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JUST SO
If it’s a dog-eat-dog world, why are so many animals nice to each other—and us?
In the animal world, there’s a lot of what looks like kindness. Northern hemisphere songbirds share information about where to find food with birds who are much worse at scouting than they are. (In these bird social networks, tits are usually a “leader” species, locating and broadcasting new food sources, while nuthatches are usually a “follower” species, turning up just to eat.) Australian magpies help each other to remove scientific trackers, as though the whole group is protesting surveillance. In the Red Sea, groupers and giant moray eels work together to hunt. To kick things off, groupers stop by a moray eel lair and wiggle their heads right in the moray’s face; the two swim off together. Only one of them will end up with a full belly—both swallow their prey whole, no divvying it up first—but they trust the partnership will even out in the long run. Since the time of Charles Darwin, evolutionary biologists have been trying to figure out why some animals are altruistic—why they might sacrifice or disadvantage themselves to benefit others. According to evolution, being nice just doesn’t make sense. For starters, helping another animal usually comes with risk. A meerkat that spots a jackal and pops up to sound the alarm for her whole community draws the predator’s attention. Takahē that devote themselves to raising other takahē’s chicks postpone starting a family. So, if nice animals are more likely to get killed putting themselves in danger, or to miss out on finding a mate, wouldn’t that eventually wipe out the genes for kindness? Keep reading...
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