The Little Dinosaur that Could

or

Diney the Amazing Dinosaur

One of the important gems of knowledge bestowed upon mankind by evolutionary theory is that birds evolved from dinosaurs. You have no doubt seen the artists’ renditions which represent, we are assured, what must have actually happened: the fish gingerly climbs from the water onto dry land, slowly morphs into a lizard of sorts, the father of the dinosaurs, and eventually flutters off into the trees, its breathtaking transformation into a bird complete.

Hoping to add a bit more substance to the transformation, evolutionary theorists have posited that the evolution of the dinosaur into the bird must have come about in one of two ways: from the “trees down,” or from the “ground up.” The trees down theory essentially hypothesizes that a small dinosaur learned to climb trees, learned to jump from branch to branch, developed the ability to glide to more distant branches or even nearby trees, and then one magical spring day, while jumping with all her might, the tiny dinosaur was lofted into the air, never again to be satisfied with the evolutionary status quo of her less developed siblings.

I will no doubt be accused of over-simplifying what must have been a long and painful process. Certainly not all of this could have happened to our tiny dinosaur friend, but would have taken countless generations to achieve. Time heals all wounds, after all, and time is also the redeeming salve applied to all ailing evolutionary stories. Improbability plus time equals certainty, we are told.

Stephen Jay Gould’s musings notwithstanding, there has recently emerged convincing evidence that the evolution of the bird from the dinosaur in fact occurred from the ground up. I am unable to point you to the exact source of this evidence, but please rest assured that there is, to borrow a phrase from my evolution-minded friends, “overwhelming evidence” that this is the case. This is how it happened.

Once upon a time, there was a little dinosaur named Diney who lived with his father, mother, and several siblings. Diney’s life was by all accounts a happy and carefree life. He played with his brothers and sisters by day, and in the evening dined on the wonderful plants surrounding his home (which fortunately had already evolved and become well established on the land before Diney’s great-granduncle, the fish, took those first tentative flaps out of the water).

And yet, not all was bliss. Diney, it turns out, was small for his age, and also had been born with a minor, though noticeable, deformation: a small fold of skin on his arm that fluttered about when he got excited and flapped his arms. These two characteristics had occasioned no small consternation for the little fellow, as he was regularly teased by the other school children about his diminutive stature and the fluttering fold of skin that the other children rudely called his “flappers.” The day would soon come, however, when, much like his distant relative Rudolph of later years, Diney’s unfortunate physical characteristics would literally save the day.

One year, Diney’s community was struck with a terrible drought. They were used to occasional droughts, but this drought, the Great Drought, was different. Not only was there a temporary reduction in the amount of food available, but the whole landscape began to change, with trees, shrubbery, and other edible plants beginning to die out. They thought of moving to more lush climes, but unfortunately the majestic mountains on one side and the open sea on the other prevented any possibility of migration to a more hospitable locale.

As the Great Drought dragged slowly on, the dinosaurs, once cooperative and friendly, began to compete with each other fiercely, parent against child, sibling against sibling, for the few remaining morsels. The Great Drought became so pronounced that plant-eating dinosaurs like Diney began foraging for grubs and chasing small bugs. At first it looked like this would be the end for Diney. He had difficulty fending for himself against his stronger siblings, and was certainly not big enough to compete with the tall dinosaurs for the last few leaves still fluttering on the highest branches of the tallest trees.

Eventually even the last few leaves and grubs were exhausted, and the only thing left for the dinosaurs to do was to chase after flying insects (which had somehow escaped the effects of the Great Drought and still abounded in numbers). And this is where Diney’s otherwise unfortunate physical characteristics became his salvation.

Although he could not run after the insects as fast as some of the larger dinosaurs, Diney was overjoyed to discover that by running as fast as he could and by moving his arms in rapid succession, his flappers provided him with a slight advantage in jumping. This allowed Diney to catch insects that flew just out of reach of his siblings’ starving mouths. As the Great Drought progressed, it was this modest advantage – almost imperceptible at first, but nevertheless real – that led to Diney’s survival, while his siblings were doomed to destruction. It was in this tiny advantage, this half-inch or so of additional jumping capability, that the ever-powerful and omnipresent law of natural selection took hold in Diney’s life and worked its magic.

Later, when the drought subsided and the rains returned, Diney found to his dismay that his parents and most of his siblings had perished, together with much of the community. Surprisingly, however, there were a few dinosaurs left, and in time Diney fell in love and raised a large family of his own. Most of Diney’s children were just like his former siblings, but he did have one daughter and one son who had a small fold of skin on their arms that Diney affectionately called their “flappers.” Later, Diney’s youngest son was born with flappers that were, almost imperceptibly, but quite definitely larger than those of his siblings or of Diney. Diney smiled, remembering how kind his flappers had been to him during the Great Drought.

Although he could not have imagined it at the time, this slight advantage would at a future date prove the deciding factor in the survival of his youngest son over his less fortunate siblings. Over generations, and after many more devastating droughts, Diney’s descendants would eventually do more than just jump a few inches after insects or glide a few feet above the ground – they would literally take to the skies. And then, just as Diney remembered the stories of his great-granduncle taking those first tentative flaps out of the water, future generations of birds would with fondness pass on the stories of their ancestor, the little dinosaur with the flappers who took those first tentative flaps off the ground.

Eric Anderson

September 5, 2003