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UNO SCHMIDT, FLICKR // CC BY-SA 2.0
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The Flesh-Eating Beetles that Work at Natural History Museums

UNO SCHMIDT, FLICKR // CC BY-SA 2.0
UNO SCHMIDT, FLICKR // CC BY-SA 2.0

Not long ago, the thing in the tank was a living animal—a bobcat that prowled and hunted the way bobcats do, and then eventually died. What’s in the tank doesn’t resemble a bobcat, though. It’s just a mass that looks a little bit like jerky meat still on the bone. And the bobcat isn't alone, either: Little black beetles and setae-studded larvae are swarming all over the meat, devouring it. Put an ear to the top of the tank, and you’ll hear something akin to the snap-crackle-pop of Rice Krispies just drenched in milk—the sound of thousands of dermestid beetles hard at work.

The bobcat is on its way to becoming an osteological specimen at Chicago’s Field Museum. Like most natural history museums around the world, the Field uses Dermestes maculatus, or hide beetles, to clean its specimens. The museum has 10 colonies, which live and work in aquaria around a third-floor room that’s closed off from the rest of the museum by two double doors. The specimens within the tanks are in various stages of cleanliness: One holds what appears to be a sloth arm, and in some, beetles and larvae hunt for meat on skeletons that are nearly picked clean.

Across the room, on a countertop next to the sink, carcasses stripped of their skin and excess musculature sit drying on racks and plastic trays. “The beetles like the meat a little bit dry,” explains research assistant Joshua Engel. He points to one—“this is a seagull”—then another: “This one might be beaver.” The scent of putrid meat hangs in the air. “You get used to it pretty quickly,” he says.

If the thought of beetles eating the meat off animal bones in an enclosed space turns your stomach, you’re not alone. But despite the ick factor, natural history museums are so indebted to the insects that they’ve been nicknamed “museum bugs.” And in fact, dermestid beetles have a number of advantages over other osteological prep methods: They eat the tissue from specimens in a fraction of the time (a colony can clean off a small rodent in just a few hours, a big bird like a seagull in a few days), are significantly less messy than other methods, and are much less harmful to the bones themselves. “We love them,” William Stanley, director of the Field Museum’s Gantz Family Collections Center, tells mental_floss. Dermestid beetles are, he says, the unsung heroes of natural history museums. As long as they don’t escape.

Studio stack: Flesh eater

D. maculatus larva. Photo by John Hallmén. Embed via Flickr.

 
There are many, many species in the Dermestidae family, and if you look closely enough, you can find them anywhere. Have you spotted carpet beetles under your rugs, or Khapra beetles in your pantry? Congratulations—you’ve met a dermestid.

D. maculatus (which has also gone by the name D. vulpinus) can be found around the world. According to scientists at the American Museum of Natural History, the beetles go through a complete metamorphosis: egg, larva, pupa, and, finally, adult. The eggs, which are about a millimeter in size, hatch around three days after they’re laid. Then comes the larval stage, during which the larvae go through seven or eight instars. With each molt, the beetle-to-be sheds its exoskeleton.

It’s at this stage that a beetle is the most efficient. Though both the adults and the larvae eat, “the larvae are doing most of the cleaning,” says Theresa Barclay, manager of the dermestid colonies at the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology (MVZ) at Berkeley. “By the time they become adults, they’re not eating as much.” The more larvae are present in a colony, the faster specimens get cleaned.

When it’s time to pupate, the larva does so in its own skin—no cocoon here. The adult beetle emerges after five days, goes through five days of maturation, and then becomes reproductive, mating and eating for the next two months. (Females can lay between 198 and 845 eggs in that time.) Then they die, joining the ever-growing pile of frass—old exoskeletons ground to dust, beetle poop, and dead insects—at the bottom of the tank.

A single beetle’s lifespan is about six months, but depending on the size of the tank, the life of a museum colony can be much longer. According to Stanley, the Field Museum’s colonies last for about five years—and that’s a limit only because the tanks fill with frass and need to be cleaned out. “It takes literally years for that dust to build up until it’s so high that we can’t fit any more skeletons into the aquarium,” Stanley says. “So we stop giving that aquarium any food, and slowly but surely, the colony dies off.” After freezing the colony for seven days to make sure the bugs are good and dead, the whole thing goes in the trash (frass doesn’t make good compost). “Then we have an empty aquarium,” Stanley says, “and we start all over again.”

But that all makes the process sound a little too easy. Getting the beetles to chow down just the way a museum director needs them to has taken decades of work—and some people didn’t even want them in museums in the first place.

Timelapse of a two-faced calf skull being cleaned in one of the Field's beetle colonies from an episode of Brain Scoop. View the full episode (which contains graphic content) here; footage courtesy of the Field Museum.

 
There’s no precise record for when naturalists decided to put dermestid beetles to work in museums doing what they do in nature, but judging by the beetles’ family name, they knew what the insects were capable of: Derma is Latin for skin and este means “to consume.”

The first to use beetles in an institutional setting might have been Charles Dean Bunker, who joined the Kansas University Biodiversity Institute and Natural History Museum in 1895. According to the institution's website, Bunker was mostly concerned with the preparation of entire skeletons, and he “developed innovative techniques for cleaning bones, emphasizing methods for the maintenance of colonies of dermestid beetles.” Bunker’s students were called “Bunk’s Boys,” and they took what they learned from him and put it into practice when they went to other institutions.

That’s how Berkeley’s MVZ ended up with a colony in 1924. E. Raymond Hall, who had been one of Bunk’s Boys at KU, told Joseph Grinnell about the beetles, says Christina V. Fidler, archivist at MVZ, and Grinnell sent Bunker a letter requesting the bugs. Though there were issues with the methodology—“Bunker told him, ‘We had a problem with the beetles and our large mammals, and [the colony] was infested by spiders,’” Fidler says—he sent Grinnell a colony anyway.

But MVZ’s colony didn’t revolutionize osteological prep at the museum as Grinnell might have hoped—at least not at first. The museum’s preparer, a woman named Edna Fischer, wasn’t interested in using the beetles. She thought they wouldn’t work, and instead boiled the bones, then cleaned specimens by hand, at a rate of 10 skulls a day. She was two years behind on skulls, and five years behind on skeletons.

Meanwhile, in the basement, 50 gunny sacks packed with specimens that had never been cleaned were full of dermestids doing what they do best.

The museum’s colony languished until 1929, when Fischer left and Ward C. Russell took over as preparer. He began using the beetles in earnest, refining the methodology as he went, and in 1933, he and Hall published a paper outlining their methods, “Dermestid Beetles as an Aid in Cleaning Bones,” in the Journal of Mammalogy—the first paper on the subject. Their aim was to speed up the prep time while creating better osteological samples, and they hit upon a solution: “By combining two common methods of preparation,” they wrote, “namely removing cooked flesh by means of instruments and exposing dried specimens to these beetles and their larvae, a system has been devised which we now feel justified in describing as possibly of help to others.”

Ward and Hall instructed scientists to find a warm room, and outfit it with wooden boxes topped with 3-inch strips of tin to keep the bugs inside. Next, they were to place a small, dried carcass in the box, drop some adult beetles on top, and leave them for a month. “At the end of this time,” Russell and Hall wrote, “the bugs have greatly increased in number and have consumed most of their meat supply. Conditions are then at an optimum for their use as cleaners of specimens.”

Now, finally, the real process of bone cleaning could begin. Hall and Russell advised scientists to line a shallow cardboard box with cotton; place a specimen to be cleaned inside, then cover it with more cotton, which would give the larvae a place to pupate. Those cardboard boxes were to be placed in the wooden boxes. Labeling the specimen was another matter: colleagues were instructed to use hardy paper (anything soft would be devoured or defaced by the bugs) with ink that could withstand both water and ammonia (which would be used to degrease the bones after cleaning) placed carefully inside.

Working with the beetles and using this method, Russell was able to clean a staggering 80,000 specimens during his 40 years at the museum. Even more impressively, the methods endure. These days, scientists at the Field and other institutions create colonies in much the same way Russell did.

But while the techniques stayed with the museum, some of the bugs didn’t: Russell took a colony home with him, Fidler says, and proudly showed it off to MVZ’s oral historians years after he retired.

A specimen dries in the beetle room at the Field Museum. Photo by Erin McCarthy.

 
Different natural history institutions house their beetles in different ways. At AMNH, for example, the beetles are kept in sealed metal boxes, and MVZ has two aquaria and one environmental chamber with multiple trays of beetles. Meanwhile, scientists at the Field mimic as much of the natural world as possible.

Former collections manager Dave Willard established guidelines that employees at the museum still use. Mesh tops give the beetles open air, and scientists turn the lights off at night to replicate the natural day/night cycle. To get the colonies to stay efficient, they’re kept at a constant temperature—around 70 degrees—and a constant humidity. And the amount of food in each tank must be just right.

It’s hard work, but it’s worth it—and Stanley thinks this extra attention to detail might be why the Field’s colony is especially vigorous. “I’ve never seen a better colony than the one here,” he says. “On any given day, when the colony is really cranking, we say that it’s hot—and we mean that literally. You can put your hand over the colony and feel the metabolic heat of the beetles. When the colony is like that, a mouse can take a little as an hour to clean.”

Preparing specimens for a trip to the beetle tank isn’t pretty—each has to be tagged, skinned, gutted, and dried, which both cuts down on the likelihood of rot and mold and makes the meat smellier, to better attract bugs—but learning about other methods of cleaning suddenly makes dermestid beetles seem like the best option by a mile.

Imagine boiling a skull until the flesh falls off, or burying a specimen too large for the beetles in elephant dung and compost, leaving it for a few weeks, and coming back to dig it up. Or steeling yourself to pull bones from a putrid barrel full of water, rotten flesh, and maggots. All are methods that natural history museums use, but each has their own pitfalls.

Once, when he was working at Humboldt, Stanley found himself facing five garbage cans. “Each of these garbage cans had a sea lion in it that had been macerating for months with maggots at the top,” he says. “My job was to fish through this goop and pull out the skeleton and clean off the rotting flesh. It was just disgusting.”

Macerating—in which specimens are dunked in water, allowing bacteria to feed for months so that flesh falls off the bone—totally works, Stanley says, but “the moisture and the activity by the bacteria are detrimental to the bones. If you aren’t incredibly careful, then femurs and humeri crack, and teeth will fall out of the skull.” Cleaning by burying can be disrupted, he says, and boiling is even more detrimental to the bones.

Stanley compares the beetle process to “putting a T-bone steak in the colony and coming back to find just the T of the bone.” Though a lot of people are grossed out by the beetles, it’s a relatively dry way to clean bones—and believe it or not, it even smells better than other methods. “If we were to show you some of the containers where we macerate things,” Stanley says, “it would be a lot worse.”

Dermestidae damage to a Manduca quinquemaculata specimen at the Texas A&M University Insect Collection. Image courtesy of Shawn Hanrahan, Wikimedia Commons //CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0.

 
If Dermestid beetles are the unsung heroes of natural history institutions, they also have the potential to be a museum’s greatest villain. “They are the method of choice for cleaning skeletons, but they are also one of the biggest threats for the very collection that we’re using them for,” Stanley says. “All of the specimens that are being prepared as study skins have dried tissue in them. If the beetles didn’t have anything else to eat, they would burrow into those skins and turn them to dust.

“If you get an infestation started in the collection,” he continues, “you are screwed.”

Take, for example, what happened at the South Australian Museum. In 2011, the museum’s insect collections—which included 2 million specimens collected over 150 years—were overrun by carpet beetles, and some holotype specimens (the first example of a species) were damaged. The Australian government allocated $2.7 million to eradicate the pests; museum staffers froze specimens for three months before moving them to special-built, nearly airtight cabinets.

“They can come in lots of different ways. You can bring them in on your clothes, your shoes, they can get in through ventilation or other access points,” Luke Chenoweth, an entomologist at the South Australian Museum, said. “They can decimate a specimen quite quickly, particularly the larvae. We had a large amount of dead insects in one place so it was the perfect environment for these pests to chew away.”

Museums don’t use carpet beetles, but what happened to the South Australian Museum could easily happen anywhere if a hide beetle were to escape, so institutions take special care to avoid this worse-case scenario. AMNH’s boxes have smooth sides and Vaseline in the corners so the bugs can’t climb out. Scientists also place sticky traps across the doors to contain any rogue beetles. (Another key is keeping them well-fed; when they’re hungry, they try to escape.) At the Field, the colony is on the same floor as its ornithology collection, right next to the bird prep lab, which causes scientists from other museums to “freak,” Stanley says. Elaborate mesh screens are used to keep flying beetles in place, and the double doors seal them off from other collections. At other institutions, the beetles are kept at more of a distance. MVZ has its colony in the same building, but on a different floor than the collections.

Institutions take other precautions, too. Just as a specimen must go through several steps before it gets into a beetle tank, it must go through several steps before it goes into collections. The process starts when scientists reach inside the tank, grab the specimen, and shake the beetles off. At that point, a skeleton might look clean, but, says Stanley, “Tiny larvae could be inside brain cavities or vertebral columns.” To make sure there are no stowaways, scientists freeze all specimens. (There doesn’t seem to be a set amount of time a specimen should be frozen; the Field freezes each specimen for 24 hours, while MVZ freezes for a week, places the specimens in quarantine for an additional week, and freezes again if necessary.)

Next, the bones are dunked in an ammonia solution—one part ammonia, nine parts water—to degrease them. The bones remain in the solution for 24 hours, then are picked at in the sink. “In theory, the beetles eat everything but the bones and the cartilage, but in practice, they often will leave little bits of tissue on the pads of feet for example or along the palette,” Stanley says. “So a lot of our volunteer time is spent with fine forceps and scalpels at the sink just to make sure that everything’s off.”

The Field Museum Bug Room's Facebook Page

 
Only once a specimen has gone through all of these steps—freezing, dunking, and picking—can it finally move into the collections. Most will end up in boxes next in the museum’s miles and miles of storage, where researchers will pull them out for study—and potentially make important scientific discoveries. Others will end up on display in the museum itself, with most visitors none-the-wiser about how the skeleton was prepared.

“We’ve harnessed nature to study nature,” Stanley says. “If we could, we would use beetles every time.”

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Big Questions
Why Do Cats 'Blep'?
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As pet owners are well aware, cats are inscrutable creatures. They hiss at bare walls. They invite petting and then answer with scratching ingratitude. Their eyes are wandering globes of murky motivations.

Sometimes, you may catch your cat staring off into the abyss with his or her tongue lolling out of their mouth. This cartoonish expression, which is atypical of a cat’s normally regal air, has been identified as a “blep” by internet cat photo connoisseurs. An example:

Cunning as they are, cats probably don’t have the self-awareness to realize how charming this is. So why do cats really blep?

In a piece for Inverse, cat consultant Amy Shojai expressed the belief that a blep could be associated with the Flehmen response, which describes the act of a cat “smelling” their environment with their tongue. As a cat pants with his or her mouth open, pheromones are collected and passed along to the vomeronasal organ on the roof of their mouth. This typically happens when cats want to learn more about other cats or intriguing scents, like your dirty socks.

While the Flehmen response might precede a blep, it is not precisely a blep. That involves the cat’s mouth being closed while the tongue hangs out listlessly.

Ingrid Johnson, a certified cat behavior consultant through the International Association of Animal Behavior Consultants and the owner of Fundamentally Feline, tells Mental Floss that cat bleps may have several other plausible explanations. “It’s likely they don’t feel it or even realize they’re doing it,” she says. “One reason for that might be that they’re on medication that causes relaxation. Something for anxiety or stress or a muscle relaxer would do it.”

A photo of a cat sticking its tongue out
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If the cat isn’t sedated and unfurling their tongue because they’re high, then it’s possible that an anatomic cause is behind a blep: Johnson says she’s seen several cats display their tongues after having teeth extracted for health reasons. “Canine teeth help keep the tongue in place, so this would be a more common behavior for cats missing teeth, particularly on the bottom.”

A blep might even be breed-specific. Persians, which have been bred to have flat faces, might dangle their tongues because they lack the real estate to store it. “I see it a lot with Persians because there’s just no room to tuck it back in,” Johnson says. A cat may also simply have a Gene Simmons-sized tongue that gets caught on their incisors during a grooming session, leading to repeated bleps.

Whatever the origin, bleps are generally no cause for concern unless they’re doing it on a regular basis. That could be sign of an oral problem with their gums or teeth, prompting an evaluation by a veterinarian. Otherwise, a blep can either be admired—or retracted with a gentle prod of the tongue (provided your cat puts up with that kind of nonsense). “They might put up with touching their tongue, or they may bite or swipe at you,” Johnson says. “It depends on the temperament of the cat.” Considering the possible wrath involved, it may be best to let them blep in peace.

Have you got a Big Question you'd like us to answer? If so, let us know by emailing us at bigquestions@mentalfloss.com.

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Animals
10 Tragic Stories of Extinct Animals
Drawing depicting the Great Auk, from the book 'Birds of America' by John James Audubon.
Drawing depicting the Great Auk, from the book 'Birds of America' by John James Audubon.
John James Audubon, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

The tale of the dodo is one of the most famous stories of extinction in all natural history. Native only to the tiny island of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean, the birds had never learned any reason to be fearful of humans, so when European explorers first began to visit the island in the 17th century, the dodos were apparently so unsuspecting they could be picked up by hand straight from the wild and killed. Although the dodo was never a particularly numerous species (the fact that it was flightless made it susceptible to floods and forest fires, which apparently kept its population naturally low), within less than a century of its discovery, interference by humans had led to its extinction. But it's by no means alone—the stories behind the disappearance of 10 other creatures are listed here.

1. ATLAS BEAR

A Roman mosaic of the extinct Atlas bear.
A Roman mosaic of the extinct Atlas bear.
The Picture Art Collection / Alamy Stock Photo

The Atlas bear was the only species of bear native to Africa, and once inhabited the area around the Atlas Mountains in the far northwest of the continent. The bear's lengthy demise can be traced all the way back to the time of the Roman Empire, when the animals were not only hunted for sport but captured, brought back to Rome, and made to battle gladiators and execute criminals in a gruesome spectacle known as damnatio ad bestias. Numbers continued to fall throughout the Middle Ages, when great swaths of forest in northern Africa were felled for timber, until finally the last surviving wild Atlas bear was shot and killed in the mid-1800s.

2. CAROLINA PARAKEET

A mounted Carolina parakeet
James St. John, Wikimedia Commons // CC BY 2.0

The Carolina parakeet was once the only species of parrot native to the United States, found across a vast expanse of the country from New York in the north to the Gulf of Mexico in the south and the Rocky Mountains in the west. Excessive hunting and trapping meant that the birds had already become rare by the 19th century, but large, isolated flocks were still being recorded until as recently as the early 1900s. Sadly the birds were known for their altruistic habit of flocking to attend to dead or dying members of the same flock—so if only a few birds were felled by hunters, many of the rest of the flock would remain nearby, making themselves easy targets. The last known specimen died in the Cincinnati Zoo in 1918, and the species was finally declared extinct in 1939.

3. DUSKY SEASIDE SPARROW

A Dusky Seaside Sparrow outside on a branch
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

In 1963, a decision was made by NASA to flood a vast area of marshland on Merritt Island in eastern Florida as a means of controlling the mosquito population around the Kennedy Space Center. Sadly, Merritt Island was also one of the last strongholds of the dusky seaside sparrow, a small dark-colored songbird, and when the land was flooded, so too was the sparrows’ main breeding ground. Drainage of the marshes around the St. Johns River for a highway project also contributed to habitat loss. The birds' population collapsed, and in the years that followed, the species struggled to regain its numbers. By 1979, only five birds—all males—remained in the wild, and the sparrow was finally declared extinct in 1990.

4. GRAVENCHE

A drawing of a gravenche, an extinct freshwater fish
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

The gravenche was a species of freshwater fish native only to Lake Geneva, one of the Alpine lakes that straddle the border between France and Switzerland. The fish were apparently once so common in the lake that it alone accounted for two-thirds of all of the fish caught in Lake Geneva. Due to overfishing, the population of gravenche (Coregonus hiemalis) began to decrease rapidly in the early 20th century; the last known sighting was in 1950, and the species is now considered extinct.

5. GREAT AUK

Study of a great auk, circa 1910.
Hulton Archive, Getty Images

The penguin-like great auk was a large, flightless seabird once native to the entire North Atlantic Ocean, from Greenland and eastern Canada to the British Isles and the westernmost coasts of Europe. The birds were highly prized for their light and fluffy down, which was used as a stuffing for pillows and mattresses. And like the dodo, the fact that the birds were flightless made hunting and capturing them easy. The European population was almost entirely eradicated by the late 1600s, leading to one of the earliest environmental protection laws in history, passed by the British Parliament in 1770s, that prohibited killing the auks in Great Britain. Sadly, it was too late. As the birds became scarcer, demand for their feathers, meat and pelts increased, and the last two breeding birds were unceremoniously strangled to death on their nest by a pair of Icelandic hunters in 1844, while a third man stamped on the single egg that the female had been incubating.

6. HEATH HEN

Three Heath Hens
Game Birds, Wild-Fowl and Shore Birds of Massachusetts and Adjacent States, Massachusetts State Board Agriculture, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Like the great auk, the North American heath hen was also the subject of an early protective bill, introduced to New York State legislature in 1791, but it too failed to save the species from extinction. Heath hens were once native to much of the northeast United States, and were so plentiful that their meat eventually gained a reputation for being "poor man's food." Nonetheless they continued to be hunted in such vast numbers that by the mid-1800s there were no hens at all left on the entire American mainland. The bird's final stronghold was Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts, but illegal poaching, diseases carried by domestic poultry, and predation from feral cats caused numbers on the island to fall to less than 100 by the mid-1890s. A hunting ban and a specialized Heath Hen Reserve was introduced in 1908, and in response the population swelled to over 2000 in the years that followed. But a fire during the 1916 breeding season undid all of the reserve's hard work, and by 1927 there were only 12 birds—including just two females—left alive. The last lone male, nicknamed "Booming Ben" by the locals, died in 1932.

7. JAPANESE SEA LION

The 8-foot-long Japanese sea lion—an even larger cousin of the Californian sea lion—was once native to the Sea of Japan and bred in vast numbers along the beaches of the Japanese islands and the Korean mainland. Sadly, the animals were hunted in enormous numbers, but not for the reason you might think: their meat was poor quality and bad-tasting, so they weren't hunted for food, but rather for their skins (which were used to make leather), their bones (which were used in traditional medicines), their fat (which was rendered to make oil for oil lamps), and even their whiskers (which were used to make brushes and pipe cleaners). As recently as the early 1900s, more than 3000 sea lions were being killed every year in Japan, until the population collapsed to less than 50 individuals in 1915. Numbers remained low until the 1940s, when the maritime battles of the Second World War destroyed the last remaining colonies and much of their natural habitat. The last recorded (but unconfirmed) sighting was in 1974.

8. PASSENGER PIGEON

A stuffed passenger pigeon up for auction.
Rob Stothard, Getty Images

Until as recently as the early 1800s, the passenger pigeon was still considered the most numerous bird in all of North America. Individual flocks could contain in excess of a billion individual birds, and would take more than an hour to fly overhead. But as a hugely plentiful source of cheap meat, the birds were hunted in unprecedented numbers: at one nesting site in Michigan in 1878, as many as 50,000 birds were killed every day for nearly five months, and the last surviving flock of 250,000 birds was killed in its entirety by one group of hunters in a single day in 1896. The final individual bird—a female named Martha, who was being held in captivity at the Cincinnati Zoo—died in 1914.

9. STEPHENS ISLAND WREN

Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Stephens Island is a tiny half-mile islet lying in the seas between the two main islands of New Zealand. After a lighthouse was built there in 1892, the local lighthouse keeper's cat, Tibbles, caught a bird that the keeper didn't recognize. He sent the specimen to a renowned New Zealand ornithologist named Walter Buller, and the bird was soon declared a new species—the Stephens Island wren—and identified as one of only a handful of flightless perching birds known to science. Sadly, within just three years of its discovery, the species was extinct. According to popular history, Tibbles the cat was singlehandedly responsible for killing off the entire population of the wrens (in which case, Tibbles would be the only individual creature in history responsible for the extinction of an entire species) but in reality, by the late 1890s, Stephens Island was so overrun with feral cats that it is impossible to say that Tibbles alone was responsible: In February 1895, the lighthouse keeper wrote in a letter that "the cats have become wild and are making sad havoc among all the birds."

10. WARRAH

The warrah, or Falkland Island wolf or fox
Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

The warrah, or Falkland Islands wolf, was a unique species of wolf that was once the only mammal species native to the Falkland Islands in the South Atlantic Ocean. It's thought that the species became trapped on the islands during the last Ice Age, when the Falklands were connected to the South American mainland by an ice bridge that left the animals isolated when it melted. After the Falkland Islands were first settled by humans in the 1760s, the wolves were seen as a threat to livestock and were quickly hunted into extinction. The warrah was already rare by the time Charles Darwin visited the Falklands in 1833, and he ominously predicted that, "within a very few years … this fox will be classed with the dodo as an animal which has perished from the face of the earth." Like the dodo, the warrah had never had to learn to be fearful of humans, and with no trees or forests on the island in which to hide, the wolves proved easy targets. The last individual was killed in 1876.

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