Am Like an Ant

Ants are fascinating creatures, which is why one of my mentors, E.O. Wilson—a distinguished professor and researcher at Harvard—has devoted many decades to the study of their behavior. Wilson was one of the first scholars to describe an ant colony as a “superorganism,” which defines the colony as exhibiting an intelligence and cognitive ability that is far beyond the capabilities of any one ant. Scientists refer to this phenomenon as an “emergent” quality. It is a capability that no human theory or model can predict—it's almost as if it magically appears when a large number of simple creatures cooperate.

We humans tend to look down upon lowly ants as primitive creatures, because any single ant is rather rudimentary, when compared to one of us. An ant doesn't have much of a brain and its behaviors are extremely limited. Yet a colony of ants can perform acts that are strikingly similar to us. Here are a few examples.

Some ant species herd and milk bugs, rather like we herd and milk cattle and sheep. Some ant species are very sophisticated farmers—they are, in fact, considered to form highly-civilized farming communities. Millions of years before we humans discovered agriculture, these ants evolved into accomplished farmers. They are commonly known as leafcutter ants. They harvest leaves of plants (or portions of leaves), which they cut and drop to the ground, where sister transporter ants carry the fragments back to the “farm.” It's not the leaves they are interested in, but the fungus that they cultivate on the leaves and then consume. Our human ancestors could have learned a trick or two about farming from these ants.

Have you ever hummed a tune, as you engage in some routine task? Well, ants do it, too. As the leafcutter ants scissor away at a leaf, they “sing” by rubbing body parts together (sort of like crickets). But these little singers are smart—their singing helps them in their surgical efforts, by assisting their mandibles (their chewing mouth parts) to cut a leaf more efficiently. But they also sing for help. If one ant gets trapped, it cries (oops, sings) out for its sisters to come to the rescue.

We may look at a tiny ant and experience it as an alien critter, but it's more like us than first meets the eye. If we take a closer look—as E.O. Wilson has done all his life—we begin to understand the similarities in our behavior. I may look down upon it, but in many ways I am like an ant.

Next time: ways we ain't like an ant.

Superorganism Ann—Part 2

Like all creatures, Ann also has some qualities that uniquely define her. She is deaf and blind—but in compensation, she possesses superior senses of smell, taste, and touch. Living underground in one location all her life, she neither needs to see nor hear. But oh, her sense of smell! For instance, she can emit some 12 different chemical signals, which she can combine in a highly skilled manner—deciding when, where, and why to release pheromones, as well as to mix them on certain occasions. She has a chemical communication system analogous to the chemical signals our guts and brains emit, as they successfully carry out their functions.

Ann could be perfectly happy if she never met another being of her kind. She is a hermit (I can relate to that). But similar beings do live nearby. She knows they’re out there and she occasionally encounters one of them. And they are usually not friendly meetings—as she and each of her rivals (I’ll call them Judy and Sally) need a minimal amount of territory to survive. Evolution has seen to it that there is plenty of competition for the available space and food. When Ann was younger she was robust and virile. Neither Judy nor Sally dared to challenge her then.

But when Ann reached 30, something fateful happened: the queen died. It was as if one of our vital organs became diseased and began to shut down. Our intelligent bodies would try to fight off the problem, but if the disease seized the upper hand or if we are simply too old to keep up the struggle, we will at some point succumb.

Ann began to falter and weaken. Judy lived right next door and began to sense her advantage. At first, Judy tentatively challenged, as Ann bravely put up a front. But in time Judy sensed her rival’s frailty and launched an all-out invasion. In a matter of a few days Ann lost the battle and perished. Judy now prospered with her expanded territory. Ann had lived a full and lengthy life. She did well. But like all creatures, death is the final destiny.

I like thinking of an ant colony as a specific individual. It puts the story of the life of this superorganism on a par with that of a bird or a rabbit. I can ponder the intelligent behavior of the colony and not get stuck with the unlikely image of how a collection of dumb creatures could possibly do all that. Instead, I imagine Ann, and her amazing accomplishments then seem more reasonable to me. (Besides, it’s fun.) The next time I come upon an anthill, I’ll picture the blind and deaf creature who lives down there—a creature whose sense of smell is just amazing. Thanks, Ed Wilson!

Superorganism Ann—Part 1

In the January 25 issue of The New Yorker is a wonderful article of “fiction” by E.O. Wilson. I’ve written here before about Wilson, a preeminent writer-biologist who is quite likely the world’s leading expert on ants. His article in The New Yorker is “fiction,” only in the sense that he is describing the life of a hypothetical ant colony—how it began, how it thrived, and how it expired. It is a delightful story that pulls the reader into the heart of a prosperous community of 10,000 ants and the workings of its complex society.

Wilson describes how the queen of his imagined community flew from her birth colony, became inseminated, and initiated her own colony. She is the vital center of the community, which Wilson calls a “superorganism.” I have written before about the phenomenon of emergent intelligence (1/28/09 and 5/7/09) and how a tight-knit group of creatures exhibits intelligence far beyond what any one of them possesses—a kind of superorganism.

As I pondered Wilson’s story—titled “Trailhead”—I found myself thinking of his superorganism of ants, not as a collection of cooperating insects that achieves its remarkable feats, but as a specific being; like a frog, or a dog, or even a human being. I imagined the colony as an intelligent individual—one that encompasses all the discrete insects, much like our bodies encompass multitudes of cells, organisms, and organs. Our bodies are a cooperative collection of countless beasties, and so is an ant colony. So let me think of the colony as being a being. I’ll call her Ann.

Ann possesses essentially all the qualities of any intelligent creature. (I’m using the word intelligent here to mean the skillful accomplishment of complex tasks of living successfully—a much broader definition than just a measure of cerebral capability.) Ann was conceived at some point, was born, has thrived for 30 years (30!), and will someday perish—just like all critters. She forages for food, possesses a superb digestive system, defecates, and skillfully disposes of her wastes—often using it to fertilize her gardens. Ann’s immune system fights off disease and she successfully repels periodic invaders. As long as her multitudinous elements cooperate with one another and luck is with her, she lives a long and healthy life. Similarly, as long as our various organs work together and fortune smiles upon us, we stay healthy.

Ann inherently knows how to respond capably to varied circumstances. When food is plentiful she grows fat and robust. When provisions are lean she hunkers down and loses weight. Some of Ann’s components periodically sacrifice themselves to maintain her health—much as some of our white blood cells attack invasive bacteria and perish in the process. It’s all for one and one for all.

More on Ann’s qualities next time.