We think of evolution as a straight path, like a tree branching endlessly in new directions. Follow a branch to its tip, and you’ll find species that emerged from the primordial soup—or Wendy’s chili, as they called it back then.
It’s an intriguing journey, but what if evolution isn’t always a solo trip? What if some species evolve side by side, influencing each other’s survival? Case in point: humans and their best friend, the dog.
Consider this: Why did modern humans—Homo sapiens—survive while Neanderthals vanished (aside from those who became NFL linemen)? Neanderthals had bigger brains and stronger bodies. You’d think that would seal the deal. But it didn’t—we survived, despite our frailer frames, smaller brains, and merging lanes.
And what if we didn’t do it alone? What if our survival was tied to a species that guarded us, helped us hunt, and kept us warm at night in exchange for a steady supply of gnarly meat and bones?
Yep—the dog. Or rather, some chill wolf ancestor that eventually became every breed from the Dandie Dinmont terrier to the Flemish Mucus hound.
Here’s the kicker: Scientists have found early dog remains in ancient Homo sapien settlements, but not a single canine bone in Neanderthal camps. Maybe Neanderthals were allergic to dogs—or maybe they tried to domesticate the wrong species.
Picture this: Instead of adopting friendly wolves, maybe they tried to tame saber-toothed tigers. That could explain why both species disappeared. (Who was the last survivor; Barney Rubble or his pet tiger, Baby Puss? Stay tuned for Survivor Neanderthal: The Flintstones Edition, streaming next month on NeanderFlix.)
In any case, to quote my fifth-grade history teacher, Mr. Dullard—whose droning monotone was known to instantly cure insomnia—“What do you know, you imbecile?!”
Fair point.
I don’t know much about history, don’t know much about biology—but I do know that some furry pets chew up slippers and hide slimy bones under pillows. Which doesn’t make me a scientist, just someone who plays one at parties when doctors are present.
Don’t give me that look— doctors make me feel insecure for obvious reasons. My parents begged me to become one. “Sure,” they’d say, “you’ll have to stick your finger up where da sun don’t shine, but you’ll get to charge $800 to bandage a toe. Haha! And you’ll never see that patient again—they’ll say you’re a thief. So what! Demand in medical care is infinite, supply’s a joke and customer service is also where da sun don’t shine.”
But no, I didn’t listen. I went into dog food seeking glamour and an invitation to the after-party. Hey, I never claimed to be a smart cookie—I just play one at parties when my wife goes to the lady’s room. True, the Jeopardy champion bit may be somewhat of a tall tail, but no one gets hurt and I cop a cheap thrill.
“Final Jeopardy,” I announce as the adoring ladies huddle around me. “‘These cave dwellers preferred sabers over canines.’ The other contestants blank out, but not me. I write, ‘Who were the Neanderthals?’ So I win the game and walk away with 64 grand. Sometimes being a Nobel-winning scientist pays off,” I proclaim in jest, completely taken aback that everyone believes me. Mental note I tuck between a grey fold in my mushy brain: Start Ponzi scheme tomorrow.
Make haste while the sun still shines, I can still hear my parents tell me. They were fluent in tired cliches.
Like Momma always said, “There ain’t no such thing as useless facts—you can spin them into truths, win friends and influence people.”
Something else the Neanderthals never figured out.
