The forgotten value of small creatures

I have this theory that dinosaurs would be afraid of us, the way we’re afraid of small bugs. Because I think about dinosaurs quite a lot, my vivid imagination has recently lead me to conjure up an image of a great beast roaring in my presence. I see it taking a few steps back, eyes wide, disproportionate arms shaking, before running off to the safety of a tropical leafy forest.

That’s not the only thing I can see though. I imagine a great deal of dinosaurs would scream, then step on me. Some would maybe grin as they did it, deriving a sadistic pleasure from it. Maybe some would see me the way I see bugs: as a nuisance, just stepping on me or whacking me with a tree branch to stop me buzzing around their space.

With no emotion, in cold blood, they could kill me the way I kill these little creatures.

It’s not something I enjoy — I’m not that bad — but it’s something I do without batting an eye. If I can’t get a fly out of my space by shooing it through the door, I will instead take its life. It’s such a simple decision I don’t think twice about it.

Sometimes I am slightly disgusted by them, but ultimately not afraid. When with my friends or my brother, I am the designated spider killer. I have slain many to protect the ones I love.

It’s kind of shameful now that I’m actually putting it in words. An entomologist (I just searched the term for “bug doctor”) could give you a million reasons not to kill that critter in your back garden. Pollination and the ability to kill and eat other pests come to mind.

The clickbait article I read the other day was about a new creature discovered in the deep ocean. It was described as having “oar-like” legs. I was expecting some great fish, guppy mouth wide enough to swallow me whole, freakishly long legs to propel it towards its prey. I’ve always been obsessed with large animals and awesome predators, in case it wasn’t obvious from the beginning of this blog post.

“Oar-like” was a descriptor purely for shape, not size. You can imagine how underwhelmed I was to see a deep-ocean version of a shrimp. In spite of the loss of enthusiasm for the whole thing, I read on.

This deep sea-shrimp — it probably has a proper name — was seen eating food that appeared to be coming from the surface ocean. This was huge for the marine animal community. The deep ocean is about as mysterious as outer space, and infinitely closer to us. With the harshest conditions on our planet (high pressure, no light) it’s an environment only for God’s toughest and weirdest creations. This isopod I would have swatted at with a tea towel had it been in my environment was actually more badass than I will ever be.

Furthermore, the mere existence of this creature proves a relationship between surface-ocean animals and deep-ocean animals. We now know that isopods eat algae from the ocean’s surface, meaning their livelihood depends on other species, thus giving them a place in the food chain. This isn’t incidental either, it’s adaptation! It knows how to wait, locate, and finally feed on these surface scraps.

The story made me a little excited if a little sad. It was a sweet reminder of how interconnected we all are, but it was a reminder of the magnitude of environmental issues. Contaminating the ocean could affect animals most of us won’t ever be able to see with our own eyes. The little guy really impressed me, and made me think about things on a deeper level, so I guess the purpose of this article was to remind all animal lovers that size doesn’t matter.