So tell me: Of all the males on our planet—and I’m talking all, scale be damned, from the littlest insects to the biggest of whales—who’s got the most impressive appendage? Who (you should pardon the expression) is our Biggest Daddy?
And I don’t mean just sex organs, impressive as they sometimes are. I’m talking about any outstanding male appendage—whatever guys have that thrills the ladies, the obvious non-penile example being the peacock tail, which as we all know when fully displayed makes peahens dream of George Clooney.
Impressive? Yes. The problem being that between trysts, a superheavy tail must be a drag to lug around. It costs energy to maintain and more energy to get up and unfurled. But the drive to reproduce is a powerful thing, and sexual selection, as Darwin taught us, just keeps pushing the limits of bigness.
Obviously, there is such a thing as too big. I imagine it gets awkward to be a walrus with tusks curling dangerously close to your chest.
And the weight of these things? Not the absolute weight, but the proportional weight—that’s another limitation. How much can a guy carry? According to Douglas Emlen in his wonderful book Animal Weapons: The Evolution of Battle, while the rack of bone that sits atop a male caribou is hugely impressive (those antlers can weigh 20 pounds and stretch five feet across) …
… as big as they are, they account for only 8 percent of the male’s total body weight. Moose and elk have even larger antlers, but even the biggest elk antlers equal only 12 percent of its body weight. So that’s doable. Once upon a time, 11,000 years ago, there was a deer (called Megaloceros giganteus, or the Irish elk) that wandered Europe and Asia, and those guys had boney tops so insanely branched, so crazily big, that our prehistoric humans painted them worshipfully onto the cave walls at Lascaux.
But even these antlers, 12 feet across and wildly branched, weighed less than 20 percent of the total animal.
Go Small to Get Big
You have to drop down to the insect family, to a group of horned beetles, to find a big appendage that approaches a third of the animal’s body weight. There are several beetles that have fighting, clamping horns almost the size of their bodies, and a thing like that growing out of your skull, writes Emlen, “is a little like having your leg sticking up out of your forehead.” You feel it.
But if you’re looking for the male who wears the crown, whose appendage is so big, so startling, so colorful, so attractive, so monstrous, and therefore unequaled in the animal kingdom—if you’re looking for the champ? Well …
He’s not in the African savannah. He doesn’t have a tusk. He’s not especially large. You have to look down to see him, down near your feet when you’re at the beach. This is him:
He’s a fiddler crab. And that appendage is his claw. And while sizes vary from crab to crab, the biggest fiddler crab claws weigh roughly half the body weight of the animal. Half! That’s nature’s biggest appendage, says Emlen. And what is it for? Not for feeding. The claw is useless at mealtime. Males eat with their other, smaller claw only. But, says Cornell biologist John Christy, the claw’s bright colors definitely attract female attention. It can also snap down and inflict real harm, so they’re potential weapons. But mostly, he discovered, males use them—I kid you not—to wave.
“Up and down, up and down, again and again,” writes Emlen, “they raise their claws high and drop them. Dozens of times each minute, thousands of times per hour, hour after hour … ” They look a little silly doing this, like a lonely fan trying to start a stadium wave. Check out this fellow:
Why are they waving? It’s a warning. “Look what I’ve got!” the male is saying to any male who would trespass into his burrow. “This thing is going to pound you if you come near, so stay away!” In effect, Emlen writes, “fiddlers are employing their claws as warnings rather than instruments of battle.” And it works. “An overwhelming majority of contests end before they ever begin, without anything even resembling a fight. A mere glance at a big claw is sufficient to deter smaller males.”
The male has built a tunnel, which leads to a nesting burrow. His claw has attracted a lady, and she’s down below raising his family. His job is to stay on top, waving till she’s done or he drops. It’s a tough life, lifting that gigantic appendage over and over, using up energy, constantly getting bothered by would-be challengers. The male can’t eat. Not while he’s guarding. His food is at the water’s edge, which is down lower on the beach. So he stands there, day after day, getting hungrier, until eventually, Emlen says, “Even the best males run out of steam and are forced to abandon their burrows to go feed and refuel. The instant they leave, others will claim their burrows.” And then they become challengers and have to start all over again.
So while it may be glamorous to top the list of Biggest Appendage Ever, what with the lifting, the waving, the straining, the not eating, the worrying about how long you’ll last, it might be better to have a medium-size claw and not have to be always worrying about the biggest bullies at the beach. Yes, the big claw does dramatically increase your chances of producing babies, which, as Darwin will tell you, is the whole point. But if I were a fiddler crab lucky enough to have the biggest appendage in the world, I think I’d get myself a nail file (claw file?), erase my genetic advantage, and spend lazy afternoons sipping pond scum by the ocean’s edge. I like a gentler life.
Douglas J. Emlen’s book, Animal Weapons: The Evolution of Battle, is a fascinating account of how animal weaponry, both offensive (claws, horns, teeth) and defensive (armor, shelter, thorns, claws again) parallel human weaponry, both offensive (arrows, lances, swords, missiles, A-bombs) and defensive (armor, castles, spying). It’s a compelling, fun, often scary analysis. And David Tuss’ drawings, especially his animals, made me jealous.