Testy Tim

He gets testy only if you try to steal the seed from him.

Testy Tim Titmouse

I sit in my outdoor tub, watching birds come to the feeder. When I'm in a meditative mood, beholding birds is one of the more absorbing activities that I enjoy. There is always an interesting example of bird behavior to observe—and sometimes a taste is offered that appears to be just enough different from the norm that it captures my imagination and causes my speculative mental juices to flow.

Tonight I'm witnessing a group of half a dozen tufted titmice visiting the feeder—swooping down more or less together, grabbing sunflower seeds and then flying off more or less together into the evening air. In a few minutes they return and resume feeding. They pay each other little attention, except for the fact that they hang with one another in this loosely-defined flock. It's safer for them, as many eyes do better at spotting threats than do just two.

Then there's the oddball in this small flock, whom I will call Testy Tim. He seems more interested in his fellow group members, than the seeds. He suddenly attacks another titmouse—excreting a squeaky, threatening shout that drives the other bird off. At random moments Tim aggressively charges another compatriot, chasing it away.

What is going on here? Tim's behavior, it seems to me, is untimely. Such belligerent conduct in early spring—when territory and breeding pairs are being established—is normal. But not this time of summer. Mates have been selected long ago and most offspring bred; now it's time to mellow out in the summer's heat. But not Testy Tim.

What's got Tim's goat? Why is he acting so pugnacious? Did he just get jilted by his lady? Is this a temporary affliction? Did something just happen that's got his testosterone flowing? Did he just pick a fight with a bird who was superior to him on the pecking order, and he won—with his success now surging through his veins like piss and vinegar? Or might he be a recent fledgling—and like an overconfident teenager, is engaging in foolish behavior, inviting an older, more worldly bird to put him in his place?

Tim is asking for his comeuppance, I'm thinking. He's the single belligerent bird in this harmonious group; the others may decide to gang up retaliate at any moment. They seem uninterested in facing Tim down, however. Maybe it's just too much of an effort in the hot evening sun, to deal with his attacks? Maybe Tim will soon get it out of his system and calm down?

The titmice once again fly off in their group—with Testy Tom trailing behind. Things quiet down. In a few moments I hear a titmouse ferociously scolding. Could it be an elder who is chewing out Tim—advising him to chill out? Has Tim's juvenile behavior earned him a well-deserved dressing down?

I don't see any more titmice, as dusk settles in and quiet prevails. Did Tim finally calm down? Did the others just head for bed, hoping that tomorrow will be a more agreeable day? I'm left alone with my musings, to create my stories.

June Beetle

A June beetle photographed in July. (Click to expand.)

Crustacean Cognition

As far as mental acuity goes, crustaceans have been considered to be near the bottom, when evaluating the brains of various families of animals. Crustaceans are arthropods, which include other simple critters like insects and spiders. In particular, crustaceans are hard-shelled animals (the root of the word crustacean is “having a crust”), such as lobsters, crabs, crayfish, and shrimp. Until a couple of years ago, many scholars thought that the brains of crustaceans are so primitive that they can't even feel pain. This allowed seafood lovers to plunk a live lobster in a pot of boiling water, conscience free, believing it to be so stupid that it did not suffer. Now we know better.

A recent scientific finding coming out of the University of Bordeaux shows us that crustaceans are not only able to feel pain, but possess an even greater cognitive ability: they also feel stress. In fact, the study showed that their tiny brains are influenced by some of the same chemicals that our massive human brains respond to. Ahh, I love it... one more belief about the uniqueness of the human species gets shattered. We keep finding evidence that narrows the gap between us and all the other animals. And here's yet another one.

The research conducted by the French scientists conclusively showed that crayfish can experience rudimentary emotions. How? When they gave crayfish a mild electric shock, the creatures hid in dark corners of their aquarium—unlike their unshocked brethren, who did not hesitate to boldly venture into the light. And the shocked crayfish behaved as if they were stressed or shy.

Wondering what might be going on chemically within the tiny crayfish brain, the researchers guessed that it could be due to elevated levels of serotonin—which also affects the moods of humans, when a serotonin imbalance occurs in our brains. When they injected the stressed crayfish with a drug used to treat anxiety in humans, the critters calmed down and began venturing into the light. Crayfish on Prozac!

I don't think that these results imply that we need to begin training crustacean shrinks to counsel depressed lobsters and crayfish. But they do tell us that yet one more mental barrier between us and simple animals has been dismantled. It makes sense that all animals—including humans—have many mental similarities, given that we all have evolved from the same primitive ancestor that came into being some 3.5 billion years ago. We're all together!

Beauty

It's hard to beat the beauty of a marigold in full bloom. Click to enlarge.

Ain't Like an Ant

The previous posting described some interesting ways in which our human behaviors are similar to ants: they “domesticate” other critters and milk them, they farm, and they “sing” as they work. It's enlightening to open ourselves to the fact that other forms of life on Earth bear a greater resemblance to us than we've long thought. We've historically tended to place our species on a pedestal—greatly elevated from other critters. We've viewed ourselves as much closer to the gods. In the modern era, however, we have come to understand that there is far less of a difference between ourselves and simple creatures... such as ants.

When ants form a colony something very sagacious emerges: a level of intelligence that can rival human capabilities. It is useful to find ourselves toppled from our self-imagined pedestal, and realize the similarities and unity of all life on Earth. After all, every one of us has evolved from the very same primal life form. We're just different branches and twigs on the same tree of life.

While describing a few similarities between humans and ants in the previous post, I think it's also interesting to consider some ways in which we ain't like ants. They are unique little critters who possess some remarkable qualities that we can't begin to imagine. If only we had some of their skills...

We have language, giving us a sophisticated form of communication. Ants may not be able to talk as we do (How could a mandible purse its lips?), but they “speak” to each other in a very sophisticated language: they use dozens of different types of pheromones to communicate. They combine various kinds of pheromones to give each other various kinds of messages. The most common use is to lay down a pheromone trail that guides sister ants to a stash of food, the garbage dump, burial grounds, or the way back home.

Ants' pheromone chemicals are incredibly potent—they need to be, when you think about one tiny ant laying down a path over several yards long. In fact, scientists have demonstrated that just a single milligram of pheromone (less than a thousandth of an ounce!) can lay down an ant trail that would circle the Earth 60 times!

While humans tend to come in one size, some ants (even of the same species) may be 200 times larger than others (depending on the individual duties of each of them in the colony)! Each size ant has its specific job within the colony, and they cooperate beautifully, to accomplish their sophisticated tasks. Think how a human being, 200 times larger than another human of the same species, would treat its tiny relative.

When it comes to the subject of sex, humans and ants could hardly differ more. The colony is composed entirely of females—all sisters, the daughters of one queen. When a nascent female ant mates with a male (who immediately thereafter perishes), she becomes a queen who stores the sperm in her body for 10 years and more, to fertilize millions of eggs. Not much of a sex life!

So the next time you spot an ant trotting across the floor, you might ponder the various ways it is like us (farming, domesticating other critters, and singing as they work), as well as the ways we are alien (pheromone communication, size, and sex). Ain't life's variations grand?

Mother of an Ant

Well... maybe sister of an ant. My, what pincers you have! (Click to enlarge.)