Now this is the story of the Thylacine, whom men called the Tasmanian Tiger, and whom the children of the bush feared and the settlers hunted, until he was no more. But he did not vanish in one season, oh no! The story is older than men with guns and traps—it is written in the very letters of his blood.
Long before the last of his kind paced in a lonely cage in Hobart Zoo, the Thylacine’s fate had begun to whisper itself. For he had lost certain precious things, not teeth nor stripes, but secrets buried in his flesh—the little watchmen we call genes.
There was a guardian called SAMD9L, who kept the prowling viruses at bay. And there was a helper named HSD17B13, who minded the liver. Another, CUZD1, watched over the milk of mothers. And last, VWA7, a quiet sentinel against sickness. One by one, they broke, like watchmen sleeping at their posts.
At the same time, the Thylacine grew leaner, keener, more wolfish. He became a hunter of hunters—a hypercarnivore—living on meat alone, and scornful of roots and grubs. His body grew taller, his muzzle longer, his eyes sharper. He did not need the nose of the Devil (the Tasmanian Devil, mind you), for he hunted by sight and sound. And in that pride and sharpening, he lost the old gifts of smell, the olfactory keys that open hidden doors in the night.
But remember, Dear Reader, evolution is a bargain. What is given in one hand may be taken away in the other. Those lost genes made the Thylacine swift and fierce once upon a Miocene age, but they also left him brittle when the world changed again. Disease found a crack in his armour. Men pressed upon him with dogs, guns, and bounties. His numbers dwindled, his milk soured, his body sickened. And so the long story, which began in the age of ancient marsupials, ended in the year 1936 with a single, shivering beast behind bars.
Now the wise men of today, who read the book of genomes as if it were scripture, tell us this: that the losses of old are not dead letters. They shape the living and the dying. They make a species strong in one moment, and weak in another. If we would guard the animals that remain—the tiger, the parrot, the whale, and the rest—we must not only count their numbers, but also listen to the whispers of their vanished genes.
So that is the story of How the Thylacine Lost Its Genes, and in losing them, lost itself. And the moral, Best Beloved? That the past is never past. It lies curled up in the code of life, waiting for the day when the world will call upon it again.
More like one of Kipling’s actual “Just So Stories”
(with refrains, sing-song cadences, and “O Best Beloved” style repetitions)
Now this is the story, O Best Beloved, of the Thylacine—who was striped like a tiger, built like a wolf, and carried his babies in a pouch like a kangaroo. He lived in Australia once-upon-a-time, and then only in Tasmania, and now not at all. But his tale did not begin with hunters’ guns or settlers’ snares. Oh no! It began long, long ago, when the world was hotter and wetter, and the Thylacine’s great-great-great-grandfathers prowled among the gum-trees.
You must know and understand, O Best Beloved, that every creature carries little letters in its blood, called genes, which whisper to bones and bellies and brains: “Do this! Grow that! Defend yourself thus!” And the Thylacine once had many such whisperers. But little by little, some voices went silent.
There was SAMD9L, who said: “Beware the viruses!”
There was HSD17B13, who said: “Keep the liver strong!”
There was CUZD1, who said: “Let the mothers’ milk flow!”
And there was VWA7, who said: “Stand guard against sickness!”
But the Thylacine forgot them, O Best Beloved. One by one, those voices grew faint and faded, until they were gone.
And why? Because the Thylacine grew proud. He said: “I shall eat only meat, and more meat, and nothing but meat!” He became a hypercarnivore, which means he scorned roots and berries and worms, and thought only of chasing flesh. His eyes grew sharper, his legs longer, his hunting keen. He did not need to sniff and snuffle like the Tasmanian Devil, so his nose grew duller, and the smelling-genes fell asleep.
It was clever, O Best Beloved. Clever then, in the long ago. But the world turns, and what is clever one day is costly the next. When men came with dogs and guns and bounties, the Thylacine had no spare strength. When strange sickness came prowling, the watchmen-genes were gone. When mothers suckled their young, the milk was not enough.
And so it happened, little by little, year by year, until the last Thylacine shivered in a Hobart cage in the year 1936, while the whisperers of his blood lay broken and silent.
Now the wise men of today, who read the Book of Genes as though it were scripture, say: “Take heed! For what was lost long ago may return to haunt the living. The thylacine’s story is a warning: count not only numbers of animals, but also the silent voices in their blood.”
And that, O Best Beloved, is the story of How the Thylacine Lost Its Genes.
But remember this: what the thylacine forgot, we must remember. For the past is never truly past—it curls and coils in the code of life, waiting, waiting, waiting…
No comments:
Post a Comment