15 Fascinating Facts About Daddy Longlegs


Being a curious person can be a double-edged sword. On one hand, you learn so much! On the other, you sometimes find yourself looking up arachnids right before bedtime, as I did earlier this month. When my search turned up some really interesting information on daddy longlegs, I had to know more—so I called Ron Clouse, who has been studying the DNA and lineages of these often misunderstood arachnids for a decade. "I do everything from going into the field and collecting them to analyzing the data and doing the papers and all the lab tests in between," he says. Here are a few fascinating facts he told us about daddy longlegs—which I now find pretty cool.


Yes, they’re arachnids, but they’re actually more closely related to scorpions than they are to spiders. They don’t produce silk, have just one pair of eyes, and have a fused body (unlike spiders, which have a narrow “waist” between their front and rear).


That thing you heard at summer camp about daddy longlegs being the most poisonous creature in the world, but with fangs too weak to bite you? Not true. They don't even have fangs, and they can't make venom, either. According to Clouse, the rumor might have gotten started during “the retelling by an American tabloid of a study in Australia on the venom of a daddy longlegs there; the problem is that in Australia, ‘daddy longlegs’ refers to a type of spider,” also known as the cellar spider. And, if that's not confusing enough, there's another creature that sometimes goes by the name daddy longlegs: The crane fly.


“We know from a very well preserved fossil of a daddy longlegs from Scotland that they are at least 400 million years old,” Clouse says. “This fossil actually looks a lot like the long-legged species we see today. It is believed daddy longlegs split off from scorpions, which were becoming terrestrial about 435 million years ago. To put this in perspective, this is about 200 million years before dinosaurs appeared, which were only around for about 165 million years.”


In North America, the reason for at least part of their name is pretty obvious—the species we see most frequently have very long, thin legs. But there are different names for them around the world. “In other regions, their common names reflect different attributes found in the species common to those areas," Clouse says. "So, the large, short-legged forms in South America are often referred to by their pungent odors. In Europe, terms like ‘harvestmen’ and ‘shepherd spiders’—and even their scientific name, Opiliones—refer to them as being associated with good pasture, harvest season, or perhaps even their resemblance to shepherds on stilts or the shape of a scythe.”


These arachnids can be found on every continent but Antarctica. “They’re usually found in humid areas, such as under rocks, in leaf litter, and inside caves,” Clouse says. “They are most diverse in tropical areas, where the moist climate and thick foliage allow them to live in lots of places. Different regions of the world have their own particular daddy longlegs, and some of the most common ones are small and out of sight in the leaf litter on the forest floor. Even here in the U.S. we have some tiny ones in the leaf litter that the average person never sees.”


Gonyleptes fragilis, from the Atlantic rainforest in Brazil. Photo by Ron Clouse.

There might be as many as 10,000 species of daddy longlegs, with 6000 to 7000 currently described. “We’re describing new ones all the time,” Clouse says. “They are generally very, very bad at getting around, so they tend to have lots of species, because the minute a river flows between two different populations or a mountain rises and cuts one population off from another population, they split into two new species.” For example, the closest relatives to the arachnids he’s studying in South Carolina live in West Africa, which were all one species before the continents split and the Atlantic Ocean sprang up between them.

Because of this tendency to split off into new species, daddy longlegs can look very different depending on where they live, and each species will have a very small range: “One mountain top will have one species, another mountain top will have another species,” Clouse says. Where I grew up in Pennsylvania, they have tiny pod-like bodies and long legs. The type that Clouse studies, called cyphos, are tiny and have short, thick legs. In Laos, a species with a legspan of 13 inches was discovered in 2012, while those in the family Gonyleptidae, which live in South America, have spines and vibrant colors. “They have so many strange aspects, it's difficult to think of a type that isn't interesting,” Clouse says.


You’ve all seen the Vine, where a guy pokes what appears to be a huge tangle of hair and—surprise!—a bunch of daddy longlegs spring forth and run at the camera. (And if you haven't seen it, it's embedded above.) This clumping is pretty typical daddy longleg behavior, Clouse says, and though scientists don’t know for sure why they do this, they do have some ideas. “Perhaps they do this when conditions become dry and they need to maintain high humidity,” he says. “Perhaps they are ‘herding’ to lower their individual chances of being eaten. Or perhaps they are trying to bolster their chemical defenses.”


Pachyloidellus goliath, native to Argentina. Photo by JovenGandalf via Wikimedia Commons.

You would think that creatures with legs like these arachnids have would move around quite a bit, but that’s not the case. DNA sequencing populations of long-legged species near the coast of Brazil revealed that “they do not get around at all. They don’t go anywhere,” Clouse says. “Their day is something like this: They’re in a crevice until about 7 o’clock, when they come walking out and they sit on a leaf all night long. And then when the sun starts to come up, they’ll walk back to the crevice. Those long legs are apparently all for male-male competition, or showing off to females, because they don’t use them.”

As for why they don’t travel much, Clouse says that “it’s some kind of fundamental trait they have about their need for humidity, their own behavior in terms of feeding and mating. Of course, after 40 million years, you’d expect someone to evolve the ability to just get up and get around. But they really don’t.”


Birds, frogs, and lizards frequently make meals of daddy longlegs. The arachnids have a few strategies for not becoming lunch, including the aggregation mentioned above. “Their most obvious feature to avoid predation is to produce chemical excretions from glands on their bodies, which have been observed to repulse predators,” Clouse says. “Daddy longlegs are usually extremely well camouflaged. During the day many of them hide in crevasses, and when disturbed they usually curl up and remain motionless for several minutes.” Yes, they play dead—which works extraordinarily well for a couple of reasons. “First of all, if you’re living in a leaf litter with dirt and debris and little pieces of deadwood, they’re exactly the right color brown—they truly just disappear,” Clouse says. “For a lot of predators, if something stops moving, they can’t see it anymore. It just disappears for them. When these guys stop moving, they’re gone.” You can see a video that Clouse made of a cyphos playing dead here.


Many species do something called leg threading: “They slide one leg at a time through the little pincers by their mouths,” Clouse says. “Other species may groom themselves in other ways, but in general this behavior is very important to keep parasites off the body. You can see small red mites on many of them in places that they can’t reach.” You can see a male Opilio canestrinii leg threading in the photo series above.


The bigger species, like the kind Clouse studied in Brazil, tend to live for less than two years, but the tiny species he’s currently studying can probably live for up to seven years. “You can’t really tell by body size how long they’re going to live,” Clouse says. “But unlike a lot of insects, many can survive several seasonal cycles as an adult. The most ephemeral ones are probably the long-legged ones we see in the U.S., which, after a few months as a juvenile, often live only a few more months as an adult.”


If you were one of those kids who plucked off one of these creatures' legs, prepare to feel a little guilty: Those things do not grow back. “We see injured ones—they’ll have an article cut off on the end. They probably got bitten by something,” Clouse says. “But in general, when something with an exoskeleton gets injured, they can’t do very much until the next molt happens.” And daddy longlegs, once they’re fully grown, don’t molt anymore. “I presume that if an immature daddy longlegs, what we call a nymph, lost a leg or had an injury, it could very well get repaired,” Clouse says. “When it molts again, it would be deformed, but there would be at least another leg starting or developing there. You’ll often see the big, long legged ones with six legs or seven legs. They can’t regenerate like a starfish.” That’s bad news for species that voluntarily shed legs to get away from predators or in species where males fight and attempt to break off their opponents' hind legs with their large spines.


“In the field, where these big ones are, the frustration of my colleagues is that they always seem to come upon them already eating something!” Clouse says. “It’s hard to tell if they caught it or if they just ran across it. Here’s the bottom line: They don’t have fangs, they don’t have big strong pincers. Some of the little ones do seem to have muscular pincers, which allows them to grab and crush some little tiny, tiny bugs in the leaf litter. But except for a few families of them, most of them just don’t seem to be equipped to do much hunting. So we assume they just nibble on pieces of carcass, leftovers, and detritus. Not a very exciting diet.”


Certain species—like the cyphos that Clouse studies—are so small and hard to spot that no one really knows about their mating rituals or how many eggs they lay. “All we do know about those little seed-like ones is that, in many cases, the males have special glands that the females don’t have,” he says. “It seems like they make some kind of chemical that they spread around to attract females.” 

Here's what we do know about how cyphos does it: “The male creates a packet of sperm and he extrudes and he gives this spherical package to the female,” Clouse says. What happens next, though, isn’t clear. “She probably opens the package up and takes the sperm inside; it’s kept alive [until] the sperm goes into her reproductive tract somewhere, where it meets the eggs and fertilizes.” Then, the female uses a telescoped ovipositor longer than her body to lay the eggs deep in the dirt.

Neosadocus maximus mating. Photo by Ron Clouse.

The mating rituals of bigger species are much easier to observe, and Clouse has gotten an eyeful. “I’ve seen some big ones in Brazil mating and it’s pretty elaborate,” he says. "There’s a lot of him going up to her and touching her and her kind of making a lot of decisions about what’s going on here." Most daddy longlegs species "mate with the male depositing sperm inside the female," Clouse says. "What she does with it and how all their parts interact is still not entirely clear." Once, Clouse and his fellow scientists observed a big female in Brazil that had just laid 30 slime-encased eggs on a leaf. "She produces a concentrated substance, which, when it hits the moist air, expands and makes this really nice jelly," he says. "It probably keeps fungus and stuff off."


“In [some] species, males have much longer legs than females,” Clouse says, “and in others males have glands or protuberances not found in females. What these are used for is not known.” But some species have two types of males, Clouse says, “ones which are very distinct from females, and others which are very similar to females. Presumably the latter ones can sneak close to females and obtain matings without engaging in brutal competition with other males.”

It’s not as weird as it sounds; Clouse says it happens in a number of animals where there’s a lot of competition between males that is driven by female choice. In fish, for example, these males will “have the coloration of a female, the size of a female, but they’re not female,” Clouse says. “They sneak by all the other males. They get right by them all, right next to the females and next thing you know, she’s releasing eggs, he’s releasing sperm and the deed is done.”

In daddy longlegs, regular males are called alpha males, while the males that look like females are called beta males. In all systems with alpha and beta males, there are never that many beta males in the population at any one time. “You can never have more than a certain proportion of these sneaky males,” Clouse says. “If they get to be too frequent, then they’re bumping into each other and the alpha males have an advantage. Females still like big strong males, and so these sneaky males tend to remain a certain percentage of the population over stretches of time. And if a female has the gene to produce lots of sneaky males, she has an advantage when there aren’t a lot of sneaky males. And if more are around, the trait to make sneaky males becomes less frequent in the population. It fluctuates back and forth around a certain percentage.”

Regardless of whether a male is an alpha or a beta, it will still have the same objective, Clouse says: “They seem to have all the urges. They want to mate with females, they just don’t look male.”

iStock // Heinrich Hoffmann/Keystone Features/Getty Images // collage by Jen Pinkowski
When German Scientists Tried to Rename Bats and Shrews, Hitler Threatened to Send Them to War
iStock // Heinrich Hoffmann/Keystone Features/Getty Images // collage by Jen Pinkowski
iStock // Heinrich Hoffmann/Keystone Features/Getty Images // collage by Jen Pinkowski

In The Art of Naming (The MIT Press), Michael Ohl, a biologist at the Natural History Museum of Berlin, delves into the art, science, language, and history of taxonomy. There are some 1.8 million known species—and scientists estimate that 100 million more await discovery. Every one will need a name. How does the process work? 

Ohl takes us into the field with the explorers and scientists at the forefront of naming the natural world, including Father Armand David, a French priest who was the first to describe the panda to the Western world; American paleontologists Edward Dinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marsh, who bitterly battled in the Bone Wars; and Polish biologist Benedykt Dybowski, whose unique naming system for crustaceans called gammarids (a.k.a. "scuds") resulted in tongue-twisters such as Cancelloidokytodermogammarus (Loveninsuskytodermogammarus) loveni.

In the excerpt below, Ohl tells the story of one of the little-known footnotes to World War II: When Adolf Hitler threatened the German biologists who wanted to rename bats and shrews. And, read on for the best bat nickname of all time: "bacon mouse."

—Jen Pinkowski


On March 3, 1942, a brief item with a rather peculiar headline appeared tucked away in the Berliner Morgenpost newspaper. "Fledermaus No Longer!" the bold letters proclaimed. The following short text was printed underneath:

"At its 15th General Assembly, the German Society for Mammalogy passed a resolution to change the zoologically misleading names 'Spitzmaus' [shrew] and 'Fledermaus' [bat] to 'Spitzer' and 'Fleder.' Fleder is an old form for Flatterer [one that flutters]. The Spitzmaus, as it happens, has borne a variety of names: Spitzer [one that is pointed], Spitzlein, Spitzwicht, Spitzling. Over the course of the conference, several important lectures were held in the auditorium of the Zoologisches Museum […]."

To this day, despite the problems announced by Germany's leading specialists on mammals on the pages of one of the capital's daily papers, fledermaus and spitzmaus remain the common German names for bats and shrews. Neither dictionaries nor specialized nature guides contain entries for fleder or spitzer (provided one disregards the primary definition of spitzer, which is a "small implement used for the sharpening of pencils").

Indeed, a swift response to the item in question arrived from an unexpected source. Martin Bormann, Adolf Hitler's private secretary, sent a message on March 4, 1942, to Hans Heinrich Lammers, head of the Reich Chancellery. The missive contained remarkably unambiguous instructions from Hitler:

"In yesterday's newspapers, the Führer read an item regarding the changes of name ratified by the German Society for Mammalogy on the occasion of its 15th General Assembly. The Führer subsequently instructed me to communicate to the responsible parties, in no uncertain terms, that these changes of name are to be reversed immediately. Should members of the Society for Mammalogy have nothing more essential to the war effort or smarter to do, perhaps an extended stint in the construction battalion on the Russian front could be arranged. Should such asinine renamings occur once more, the Führer will unquestionably take appropriate measures; under no circumstance should terms that have become established over the course of many years be altered in this fashion."

There's no question that the "responsible parties" understood and responded to the injunction, which could hardly have been misinterpreted. On July 1, 1942, at least, a notice was printed in the Zoologischer Anzeiger—at that time, the "organ of the German Zoological Society"—that comprised a scant five lines. The notice has no byline and can most likely be attributed to the journal's publishers:

"Regarding the discussion [in earlier issues of the Zoologischer Anzeiger] about potential changes to the names 'Fledermaus' and 'Spitzmaus,' the Editors wish to make public that terms that have become established over the course of many years are not to be altered, following an announcement by the Reich Minister of Science, Education, and National Culture, as per the Führer's directive."

It's conceivable that Lammers forwarded Hitler's instructions (which had reached him by way of Bormann) to Bernhard Rust, the Reich Minister of Science, Education, and National Culture. Rust will then likely have ordered one of the "parties responsible" for the unpopular initiative to publish the retraction in the appropriate platform. The Zoologischer Anzeiger fit the bill, considering the fact that by 1941 it had already featured two articles debating whether the name spitzmaus should be changed.

What is the problem, though, that veteran scientists have with spitzmaus and fledermaus, those innocuous terms for the shrew and the bat? And how could it come to pass that Adolf Hitler—preoccupied as he was in 1942— should personally join in the campaign for the correct classification of these small mammals?


The common thread in these two unremarkable and familiar terms is of course the second word component, maus, or "mouse."

Fledermaus and spitzmaus … are (linguistically) first and foremost mice. By referencing certain characteristics in these compound words (fleder comes from flattern, "to flap"; spitz, or "point," refers to the shrew's pointy nose or rather head shape), it becomes possible to provide a clear name—or almost clear, at least, because there are many bat and shrew species, but more on that later.

Both names, of course, imply affiliation with mice, and that's the sticking point. In zoological terms, mice are a group of rodents known at the higher level of classification as Muroidea, "muroids" or the "mouse-like." The group includes quite the mix of animal groups, with occasionally curious names like zokor, blind mole-rat, spiny tree mouse, and Chinese pygmy dormouse, not to mention our pet hamsters and those domestic but unwelcome mice and rats. Common to all muroids are sundry and complex structural features in the skull, coupled of course with the oversized, continually growing incisors typical of rodents. Beyond that, although endless evolutionary gimmickry can revolve around this mouse theme (long or short legs, different fur colors and tail lengths, and much more), and even without biological expertise, most muroids tend to be identifiable as mice, if only vaguely.

Zoologically speaking, a mere mouse-like appearance is insufficient to denote a muroid. Instead, the specific anatomical features of the skull must be in evidence.

Field, house, and deer mice are familiar to many North Americans, although they typically live hidden away, and we don't often encounter them. These animals with the "mouse" base in their name are truly mice in the zoological sense.

The same cannot exactly be said for the bat and shrew—the fledermaus and spitzmaus—despite their names. Neither of them is even a rodent or, consequently, a muroid. Then what are they?

In the classification of mammals, a whole series of groupings is traditionally distinguished, usually assigned the rank of order within the class of mammals. Depending on scientific opinion, there are 25 to 30 of these orders of mammals. Rodents comprise one of these orders, to which muroids and several other groups of mammals belong.

Bats, meanwhile, are typical representatives of the order of flying mammals. Their scientific name is Chiroptera, from the Greek words chiros (hand) and pteros (wings). Chiroptera, then, means "hand-flier," which is a fitting name for bats and their closest relatives, flying foxes.

The systematic placement of the shrew, or spitzmaus, is determined in much the same way. They, too, fail to possess the mouse characteristics in question, although they do share traits with moles and hedgehogs, as well as with the solenodon (meaning "slotted tooth"), which is a venomous critter native exclusively to the Caribbean islands. They are now situated under the wondrous designation Eulipotyphla, but only since 1999. How they are related—along with ties to an array of other mammal families, such as tenrecs, desmans, and golden moles—has not been conclusively explained.

Experts have known for a long time—since Linnaeus's Systema Naturae at the latest—that neither bats nor shrews are related to mice, to which common parlance pays no heed. The fledermaus and spitzmaus comfortably maintain their spots in the lexicon.


One of the first mammal biologists to campaign for the standardization of German mammal names was Hermann Pohle. Born in Berlin in 1892, Pohle remained faithful to the city until his death and spent a large part of his life working at the natural history museum there. His career as a mammal biologist started early, when as a university student he worked as an unpaid hireling in the museum's famed mammal collection. Through diligence, endurance, and scientific acumen, he worked his way up to head curator of mammals. He thus held one of the most influential positions, of both national and international significance, in the field of systematic mammal research.

In 1926, Pohle—along with Ludwig Heck, the former director of the Berlin Zoo, and a number of other colleagues—founded the German Society for Mammalogy, of which he was the first head. Pohle thus had his finger on the pulse of mammal research, as it were, and he followed the history of the society over the next five decades "with keen interest," as one biographer noted.

In addition to his work as a researcher and curator of the mammal collection at Berlin's Museum für Naturkunde (Museum of Natural History), Pohle's interests also lay with German mammal names. Not only did he push for standardization of names, Pohle also campaigned to have existing names assessed for scientific plausibility and changed, should they not pass (his) zoological muster.

In 1942, Pohle published a summary article addressing the question, "How many species of mammals live in Germany?" He appended a comprehensive list of all German mammals, each with its correct "technical name," as Pohle called it, as well as its corresponding German name. When it came to the various species of spitzmaus (of which the Germans have eight, incidentally, despite the long-standing impression that there is "the" one and only shrew) and the 16 species of bats that have the base word "fledermaus" in their name, Pohle consistently uses alternative terms. The eight shrew species thus became waldspitzer, zwergspitzer, alpenspitzer, wasserspitzer, mittelspitzer, feldspitzer, gartenspitzer, and hausspitzer. For the bats, the base of their compound name was changed to fleder: teichfleder, langfußfleder, wasserfleder, and so on, all the way to a term of particular elegance, wimperfleder.

Pohle's article, which predates the society's 15th General Assembly and Hitler's emotional veto by more than a year, is a particularly interesting source because he also shares his actual motivations for the suggested changes. His emphatic objective is to see "the term 'Maus' disappear, responsible as it is for laypersons' wont to lump the animals together with actual mice."

In the estimation of these laypersons, mice are something "ugly and destructive that must be fought, or ideally exterminated." Shrews and bats, harmless as they are to humans, are thus subject to the same brutal fate. Pohle hopes for a "shift in perspective" to occur, once the endangered animals are no longer referred to as mice.

What to do, then? Pohle would prefer the term spitz for spitzmaus, but it's already been assigned to a dog breed. Rüssler could also work, only it already applies to some other insectivore. That leaves spitzer, a name that emphasizes the pointy head as a distinguishing characteristic and is still available.

Pohle wants a name for bats without "maus" but happily with a nod to the animals' flying ability. Most names of this kind are already employed for birds, and "flatterer" or "flutterer" could only logically be used for a certain population of bats, namely, those bad at flying. "Flieger" or "flyer," another hot candidate, is also in use by various other animal groups.

But why, Pohle asks the reader, would one even need to say "fledermaus," when "fleder" actually makes perfect sense? Pohle mentions that the original meaning of "fleder" was different, but few people were aware of this fact anymore.

On the off chance that he was correct in this assessment, let it be noted that fledermaus can be traced back to the 10th century, to the Old High German "vledern" or "flattern" (the infinitive form of "flatterer"). The image of the bat as a "fluttering mouse" has existed since this time in many languages, including "flittermouse" in English. A number of other German terms exist for bats. In some regions of Germany, such as Rhineland-Palatinate and Southern Hesse, the Old High German "fledarmus" is said to have been used to describe nocturnal creatures, such as moths. There, bats were apparently called "speckmaus," instead of fledermaus, because while hibernating, they could be seen hanging like pieces of bacon (speck) in the smoke.

Pohle's dedication to promoting the protection of bats and shrews through a bold name change reached its temporary culmination a year later, when—at the 15th General Assembly of the German Society for Mammalogy in Berlin—a resolution was passed on a universal and binding adoption of the spitzer- and fleder-based names Pohle had suggested. The results are known: Hitler was not amused.


We can only guess at what Hitler's actual motive was in issuing such drastic threats to prevent the name alterations proposed by the German Society for Mammalogy. It could have been his outrage that in 1942—hard times because of the war—leading German intellectuals were concerned with something so unimportant and banal as the appropriateness of animal names. Perhaps this anecdote is just a further example of Hitler's hostility toward intellectuals.

It is ultimately unclear, even, to what extent Hitler was the driving force behind this directive or whether this is a case of subordinates "working towards the Führer," as historian Ian Kershaw describes it. Conceivably, after reading the Berliner Morgenpost, Hitler may have remarked negatively regarding the zoologists' plans. His circle—in this case, Bormann—may have immediately interpreted this as "the Führer's will" and sprung to action accordingly. As for Pohle and his colleagues, it can't have mattered much whether the "invitation" to the Eastern Front came directly from Hitler or was communicated in an act of premature obedience.

Whatever the case may be, Pohle's suggested name changes did not fail because of Hitler's intervention, which presumably resonated as little with the German-speaking public as the original notice. Pohle failed because he wanted to take the basic idea of a standardized naming system out of the scientific context and transfer it into the realm of vernacular. Everyday German is not formally and officially regulated, and like every other vernacular, it follows different rules than scientific speech. It is shaped by a multitude of factors and influences that have their own unpredictable dynamic, which leads to some word usages changing while others stabilize.

In kindergarten, we learn that small, furry four-legged animals with a tail are "mice." This act of naming fulfills the exact function expected of it. It "tags" specific linguistic content—a meaning—that is generally understood. The difference between muroids and insectivores, which is important to zoologists, has no application in everyday confrontations with "mouse-like" animals and makes no difference to most people. A mouse is a mouse, whether a striped field mouse or a shrew.

Tony Karumba, AFP/Getty Images
The World's Last Male Northern White Rhino Has Died, But Could He Still Help Save the Species?
Tony Karumba, AFP/Getty Images
Tony Karumba, AFP/Getty Images

Following age-related complications, Sudan the northern white rhinoceros was euthanized by a team of vets in Kenya at 45 years old, CNN reports. He was one of only three northern white rhinos left on earth and the last male of his subspecies. For years, Sudan had represented the final hope for the survival of his kind, but now scientists have a back-up plan: Using Sudan's sperm, they may be able to continue his genetic line even after his death.

Northern white rhino numbers dwindled from 2000 in 1960 to only three in recent years. Those last survivors, Sudan, his daughter Najin, and granddaughter Fatu, lived together at the Ol Pejeta Conservancy in Kenya. Each animal had physical issues making it difficult for them to breed, and now with Sudan gone, a new generation of northern white rhinos looks even less likely.

But there is one way the story of these animals doesn't end in extinction. Before Sudan died, researchers were able to save some of his genetic material, which means it's still possible for him to father offspring. Scientists may either use the sperm to artificially inseminate one of the surviving females (even though they're related) or, due to their age and ailments, fertilize one of their eggs and implant the embryo into a female of a similar subspecies, like the southern white rhino, using in vitro fertilization.

"We must take advantage of the unique situation in which cellular technologies are utilized for conservation of critically endangered species," Jan Stejskal, an official at the Dvur Kralove Zoo in the Czech Republic where Sudan lived until 2009, told AFP. "It may sound unbelievable, but thanks to the newly developed techniques even Sudan could still have an offspring."

Poaching has been a major contributor to the northern white rhino's decline over the past century. Rhinos are often hunted for their horns, which are believed to have medicinal properties in some Asian cultures. (Other people just view the horn as a sign of wealth and status.) Procreating is the biggest issue threatening the northern white rhinoceros at the moment. If such poaching continues, other rhino species in the wild could end up in the same situation.

[h/t CNN]


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