nerves), and the simplest of digestive tracts.  This despecialization seems to underlie their wild ability to regenerate lost or damaged limbs -- a capacity that has been under intensive study because of the possible applications to medical science.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Copyright (c) 2004 Richard Ling, Blue Linckia Starfish, CC BY-SA 3.0]

The reason all this comes up is because of yet another bizarre and beautiful feature of starfish, just discovered at MIT.  When they're still very early in embryonic development, and resemble spherical glass beads, they exhibit a peculiar behavior -- they spin, creating tiny vortices in the water and drawing other nearby embryos in.  Eventually they self-assemble into a living crystal -- a regular, tightly-packed lattice of embryos all spinning in the same direction.  They undergo peculiar ripples that the researchers call "odd elasticity" -- odd because the oscillations aren't damped down by the water's drag, but continue to propagate through the entire crystal, like some sort of biological standing wave pattern.

"The spontaneous, long-lasting ripples may be the result of interactions between the individual embryos, which spin against each other like interlocking gears," said Alexander Mietke, who co-authored the paper on the phenomenon that appeared last week in Nature.  "With thousands of gears spinning in crystal formation, the many individual spins could set off a larger, collective motion across the entire structure."

The benefit to this behavior isn't known.  One possibility is that the formation of these crystals makes it less likely that the embryos will be eaten by predators, but that's just speculation.  At the moment, though, it's enough to wonder at the intricacy and beauty of these odd creatures, our distant cousins on the evolutionary family tree.

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Fishmobile

I know Life Follows Art, and all, but somehow I didn't expect the Art to be a sketch from Monty Python.

If you're a Python fan, you might remember a bit between Michael Palin and John Cleese, where Cleese plays a guy in the office that issues pet ownership licenses, and Palin is a guy who wants to get a license for his pet fish, Eric.

After being told that there are no licenses for pet fish, the following conversation takes place.

Cleese: You are a loony. 

Palin:  Look, it's a bleedin' pet, isn't it?  I've got a license for me dog, Eric.  I have a license for me cat, Eric. 

Cleese:  You don't need a license for your cat. 

Palin:  I bleedin' well do, and I've got one!  Can't be caught out, there. 

Cleese:  There's no such thing as a bloody cat license. 

Palin:  (places a piece of paper on the counter)  What's that, then? 

Cleese:  This is a dog license with the word "dog" crossed out and "cat" written in in crayon. 

Palin:  Man didn't have the right form.

Well, it turns out that they got the kind of license wrong, is all.  You don't need a license to own a fish, but the fish itself might need a license to drive a car.

In a paper that you'll think I'm making up, but I'm not, four researchers at the Ben-Gurion University of the Negev (Israel) have created a little car for a goldfish -- that is driven by the fish.

Dubbed the "Fish-Operated Vehicle" (FOV), it's a small plastic aquarium on four wheels, with a steering mechanism controlled by the orientation and fin-movement rate of the fish.  They then attached a food pellet dispensing device, so that the fish got fed whenever it moved its little car toward a pink stripe on the wall.

The authors write:

[The fish] were able to operate the vehicle, explore the new environment, and reach the target regardless of the starting point, all while avoiding dead-ends and correcting location inaccuracies.  These results demonstrate how a fish was able to transfer its space representation and navigation skills to a wholly different terrestrial environment, thus supporting the hypothesis that the former possess a universal quality that is species-independent.

Which is cool, and all, but it does make me wonder: how did they even think of doing this?  You know, this is the reason I'd never have made it in research science.  This isn't Thinking Outside the Box, this is Thinking in a place where the Box wouldn't even be visible through a powerful telescope.  I can't imagine in a million years being a behavioral scientist, and thinking, "Hey, I know!  Let's teach a fish how to drive a car!"

In any case, it's kind of cool that fish can be trained.  You have to wonder what's going through their tiny brains once they find out they can control where the car goes.  I'd like to think that it's the fish version of "Yeeeeee-haw!"

But what's next?  Maybe I can get them to come teach my dogs to mow my lawn.  It's about time they learn a useful skill.  (The dogs, not the researchers.)  On the other hand, now that I think about it, knowing my dogs they'd probably just use the lawn mower as a way of further terrorizing the local squirrels, so maybe it's better if they stay with all four feet on the ground.

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One of my favorite writers is the inimitable Mary Roach, who has blended her insatiable curiosity, her knowledge of science, and her wonderfully irreverent sense of humor into books like Stiff (about death), Bonk (about sex), Spook (about beliefs in the afterlife), and Packing for Mars (about what we'd need to prepare for if we made a long space journey and/or tried to colonize another planet).  Her most recent book, Fuzz: When Nature Breaks the Law, is another brilliant look at a feature of humanity's place in the natural world -- this time, what happens when humans and other species come into conflict.

Roach looks at how we deal with garbage-raiding bears, moose wandering the roads, voracious gulls and rats, and the potentially dangerous troops of monkeys that regularly run into humans in many places in the tropics -- and how, even with our superior brains, we often find ourselves on the losing end of the battle.

Mary Roach's style makes for wonderfully fun reading, and this is no exception.  If you're interested in our role in the natural world, love to find out more about animals, or just want a good laugh -- put Fuzz on your to-read list.  You won't be disappointed.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Run like a dinosaur

One of my favorite movies, which I have seen I don't even know how many times, is Jurassic Park.

I'm honestly not much of a movie-watcher, but the first time I saw this one, it grabbed me from the opening scene and pretty much never let go.  Besides the great acting (Jeff Goldblum being top of the list... I've been known to swipe his line, "I hate it when I'm always right") and eye-popping special effects, it also gave us a window into something that has been the subject of speculation for centuries: the behavior of extinct animals.

Some of what Crichton, Spielberg et al. came up with was fanciful and almost certainly wrong; a case in point is the frill-waving, venom-spitting Dilophosaurus that ate the villainous Dennis Nedry.  Now, don't get me wrong; it's a great scene, and Nedry deserved everything he got, and more.  But we don't know if the crests of the Dilophosaurus were even retractable; this idea came from an only distantly-related reptile species, the Australian frilled lizard.  And the idea that it had venomous saliva is a complete fiction, given that spit doesn't fossilize all that well.

Dennis Nedry about to become dinner.  That'll teach him for saying "No wonder you're extinct.  I'm gonna run you over when I come back down."

Likewise the terrifying pack-hunting and deliberate, highly intelligent distraction behavior ("Clever girl") of the Velociraptors is entertaining fiction, based upon their relatively large cranial capacity, big nasty pointy teeth, and documented accounts of pack hunters like coyotes using a decoy to drive prey toward its waiting pack mates.  It's unlikely that Velociraptors (or any other dinosaur) were that smart, and I doubt seriously that any of them could figure out how to unlatch a freezer door.

What's cool, though, is that there are some inferences about dinosaur behavior (and the behavior of other extinct animals) we can make from fossil evidence alone.  The iconic scene where Alan Grant and his friends are nearly run over by a stampeding herd of Gallimimus was based upon a set of tracks that may represent exactly what the movie depicts -- a group of small dinosaurs fleeing a larger carnivorous one.  (Some paleontologists still dispute this interpretation, however.)  But the fact remains that we can use fossils to make some shrewd guesses about behavior.

Take, for example, the tracks found recently of a three-toed theropod dinosaur in the Rioja region of Spain.  The species is impossible to tell from the tracks alone, but based upon analysis of the sediment layers, the researchers learned four things:

• The tracks were made on the order of a hundred million years ago, in the early to mid-Cretaceous Period.
• The gait and depth indicates that it was running at about 45 kilometers per hour (right around the top speed Usain Bolt ever achieved).
• Whatever the dinosaur was, it was on the order of two meters tall and between four and five meters from tip to tail.
• Scariest of all, the pattern of tracks showed that as it ran, the animal was accelerating.

So chances are, it was chasing prey.  But there was no evidence to determine whether the prey got away or was turned into a Dennis-Nedry-style all-you-can-eat buffet.

A dangerous time, the mid-Cretaceous.  While a lot of us dinosaur aficionados would love a chance to go back in time and see what it was like, my guess is that once there, most of us would have a life expectancy of under six hours.  So as much as I love Jurassic Park, I'm just fine with not re-creating it.

In any case, it's exciting to know that even though a hundred million years has passed, we can still make some inferences about how these long-extinct animals behaved.  Fossils like the theropod tracks in Spain can give us a window into a long-vanished world, and the fascinating, beautiful, and terrifying animals that inhabited it.

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I've mentioned before how fascinated I am with the parts of history that still are largely mysterious -- the top of the list being the European Dark Ages, between the fall of Rome and the re-consolidation of central government under people like Charlemagne and Alfred the Great.  Not all that much was being written down in the interim, and much of the history we have comes from much later (such as History of the Kings of Britain, by Geoffrey of Monmouth, chronicling the events of the fourth through the eighth centuries C.E. -- but written in the twelfth century).

"Dark Ages," though, may be an unfair appellation, according to the new book Matthew Gabriele and David Perry called The Bright Ages: A New History of Medieval Europe.  Gabriele and Perry look at what is known of those years, and their contention is that it wasn't the savage, ignorant hotbed of backwards superstition many of us picture, but a rich and complex world, including the majesty of Byzantium, the beauty and scientific advancements of Moorish Spain, and the artistic genius of the master illuminators found in just about every Christian abbey in Europe.

It's an interesting perspective.  It certainly doesn't settle all the questions; we're still relying on a paucity of actual records, and the ones we have (Geoffrey's work being a case in point) sometimes being as full of legends, myths, and folk tales as they are of actual history.  But The Bright Ages goes a long way toward dispelling the sense that medieval Europe was seven hundred years of nothing but human misery.  It's a fascinating look at humanity's distant, and shadowed, past.

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

Cats in boxes

Any cat owners amongst my readers will undoubtedly know about the strange propensity of cats to climb into boxes.  Apparently it works for cats of all sizes:

With apologies to Robert Burns, a cat's a cat for a' that.

In fact, it doesn't even have to be a real box:

I've never heard a particularly convincing explanation of why cats do this.  Some people suggest it's because being in close quarters gives them a sense of security, perhaps a remnant of when they lived in the wild and slept in burrows or caves.  Me, I suspect it's just because cats are a little weird.  I've been of this opinion ever since owning a very strange cat named Puck, who used to sleep on the arm of the couch with one front and one back leg hanging limp on one side of the arm and the other two dangling over the other side, a pose that earned her the nickname "Monorail Cat."  She also had eyes that didn't quite line up, and a broken fang that caused her tongue to stick out of one side of her mouth.  She was quite a sweet-natured cat, really, but even people who love cats thought Puck looked like she had a screw loose.

The topic comes up because of a delightful piece of research that came out a few days ago in the journal Applied Animal Behaviour Science.  The paper was titled "If I Fits, I Sits: A Citizen Science Investigation into Illusory Contour Susceptibility in Domestic Cats," by Gabriella Smith and Sarah-Elizabeth Byosiere (of Hunter College) and Philippe Chouinard (of LaTrobe University), and looked at data collected from cat owners to find out if cats are fooled by the Kanizsa Rectangle Illusion.

The Kanizsa Rectangle Illusion is an image that tricks the brains into seeing contours that aren't there.  Here's one representation of it:

To most people, this looks like an opaque white rectangle laid over four black hexagons, and not what it really is -- four black hexagons with triangular wedges cut out.  Apparently the brain goes with an Ockham's Razor-ish approach to interpreting what it sees, deducing that a white rectangle on top of black hexagons is much more likely than having the cut-out bits just happening to line up perfectly.  It's amazing, though, how quickly this decision is made; we don't go through a back-and-forth "is it this, or is it that?"; the illusion is instantaneous, and so convincing that many of us can almost see the entire boundary of the rectangle even though there's nothing there.

Well, apparently, so can cats.  And, as one would expect, they sit in the middle of the nonexistent rectangle just as if it was a real box.  The authors write:

A well-known phenomenon to cat owners is the tendency of their cats to sit in enclosed spaces such as boxes, laundry baskets, and even shape outlines taped on the floor.  This investigative study asks whether domestic cats (Felis silvestris catus) are also susceptible to sitting in enclosures that are illusory in nature, utilizing cats’ attraction to box-like spaces to assess their perception of the Kanizsa square visual illusion...  [T]his study randomly assigned citizen science participants booklets of six randomized, counterbalanced daily stimuli to print out, prepare, and place on the floor in pairs.  Owners observed and videorecorded their cats’ behavior with the stimuli and reported findings from home over the course of the six daily trials...  This study revealed that cats selected the Kanizsa illusion just as often as the square and more often than the control, indicating that domestic cats may treat the subjective Kanizsa contours as they do real contours.

 It's a fascinating result, and indicative that other animal species see the world much as we do.  It still doesn't explain why cats like to sit in boxes, though.  I think my conclusion ("cats are weird") covers it about as well as anything.  But at least in one way, our perceptual/interpretive centers are just as weird as the cats' are.  I'm not inclined to go sit in a box, but it does make me wonder what our pets would think if we showed them other optical illusions.

I doubt my dogs would be interested.  If what they're looking at has nothing to do with food, petting, or playing, they pretty much ignore it.  Must be nice to see the world in such simple terms.

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Ever get frustrated by scientists making statements like "It's not possible to emulate a human mind inside a computer" or "faster-than-light travel is fundamentally impossible" or "time travel into the past will never be achieved?"

Take a look at physicist Chiara Marletto's The Science of Can and Can't: A Physicist's Journey Through the Land of Counterfactuals.  In this ambitious, far-reaching new book, Marletto looks at the phrase "this isn't possible" as a challenge -- and perhaps, a way of opening up new realms of scientific endeavor.

Each chapter looks at a different open problem in physics, and considers what we currently know about it -- and, more importantly, what we don't know.  With each one, she looks into the future, speculating about how each might be resolved, and what those resolutions would imply for human knowledge.

It's a challenging, fascinating, often mind-boggling book, well worth a read for anyone interested in the edges of scientific knowledge.  Find out why eminent physicist Lee Smolin calls it "Hugely ambitious... essential reading for anyone concerned with the future of physics."

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]

 

Canine teenagers

I love my dogs to pieces, but sometimes they drive me up a tree.

Especially our three-year-old pittie, Guinness.  He's sweet, cuddly, affectionate, playful... and willful, stubborn, mischievous, and frequently a complete pain in the ass.

The issue usually is that we're not giving him our undivided attention 24/7/365.  If you can imagine.  Monsters that we are, there are times when we don't want to play fetch with him or pet him, or when we might have other things we need to do.  When this happens, he usually finds some way of getting a rise out of us, like picking up a shoe and walking off with it, swiping something from the coffee table, or dragging a piece of firewood out of the wood cradle next to the stove.  If just taking it doesn't work, he proceeds to chew up whatever he stole, which is not a big deal if it's an empty cardboard box, but is a somewhat bigger deal if it's the TV remote.

Our usual strategy is to give him lots of one-on-one fun time in the afternoon, with the hope that he'll be so tired he'll stay out of trouble during the evening.  This works maybe fifty percent of the time.  When it doesn't, we fall back on the dubious strategy of chasing him around the house yelling, "DAMMIT GUINNESS GIVE THAT BACK."  Which, of course, means that he won -- we're giving him attention, and even better, playing with him, which is clearly how he interprets our running and flailing our arms.  "You are such a bad dog" usually elicits nothing more than a tail wag, because he knows how to game the system, and that's much better than being a Good Boy.

"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille."

Well, because of a paper this week in Biology Letters of the Royal Society, I found out there's a good reason why Guinness acts the way he does.

He's a teenager.

In "Teenage Dogs?  Evidence for Adolescent-Phase Conflict Behaviour and an Association Between Attachment to Humans and Pubertal Timing in the Domestic Dog," animal behaviorists Lucy Asher (University of Newcastle), Gary England and Naomi Harvey (Nottingham University), and Rebecca Sommerville (University of Edinburgh) tell us that adolescent dogs go through a lot of the same sorts of annoying stuff that adolescent humans do -- oppositional behavior, selective hearing, and outright defiance, especially of the owner/parents.

The authors write:

...[W]hen dogs reached puberty, they were less likely to follow commands given by their carer, but not by others.  The socially-specific nature of this behaviour in dogs (reduced obedience for their carer only) suggests this behaviour reflects more than just generalized hormonal, brain and reward pathway changes that happen during adolescence.  In parts of this study, the ‘other’ person was a guide dog trainer who may have been more capable of getting a dog to perform a command; however, the results are consistent with parts of the study when the ‘other’ person was an experimenter without the experience of dog training.  We also find the reduction in obedience to the carer and not an ‘other’ person to be specific to the dog's developmental stage and more pronounced in dogs with insecure attachments, which is not easily explained by differences in dog training ability between the carer and other.

I find this fascinating, because it completely parallels my memory of parenting my sons when they were teenagers.  Both of them went through the eye-rolling, good-lord-my-parents-are-stupid phase of development, but while they were in that, we still got consistent stellar reports about their behavior at school.  "They're so sweet and cooperative," their teachers said, over and over.  "Always the first ones to volunteer to help out."

After verifying that yes, we were actually talking about the same teenage boys, Carol and I would just shake our heads and comment that it was better they take their adolescent angst out on us than on their teachers, who heaven knows have enough of that stuff to deal with.  Even if that meant that our request to load the dishwasher was treated as if it were equivalent to turning them into galley slaves and forcing them to row to Scotland.

But it's amazing that dogs go through the same phase.  Makes you wonder what other sorts of parallels they are.  And it gives me some hope that Guinness will grow out of his frustrating, attention-seeking behavior.  Although it must be said that three years old is definitely out of puppyhood, and we're still waiting for improvement.

Maybe it's partly his breed.  One of my friends who is a dog lover came over shortly after we got him (he's a shelter rescue, the best kind of dog to get).  She was greeted enthusiastically by him, and she said, "Oh, a pittie mix!  I love those.  How old is he?"

"A little over a year," I said.

"You do know that pitties only grow a brain when they're four years old, right?"

That was two years ago, and I'm not seeing much sign of it.  Maybe it's a sudden thing, you know?  Maybe next March, when he's three-years-and-eleven-months old, he'll get this shocked look on his face as his skull fills up with actual brain tissue, and immediately he'll start acting like a Good Boy, and perhaps even apologize for all of the household items he's chewed up.

Look, it could happen, okay?  Don't burst my bubble.  At least not until I find my left shoe.

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This week's Skeptophilia book-of-the-week is one that should be a must-read for everyone -- not only for the New Yorkers suggested by the title.  Unusual, though, in that this one isn't our usual non-fiction selection.  New York 2140, by Kim Stanley Robinson, is novel that takes a chilling look at what New York City might look like 120 years from now if climate change is left unchecked.

Its predictions are not alarmism.  Robinson made them using the latest climate models, which (if anything) have proven to be conservative.  She then fits into that setting -- a city where the streets are Venice-like canals, where the subways are underground rivers, where low-lying areas have disappeared completely under the rising tides of the Atlantic Ocean -- a society that is trying its best to cope.

New York 2140 isn't just a gripping read, it's a frighteningly clear-eyed vision of where we're heading.  Read it, and find out why The Guardian called it "a towering novel about a genuinely grave threat to civilisation."

[Note: if you purchase this book using the image/link below, part of the proceeds goes to support Skeptophilia!]