Why Pooping Can Be a Life-Threatening Experience for a Sloth

iStock/Damocean
iStock/Damocean

Being a sloth isn’t all lazing around in trees and munching on leaves. Occasionally, the slow-moving animals have to make their way to the forest floor to do the one task no animal can escape: pooping. It’s a much more intense process than heading to the bathroom is for humans. And for a startling number of sloths, it turns deadly.

The sloth metabolism, like everything else about these odd rainforest animals, works very slowly. It can take them up to a month to digest a meal. Their extra-slow digestion means they might only take a dump once a week, if not once a month. The poor creatures are always incredibly constipated.

So when they do poop, the result is enormous. A single bowel movement could be up to a third of the sloth’s body weight—a measurement that’s 282 percent of what scientists would expect to see in an animal of that size, according to one sloth-poop analysis from 1995.

The particular bathroom routine depends on the type of sloth, though. Two-toed sloths are often fine with letting it rip from the forest canopy (woe to any animals that might be hanging out below), while three-toed sloths determinedly make their way to the ground to do their business. Once they get down to the forest floor, they dig a hole, take a poop, then cover it up with leaves and make their way back up to the canopy.

That’s where the danger comes in. Pooping on the ground is one of the most risky things a sloth can do in life. By one estimate, up to half of sloth deaths can be linked to these rare bathroom trips. Sloths can barely walk, thanks to their long claws and limbs that are designed to hang from trees; they don't support their weight on the ground very well. (They have significantly less muscle mass than other mammals.) Instead, they crawl, dragging themselves forward with their forelimbs. That makes them laughably easy targets for predators.

Scientists aren’t entirely sure why three-toed sloths take this huge risk to poop. One study has suggested it could be related to the symbiotic relationship the animals have with the critters that live in their hair, which include a specific type of potentially nutritious algae that may benefit from the journey to the ground. That hypothesis is fairly controversial among sloth experts, though, because it’s not clear that the sloths actually eat this algae, or that it makes any kind of real impact on their diet.

For now, sloths’ dangerous bathroom habits remain mostly a mystery.

This Stylish Cardboard Box Is Designed to Be Your Cat’s New Favorite Hideout

Scott Salzman
Scott Salzman

You can buy your cat a fancy bed or perch, but when it comes right down to it, your feline friend is probably going to be more eager to curl up in the cardboard box that it arrived in. So why not just cut out the part where you spend time and money picking out something your cat couldn’t care less about? Just get a really nice box. That’s the premise behind the Purrfect Cat Box, a cardboard box specifically tailored to cats’ needs.

While every cat is finicky in his or her own way, almost all cats love a good cardboard box. (Seriously, it’s science.) Squeezing into a cozy box makes cats feel protected, and, since cats like warmer temperatures, the insulating cardboard also helps keep them at their preferred level of toasty.

Designed by Colorado-based inventor Scott Salzman, the Purrfect Cat Box is made to be just the right size for ultimate kitty comfort. At about the size of a shoebox, it’s big enough for most cats to squeeze into without being cramped—though Salzman doesn’t specify whether it will work for big breeds like Maine Coons—but small enough that they still feel protected inside. It has a small cutout in the front to allow your cat to peek his head outside the box, and, most importantly, to get in a really good chin scratch.

While we humans might find cardboard cars or cardboard Taj Mahal replicas adorable, most cats just want a plain box that makes them feel safe and comfortable. The geometric-patterned Purrfect Cat Box walks the line between utilitarian and chic, making the empty cardboard box in your living room a little bit less of an eyesore.

Plus, it’s cardboard-priced. At $6 a box, it's about what you'd pay to have a regular cardboard box full of anything from Amazon delivered to your door, but it’s still inexpensive enough that if your cat destroys it, it’s easy enough to throw in the recycle bin and get a new one.

Get it on Indiegogo.

Signalman Jack: The Baboon Who Worked for the Railroad—and Never Made a Mistake

Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

One day in the 1880s, a peg-legged railway signalman named James Edwin Wide was visiting a buzzing South African market when he witnessed something surreal: A chacma baboon driving an oxcart. Impressed by the primate’s skills, Wide bought him, named him Jack, and made him his pet and personal assistant.

Wide needed the help. Years earlier, he had lost both his legs in a work accident, which made his half-mile commute to the train station extremely difficult for him. So the first thing he trained the primate to do was push him to and from work in a small trolley. Soon, Jack was also helping with household chores, sweeping floors and taking out the trash.

But the signal box is where Jack truly shined. As trains approached the rail switches at the Uitenhage train station, they’d toot their whistle a specific number of times to alert the signalman which tracks to change. By watching his owner, Jack picked up the pattern and started tugging on the levers himself.

Soon, Wide was able to kick back and relax as his furry helper did all of the work switching the rails. According to The Railway Signal, Wide “trained the baboon to such perfection that he was able to sit in his cabin stuffing birds, etc., while the animal, which was chained up outside, pulled all the levers and points.”

As the story goes, one day a posh train passenger staring out the window saw that a baboon, and not a human, was manning the gears and complained to railway authorities. Rather than fire Wide, the railway managers decided to resolve the complaint by testing the baboon’s abilities. They came away astounded.

“Jack knows the signal whistle as well as I do, also every one of the levers,” wrote railway superintendent George B. Howe, who visited the baboon sometime around 1890. “It was very touching to see his fondness for his master. As I drew near they were both sitting on the trolley. The baboon’s arms round his master’s neck, the other stroking Wide’s face.”

Jack was reportedly given an official employment number, and was paid 20 cents a day and half a bottle of beer weekly. Jack passed away in 1890, after developing tuberculosis. He worked the rails for nine years without ever making a mistake—evidence that perfectionism may be more than just a human condition.

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