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In my previous post, I went down a deep rabbit hole by exploring reports of raining fish and frogs. That really does happen (though always with a plausible scientific explanation). But what about when people say it’s raining cats and dogs? Where did that come from? Has it ever actually rained cats and dogs? Almost certainly not, but I still find the saying to be interesting. The first recorded use of the phrase was in 1651, in a poetry collection by British poet Henry Vaughan. A year after that, the British playwright Richard Brome included this line in one of his comic plays: “It shall rain dogs and polecats.” The phrase didn’t become popular, though, until 1738, when Jonathan Swift wrote a satire in which one of his characters feared it would “rain cats and dogs.” But this doesn’t really explain why this particular phrase became popular. Why specifically cats and dogs? One hypothesis comes from etymologists—people who study the origins of words. The Norse god of storms, Odin, was often depicted alongside dogs and wolves, which at that time were symbols for wind. Also, witches were thought to ride their broomsticks during storms, and they were often depicted with black cats. The black cats therefore became signs of approaching rain for sailors. So, “raining cats and dogs” may have been a way to refer to a storm with wind (dogs) and heavy rain (cats). In my opinion, though, a more likely origin of the phrase might be indicated by something else that Jonathan Swift wrote. In 1710, he wrote a poem called “City Shower.” Many cities had poor drainage in those days, and the poem describes the flooding that would occur after heavy rains, and how the flooding left dead animals in the streets. So, I’m going with the explanation that these dead animals led people to describe the storm as “raining cats and dogs.” Okay, I'm now satisfied I have fully explored the weird notion of animals raining from the heavens. I shall pontificate on this matter no further.  Image credit: Midjourney 6.1
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I went down a rabbit hole with this one, so bear with me... it'll be worth the time it takes to read it. All the way back to ancient civilizations, people have reported seeing frogs and fish rain from the sky. And other animals, like rats, iguanas, bats, and spiders. I’ve always wanted to know why people would make such an obviously outrageous claim. I mean, even if I saw it happening, I would think twice about going around telling people what I saw. They would think I was crazy. So, why have people made these claims throughout history? One explanation, at least with frogs, is that, after emerging from their houses after a heavy storm and seeing frogs everywhere, people made the assumption the frogs fell from the sky during the storm. The 1999 movie Magnolia (considered by many to be a cinematic masterpiece) has a famous—and rather graphic—scene where thousands of large frogs fall from the sky. To most viewers, it was confusing, but the movie critics claimed it was the perfect ending. Go figure. Anyway, the movie was obviously fiction. Here are some things we know for real. Ernest Agee from Purdue University said, “A tornadic waterspout is merely a tornado that forms over land and travels over the water. I’ve seen small ponds literally emptied of their water by a passing tornado. So, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for frogs (or other living things) to ‘rain’ from the skies.” So, waterspouts are likely to be the source of some of the reports of such things. In 1873, it actually rained frogs in Kansas City, and a Scientific American article concluded it was likely due to a tornado. In 1882, in Dubuque, Iowa, there was a frog hail storm, in which frozen frogs fell from the sky during a storm. Scientists concluded a powerful updraft must have carried frogs high into the atmosphere, where they turned into frogcicles and eventually fell onto the heads of puzzled Dubuque residents. In 1947, a biologist from the Louisiana Department of Wildlife was eating at a restaurant in Marksville, Louisiana. A waitress came up to him and said fish were falling from the sky. Later, he wrote: “There were spots on Main Street, in the vicinity of the bank, averaging one fish per square yard. Automobiles and trucks were running over them. Fish also fell on the roofs of houses… I personally collected from Main Street and several yards on Monroe Street, a large jar of perfect specimens and preserved them in formalin, in order to distribute them among various museums.” Keep in mind this was actually a biologist saying this. In 2005, thousands of frogs rained on a small town in northwestern Serbia. Almost laughably, a local climatologist, named Slavisa Ignjatovic, described the phenomenon as “not very unusual.” Why? Because, as he explained, the strong winds that accompanied the storm could have easily picked up the frogs. In 2010, the people of the small Australian town of Lajamanu witnessed hundreds of spangled perch falling from the sky. Christine Balmer, who was walking home when the rain and fish started falling, said, “These fish fell in their hundreds and hundreds all over the place. The locals were running around everywhere to pick them up.” In June of 2022, in San Francisco, anchovies rained from above. In this case, the weather was clear, and the falling fish appeared to have been chewed on. Scientists concluded this phenomenon was a result of an unusually productive year for the anchovy population, and sea birds were catching them and accidentally dropping some while flying. A similar incident happened in Texarkana, Texas in 2021, but in this case a large flock of cormorants were disgorging their recent meal of shad while flying. The yacked-up shad were on the ground over an area of nine square miles. So, there we have it. It does occasionally rain frogs and fish, and we have reasonable scientific explanations for almost every event. Below is a woodcut from a book titled Prodigiorum ac Ostentorum Chronicon, published in 1557, one of the first books specifically about strange phenomena. The woodcut depicts a reported raining of frogs that took place in Scandanavia.  Many of the leaves have fallen now, but a few weeks ago, when Trish and I were sitting on our deck, I was staring at the leaves at the top of a nearby oak tree. Then I stared at the leaves at the bottom, then again I stared at the top. This is when I had an epiphany—in the category of Stan-discovers-something-all-true-botanists-probably-already-know. What did I discover? The leaves at the top of the tree are skinnier (less surface area) than those at the bottom of the tree. The difference is striking. So, I took two photos of leaves on the same tree. This first photo is leaves at the top.  And this second photos is leaves at the bottom of the same tree:  See what I mean? What's up with that?
Well, although I was proud of myself for making this acute observation, this was already a well-known phenomenon. There are several reasons the top leaves of tall plants have less surface area than the bottom leaves. The leaves at the top are in direct sunlight, whereas those at the bottom are shaded by the upper leaves. With smaller leaves at the top, more sunshine can get to the leaves at the bottom. And the larger leaves at the bottom can grab more of the light filtering through the top leaves. It's an equity issue, you see. The lower leaves can do their share of photosynthesis this way. There's another reason too. The top leaves are exposed to more direct sun and more wind, so they evaporate away more water. By having less surface area, they lose less of the precious water the tree needs to survive. At the bottom of the tree, the leaves are shaded, there is less wind, and the air is more humid. So, those leaves can be larger without evaporating away too much water. These kinds of adaptations always fascinate me, even if I'm late to the party. Several day ago, I was hiking in the forest near our property and I came upon this old fallen branch covered in what looked like ants... but many of them had wings and were flying away as more continued emerging from inside the dead branch. What's up with that? Well, with some types of ants (as well as termites), the queen produces winged offspring at certain times of the year, and the winged individuals emerge and take off all at once, often thousands at a time. The question is, are these ants or termites? Let's start with a bit of background information. Both ants and termites have what is called their annual nuptial flight. Basically, this is when some of the ants (or termites) take off flying to find a mate. Ants and termites live in colonies, with a queen and a large army of non-reproductive female workers. During most of the season, the non-flying, non-reproductive female workers forage for food to feed themselves and the numerous larvae produced by the queen. This part of the year is for growing the colony. However, at certain times of the season, the queen changes her job. She stops laying eggs that hatch more non-reproductive female workers, and she starts laying eggs that hatch females that could become queens, as well as males that could mate with these females. These potential queens, and the males that could mate with them, have wings. They all emerge from the colony at once and take to the air, swarming about and mating (yes, they mate while swarming in the air... the little multitaskers). Once a winged female mates with a winged male, the male loses its wings and dies (bummer), and the female goes off to become the queen of her own new colony (yay for the queen!). As it turns out, the insects in the photo are ants. How do you tell if they are ants or termites? The easiest way is the body shape and the wing length. Zooming in on the photo, I could see a distinct constriction behind the head (a narrow neck). And with some of the winged individuals, you can see how the second pair of wings are shorter.   Trish and I saw several other mammals in Panama besides the monkeys and sloths I’ve already posted. As you can probably imagine, mammals are often MUCH harder to spot than birds, which means photographing them can be a challenge. Names and descriptions are provided above each photo. Kinkajou. These tropical tree-climbing mammals are related to raccoons and coatis. Found in southern Mexico, Central America, and South America, they are difficult to see because they are nocturnal. I took this photo as this kinkajou was feeding on a banana outside a window of the Canopy Tower.  Northern Tamandua. This is actually a tree-climbing anteater. This anteater specializes in raiding ant, termite, and bee nests high in the trees. Like other anteaters, it has no teeth, but it has strong claws for tearing into insect nests, and a long, sticky tongue for slurping up its prey. This is the only one we saw, and photographing it was a challenge, as it was high in a tree and very busy looking for food.   Coati. Also known as the coatimundi. Related to the raccoon and kinkajou—one of the other mammals included in this post. Whereas kinkajous are usually seen climbing trees (they have a prehensile tail), coatis are usually on the ground (with a more raccoon-like tail), although they are also good climbers. Coatis often forage in groups, and they hold their long tails up high, which helps the others in the group stay together in thick vegetation. This one was on the move, refusing to pose for good photos.   Central American Agouti. Fairly common in Panama, agoutis are rodents that can grow to almost ten pounds. They are often seen in gardens, as well as in the rainforest. Agoutis are active during the day, and they form monogamous mating pairs, sometimes for life. They have a rather odd courtship ritual. When the male is in the mood, he sprays the female with urine. If his timing is right, this will send the female into an excited dance. This, in turn, prompts the male to give her a few more nice urine squirts. You can guess what happens next.   Proboscis Bats. These tiny bats were hanging around on the lower side of the trunk of a leaning tree. They usually live in colonies with as many as 45 individuals, roosting together like this during the day and hunting for insects at night. Most colonies have between 5 and 11 bats. These bats usually feed while flying just above a body of water (without actually touching the water), and this particular tree was actually leaning out over a portion of the large lake that is part of the Panama Canal (we were in a boat when we found them).   Photo credits: All mammal photos - Stan C. Smith Everyone loves sloths, right? We were lucky enough to see and photograph a number of them. Mostly the BROWN-THROATED THREE-TOED SLOTH. I have to tell you a story about the sloth in the first photo. As we were just starting a hike, we saw this sloth high in a cecropia tree, hanging upside down and slowly scratching itself. I got some good photos, and we continued onward. When we came back down the same trail about two hours later, the sloth was still hanging there, and was STILL scratching itself. A good scratch cannot be rushed, I suppose. Why are sloths so slow? This question has puzzled biologists for centuries. Way back in 1749, when sloths were first described in scientific literature (by Georges Buffon), he referred to them as: "the lowest form of existence." This is obviously incorrect because sloths have thrived for 64 million years. They are very well adapted for their lifestyle. First, sloths are completely colorblind, due to a genetic condition that showed up in their ancestors millions of years ago. They see poorly in dim light, and hardly at all in bright daylight. Very few tree-climbing animals are colorblind, and this condition requires that they move slowly and cautiously. But that's not all. Sloths have extremely slow metabolism. In fact, their metabolism is so slow that they are unable to regulate their body temperature internally, like other mammals can. They regulate their temperature behaviorally, like a cold-blooded animal does, by basking in the sun when they are cool and moving to the shade when hot. Unlike other mammals, a sloth's internal body temperature can fluctuate as much as 20 degrees F during the day (this would be fatal to a human). These factors, among others, result in an extremely slow-moving animal. But this isn't a bad thing—it's simply a different way of surviving. Sloths are very good at what they do! The last photo is a HOFFMANN'S TWO-TOED SLOTH, which we saw in a sloth sanctuary. We only saw one of these in the wild, and it was not in position for good photos.      Photo Credits: All sloth photos - Stan C. Smith Now that I've shared the monkeys we saw, let's consider one of my favorite birds, the TOUCAN. Actually, we saw three types of toucans. The first photo is a KEEL-BILLED TOUCAN, the second is a BLUE-THROATED TOUCANET, and the third is a COLLARED ARACARI. In my opinion, toucans are the cartoon characters of the bird world. My question is: What's up with that huge, beautiful bill (beak)? Their bill can be four times the size of their head, and as long as their body. Seriously, isn't that kind of extreme? Well, as you can probably imagine, a toucan's bill is, by necessity, amazingly lightweight. They are also very strong—have you ever seen a toucan with a broken beak? Neither have I. As it turns out, these beaks serve a variety of functions. They help the bird reach fruits at the ends of narrow branches and in crevices. They can be used as a weapon against predators and against each other. The serrated edges can be used like a saw for tearing up food. They can be used for cracking open seeds. The bright colors are almost certainly used for attracting mates, and for identifying members of their own species. Perhaps one of the most intriguing functions of a toucan's bill is thermoregulation. Tropical forests are hot, and creatures living there have evolved elaborate ways to keep their bodies cool. I've never touched a live toucan's bill, but biologists say the bills are very warm to the touch. Why? Because the bills have an elaborate system of blood vessels near the surface. Scientists have actually tested this using infrared sensors. They looked at the amount of heat given off by the toucan's beak when it is resting. Then they chased the toucan around in its cage for ten minutes (to stimulate exertion), and measured the heat given off by the beak again. After the exertion, the beak was much warmer. Which means the bird was releasing more heat to keep its body at the optimal temperature. Who says something can't be pretty and functional at the same time?    Photo credits: Toucans - Stan C. Smith Trish and I saw four monkey species on Panama trip. In my last post, I showed photos of Geoffroy's Tamarin. And here are the other three. The first two photos are MANTLED HOWLER MONKEYS. These are not the same species we usually see in Belize. These monkeys can be heard at least a half mile away, and they often howl in the early mornings and evenings. The next one is the WHITE-FACED CAPUCHIN. This one seemed to have a perpetually grouchy face. Finally, the last photo is a WESTERN NIGHT MONKEY. These are nocturnal, which makes them difficult to photograph. I took this photo while our guide shone a spotlight on it.     Photo credits: Monkeys - Stan C. Smith Trish and I recently returned from an awesome tropical forest adventure in Panama. We stayed at Canopy Tower and Canopy Lodge, with a focus on Tropical Biodiversity. I'll be sharing numerous photos and stories in the coming days. Let's start with monkeys! We saw four monkey species, including Panama's smallest monkey, called Geoffroy's Tamarin, about the size of a squirrel. These tiny monkeys live in social groups, so if you see one, you'll likely see more. They spend much of the day foraging for fruits, flowers, and insects. I photographed these tamarins from the observation deck atop the Canopy Tower. Tamarins were sporting the mohawk hairstyle long before it was cool.    Photo credits: Tamarin photos - Stan C. Smith I haven’t ridden very many horses, and I’ve never owned a horse. But… if I could ride a domesticated zebra, I might consider becoming a cowboy. In fact, in the second book of my Peregrine Outpost series, a leader of the bad guys rides a zebra, which gives him a certain lofty status among his tribe members. Seriously, how cool would it be to ride a zebra? The only place I wouldn’t ride my zebra would be on the plains of the Serengeti. Because riding one there would be like offering the lions a double-layer snack. So, why haven’t people domesticated zebras? Humans originated in the land of zebras—it’s not like our ancestors didn’t have plenty of time to make this goal a priority. Zebra-riding seems like a no-brainer, so why didn’t they do it? As it turns out, plenty of people have tried. In fact, the 2005 movie Racing Stripes, one of those talking-animal movies, is about a zebra that wants to be a racehorse. But even in this movie, the producers had to use a horse (in zebra makeup) for the actual riding and racing scenes. Why? Horses, donkeys, and zebras all came from a common ancestor that lived millions of years ago in North America and Europe. As you probably know, the ones in North America went extinct about 10,000 years ago (there aren’t really any wild horses in North America today, just feral horses that escaped from herds of domestic horses brought over from Europe). Donkeys and zebras are more closely related to each other than to horses. Horses were domesticated in western Eurasia, and they were first kept as food animals, then eventually people figured out they could ride them. Thusly, they became an important element of the development of human civilization. Horses, donkeys, and zebras were all preyed upon by large predators, but zebras lived amidst a wide variety of the world’s most impressive predators. To survive, they evolved to be particularly alert, to flee at any sign of danger, and—perhaps most importantly—to fight desperately when captured. I’ve seen videos in which zebras kick pursuing lions, breaking the lions’ jaws (a lion with a broken jaw will soon starve). Also, zebras bite viciously when they feel threatened. In 2013, a zebra at the National Zoo in Washington DC attacked and repeatedly bit a zoo keeper, sending the keeper to the hospital for surgery. Zebras also have a strong “ducking reflex” to escape attack, making it difficult to lasso them. Basically, zebras are just not people friendly. In order for an animal species to be a good candidate for domestication, the animal should be naturally fond of humans, and it helps if the animal has a desire for a comfortable life and is easy to work with and tend. Horses, yes. Zebras, nope. Okay, remember above when I said I would not ride my theoretical zebra across the Serengeti? I wasn’t kidding. It’s likely that thousands of generations of early humans avoided even trying to domesticate zebras, knowing that zebras were basically lion fodder. This, and the zebra’s belligerent behavior, explain why zebras have never been domesticated, and why I’ll never be a zebra-riding cowboy.  |
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