Latest news with #Peromyscusleucopus
Yahoo
5 days ago
- General
- Yahoo
A bottlenose dolphin? Or Tursiops truncatus? Why biologists give organisms those strange, unpronounceable names
Most people would call it a 'field mouse,' but a scientist would ask, 'Was it Peromyscus maniculatus? Or Peromyscus leucopus?' Scientists use a system of complicated-sounding names to refer to everyday creatures, a practice heavily lampooned in the Warner Bros. cartoons featuring the Road Runner and Wile E. Coyote – or, respectively, Accelleratii incredibus and Carnivorous vulgaris. As a biologist, I use these seemingly odd names myself and help my students learn them. For most people it's a huge effort, like learning a second language. That's because it is. The science of naming and classifying organisms is called taxonomy. Scientists do this so they can be as precise as possible when discussing living things. The first word in an organism's name is its genus, which is a group of related species, such as Panthera for lions, tigers and leopards. The second word is the specific name identifying the species, usually defined as a population that can reproduce only with each other, such as Panthera leo for lion. Every two-word combination must be unique. Called binomial nomenclature, this naming system was popularized by Swedish naturalist Carl Linnaeus in the 1700s. So, humans are Homo sapiens, the red maple Acer rubrum, garlic Allium sativum, and the eastern spotted skunk Spilogale putorius. Today, biologists maintain huge databases containing the taxonomic names of plants, animals, fungi and other organisms. For instance, one of these databases – the Open Tree of Life project – includes over 2.3 million species. The scientist who discovers a species usually names it by publishing a formal description in a peer-reviewed journal. From there, the name makes its way into the databases. From then on, scientists always use that name for the organism, even if it turns out to be misleading. For example, many fossils were originally given names containing the Greek root 'saur,' which means lizard – even though paleontologists later realized dinosaurs were not lizards. To most people, these names sound inscrutable. Particularly nowadays, as science becomes more open and accessible to everyone, such arcane vocabulary can come across as old-fashioned and elitist. Given the current backlash against 'elites' and 'experts' in every field, that's a serious charge. But in a roundabout way, this seemingly exclusive practice is really a story of inclusiveness. As modern science began taking shape in Europe during the 1600s, scientists had a problem. They wanted to read and be read by others, but language got in the way. French scientists couldn't read Swedish, Swedes couldn't read Italian, and Italians couldn't read German. Also, writing about plants and animals posed a particular challenge: Many species had common names that could vary from place to place, and some common names might apply to multiple species. Scientists needed a way to be precise and consistent when referring to species, so that everyone could understand each other. To sidestep the language issue, scientists of the era mostly published their work in classical Latin. Back then, everyone learned it – at least every European man wealthy enough to attend school and become a scientist. Others published in classical Greek, also widely taught. By sticking with these more universally known languages, early scientists made sure that science was accessible to as many of their peers as possible. By the late 1700s and 1800s, translation services were broadly available, so naturalists such as Georges Cuvier could write in his native French, and Charles Darwin in his native English. Today, English has become the de facto language for science, so most scientists publish in English regardless of their native tongue. So why continue to use Latin and Greek names today? Taxonomists do it partly out of tradition, but partly because the terminology is still useful. Even without seeing a photo of the animal, a biologist might work out that Geomys bursarius – 'earth-mouse with a pouch' – was a pocket gopher. Or that Reithrodontomys fulvescens – 'groove-toothed mouse that is yellow' – is a yellow mouse with grooves on its incisors. Although taxonomists still largely adhere to the naming principles of Linnaeus, new scientific names are more and more frequently derived from non-European languages. For example, a chicken-size dinosaur discovered and named in China is called Yi qi, meaning 'strange wing' in Mandarin. Some of the more recent names are touched by whimsy, with a few honoring politicians and celebrities. Etheostoma obama is a spangled darter named after the 44th U.S. president; the Swift twisted-claw millipede – Nannaria swiftae – is named after pop star Taylor Swift. With so much of Earth's biodiversity yet to be discovered and named, remember that names are just names. What we call these species often reflects our own values and perspectives. In the future, another language – or no language at all – might rise to dominance. Artificial intelligence may act as a universal translator. This possibility would let everyone publish and read science in their own language. Predicting how technology will change our relationship with terminology is challenging, but the need for precise scientific language, including the names of species, will never go away. This article is republished from The Conversation, a nonprofit, independent news organization bringing you facts and trustworthy analysis to help you make sense of our complex world. It was written by: Nicholas Green, Kennesaw State University Read more: How many types of insects are there in the world? Thousands of undiscovered mammal species may be hidden in plain sight, new research finds Scientists discover five new species of black corals living thousands of feet below the ocean surface near the Great Barrier Reef Nicholas Green does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
Forbes
05-04-2025
- Health
- Forbes
When Oak Trees Go ‘Nuts,' This U.S. Disease Follows — A Biologist Explains Why
Oak trees produce acorns in abundance every few years in a process known as mast seeding. Two years ... More later, Lyme disease follows like clockwork. As hikers return to lush trails each summer, ready to take on the great outdoors, another presence awakens — one not nearly as welcome. Lyme disease, a stealthy illness transmitted by ticks, affects nearly half a million people in the U.S. every year. The symptoms often begin with a simple red rash, but if untreated, the disease can infiltrate joints, nerves and even the heart. Every few years, the disease seems to surge. And if you're looking in the right place, you would see it coming at least two years in advance. This unique connection offers a chilling look at how forest rhythms echo through ecosystems, all the way down to your bloodstream. The white-footed mouse, or Peromyscus leucopus, lies at the heart of the Lyme disease lifecycle. Together with ticks, these industrious rodents help spread a disease that affects hundreds of thousands every year. Ticks don't hatch carrying Lyme disease. Instead, newly emerged tick larvae, which are barely visible to the naked eye, seek a blood meal from these mice. The rodents act as reservoir hosts for Borrelia burgdorferi — the bacterium ultimately responsible for causing Lyme disease. The bacterium thrives in mice without making them sick, giving it ample time to be passed on to the next hungry tick. Once infected, the tick matures into its nymphal stage, where it becomes far more likely to latch onto humans. Nymphs are the most dangerous stage of the tick life cycle. They're about the size of a poppy seed, hard to spot and active during peak hiking and gardening season. Although adult ticks are larger, they're easier to detect and tend to bite larger animals like deer, which don't actually carry Borrelia. The mice, not the deer, are the real culprits. And since mice can reproduce rapidly — especially when food is abundant — they serve as a biological amplifier for the entire tick-borne disease cycle. So, no infected mice means few infected ticks — and without those ticks, the risk of Lyme disease plummets. But the number of mice in a forest doesn't just fluctuate at random. Their populations rise and fall in rhythm with larger ecological forces, shaped not by predators or pathogens, but by oak trees. Every few years, oak trees seem to go into overdrive. Branches bend with the weight of their seeds, and forest floors vanish beneath a carpet of acorns. This is a phenomenon known as mast seeding, and it unfolds with remarkable synchronicity across entire regions. Rather than producing a steady supply of acorns year after year, oak trees operate on boom-and-bust cycles, much like certain species of bamboo which flower every 48 to 50 years. In the case of oak, however, the cycle is much smaller and mast seeding tends to occur once every two to five years. In a mast year, nearly every tree in the area releases a glut of seeds at once, overwhelming squirrels, deer and other seed-eaters. Some of those acorns are inevitably left uneaten, giving the next generation of oaks a better shot at survival. Researchers are still piecing together exactly how trees coordinate this behavior. Weather cues like cool and wet climatic conditions seem to play a role, according to a June 2021 study published in Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B. But for white-footed mice, a mast year is a reproductive jackpot — and it's where the Lyme disease story begins to take a more alarming turn. When oaks unleash a bumper crop of nuts in the fall, white-footed mice respond with a population boom the following summer. After all, more food means better winter survival and more energy for reproduction. By summer, the stage is set. Larval black-legged ticks, newly hatched and free of infection, begin questing for their first blood meal. The now-abundant mice serve as the perfect hosts, both for nourishment and disease transmission. As the mice go about their business, they unknowingly pass on Borrelia burgdorferi, the bacterium behind Lyme disease. Fast forward another year. The larvae that fed on those infected mice have molted into nymphs — tiny, stealthy and now potentially infectious. It's these nymphs, active in summer and easy to overlook, that pose the highest risk to humans. This cycle is so apparent, that the growing population of infected ticks can be predicted from the production of acorn 1.75 years before, according to a February 2001 study published in Vector-Borne and Zoonotic Diseases. It's a timeline that connects trees to ticks through the quiet influence of mice — an ecological chain reaction that plays out over seasons, not seconds. The cascading effect brought on by acorns shows us the true scale of nature's operations and where we fit in. How do you feel about the delicate relationship we share with nature? Find out where you stand on the Connectedness to Nature Scale.
