How is it that the dog, alone among Earth's species, comes in so many shapes and sizes?
One way to get a feel for just how diverse dogs have become is to jam your
fingers down the throat of a Great Dane and then, minutes later, a Chihuahua.
This is what I found myself doing at age 16 during my first full-time summer
job. A large kennel near my home boarded about 100 dogs, and soon after I
started working there I discovered that not only was mine to be the hand that
fed and cleaned up after them, but was also to be the one to administer pills to
those on medication.
Eager to please my first boss, I went at it and soon became a pro at giving the
pills, regardless of the patient's breed, demeanor, or jaw size. Before a dog
knew what was happening, I would slip into its cage, pry its jaws apart, place
the pill deep in its throat, retract my saliva-streaked hand, and rub its neck
vigorously to work the pill down. I was only bitten once.
Though my thoughts at the time largely ran to girls and sports, I do remember
thinking how amazing it was that the Dr. Seussian mélange of creatures
in my care all belonged to the same species. If had I stopped to wonder
why they and Canis familiaris as a whole came in so many flavors,
I probably would have told myself because we've been breeding them for those
flavors for thousands of years.
But I would have been wrong, or at least only somewhat right. The answer, it
turns out, is complicated. In fact, even as scientists know that we humans are
the chief instigators of doggie differentiation, they're not really sure how
dogs have become so diverse.
The human factor
Why do we know people are the key? Think of your favorite species of wild
animal—elephant, eagle, barracuda, whatever. Does its kind come in as wide a
range of shapes, sizes, and colors as the dog? Not even remotely. "You never
get that kind of variation in wild populations," says animal behaviorist James
Serpell of the University of Pennsylvania. "For the most part, selection in the
wild is towards one particular type that does best in whatever environment the
species has to deal with. In fact, divergent individuals tend to be selected
against."
Dogs are diverse largely because of artificial rather than natural selection,
because of us rather than nature. But just how much of their variety can be
laid at our feet versus Mother Nature's remains unclear. Charles Darwin
suggested that one reason dogs are so variable is that they must have arisen
not just from wolves but from other canids like jackals and coyotes as well.
But recent genetic studies conducted by evolutionary biologist Robert Wayne and
colleagues at the University of California at Los Angeles revealed that
the mitochondrial DNA of dogs and wolves is very similar, while that of jackals
and coyotes is distinctly different. Astounding as it seems, all 400 or so
recognized breeds today descend directly from the wolf.
Even if we can't look to multiple canid ancestors for the dog, there are other
ways that natural forces may have contributed to its diversity. Ray Coppinger,
a biologist at Hampshire College and author of Dogs: A Startling New
Understanding of Canine Origin, Behavior, and Evolution, says that
"natural" breeds occasionally arise. One way is through simple adaptation to
different environmental niches; dogs in northern regions, for example, tend to
be bigger because of the cold. Another way is when a catastrophe like rabies
wipes out an entire local population of dogs, one isolated in some way from
other populations. If just one pregnant female survives the catastrophe, or if
a new pair somehow arrives from elsewhere, their descendants will have only
that female's or that pair's genes to work with. If that lone female or both
the new arrivals have red hair or curly tails, all their descendants may have
the same.
The human factor, again
That said, dogs would never have become so diversified without our, well,
dogged manipulation of canine mating. It's not known exactly when people and
pups first got together, but it was a long time ago. The first archeological
evidence of dogs morphologically distinct from wolves comes from roughly 12,000
years ago in the Middle East. By that time and perhaps much earlier—Wayne's
genetic data hint that dogs split from wolves about 135,000 years ago—dogs
appear to have been at least semi-domesticated. By 2000 B.C., dogs resembling
the modern pharaoh hound are depicted on Egyptian tombs, implying that both
domestication and diversification were well under way.
For the next few thousand years, right up until the late 19th century, people
bred dogs for certain skills: running down prey (greyhounds), hunting rodents
in holes (terriers), flushing and fetching game (pointers and retrievers). It
wasn't until the late 1800s, when kennel clubs first formed, that breeding for
appearance rather than behavior began in earnest. Pure-breeding started then as
well: to be registered as a purebred giant schnauzer, both your parents had to
be registered as giant schnauzers. Breeders bent on designing the perfect breed
are indubitably the reason why today we have dogs as divergent as the
long-faced borzoi and squashed-faced bulldog, the Mexican hairless and lavishly
hirsute Pekingese, the 150-pound St. Bernard and two-pound Chihuahua.
But what accounts for breeders' runaway success? How, for example, could Louis
Doberman, a German dog-pound keeper active in the late 1800s, take German
pinschers, Rottweilers, Manchester terriers, and possibly pointers and, in just
35 years, create the Doberman pinscher? Such rapid change would seem to fly in
the face of the Darwinian transmutation of species, a process typically thought
to operate over thousands or even millions of years.
Part of the reason lies in what happens when you cross two breeds. "Whenever
you hybridize, instead of getting an average between the two types, you quite
often get something that I call 'phylogenetically bizarre,'" Coppinger says.
"Which means you've never seen that form before in evolutionary terms."
Breeders build on those novel traits, winding up with the stubby legs of the
dachshund or the rumpled-rug features of the shar-pei.
Another part of the reason is that dogs' bodies, particularly their skulls,
undergo a major transformation between newborn and adult. (The skulls of
newborn cats, by contrast, are already of adult proportion, which, along with
less zealous breeding, may be one reason why the domestic cat is not nearly as
motley as its household nemesis.) These physical changes are wrought by genes
turning on and off at different times. By toying with the timing of nasal
growth and other stages of development, breeders have engineered an assortment
of canines worthy of the creative powers of Maurice Sendak.
But what is it about dogs that makes them so plastic, so genetically malleable?
"I don't know of anyone who can answer that question," Serpell told me
straightforwardly. When I asked Stephen Budiansky, author of The Truth About
Dogs, he said "it may be just one of those things like why do elephants
have trunks and others don't? It may just be almost an accident of evolution
that dogs are so plastic while cats aren't." For his part, Budiansky feels
we'll know a lot more once researchers start thoroughly teasing apart the dog
genome.
Keeping a watchful eye
Dogs are a supremely successful species. There are perhaps 50 million owned
dogs in the United States alone, and many millions more running free. (Wolves,
by contrast, probably number less than 150,000 worldwide.) But their companionship
with man now comes at a cost. Their very mutability has resulted in certain
breeds having been pushed to the edge of survivability—try breeding bulldogs
with even shorter faces, and the resulting puppies may not be able to breathe.
Inbreeding has also resulted in increased susceptibility of many purebred dogs
to diseases and other medical ills.
"Inbreeding can cause a variety of problems, especially if breeders are doing
things like breeding down lines—father-daughter kind of stuff," says Stanley
Coren, a psychologist at the University of British Columbia and author of
several books on dogs. Conscientious breeders select dogs on the basis of their
longevity and particular characteristics and don't breed within lines, he says.
As long as they do that, there's still a lot of room, Coren feels, to safely breed
dogs to our liking. "What people forget is that we can mold the personality as
well as anything else, so a lot of the companion dogs, their job in life is to
be what my daughter calls 'love sponges.'"
Love sponges—that's what those kennel dogs I cared for so many years ago
were. All except the one that bit me. Bred that way or not, that Chihuahua had
a chip on its shoulder.
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The same species? How is it possible?
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Hard as it may be to believe, all dogs descend from
the gray wolf.
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Breeding of working dogs like the fleet saluki
began long before pure-breeding for looks began in the late 19th century.
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Want silken-haired ears and a tiny face? You can
breed for it in just a few generations. Here, a papillon.
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Suffering from narcolepsy, a condition
characterized by sudden bouts of deep sleep, this Doberman is paying the price
of intensive inbreeding. Cross-breeding and out-breeding can help future
generations sidestep such afflictions.
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