Monthly Archives: November 2020

What’s in a Name–the Finale (at last)

So…last time, I spoke of weird scientific names, and told you that this time I would address common names.

Now, by common names, I mean those colloquial names we all use in our native tongues for organisms of all stripes. However, even in the same language, a particular species may have several different common monikers, often varying by geographic region.

E.g., I live in North Carolina, where the spider figured below is often called a “writing spider*”👇. However, it’s also called the “yellow garden spider,” “black-and-yellow argiope,” “black and yellow garden spider,” “yellow garden orbweaver,” “black & yellow argiope,” “banded garden spider**👇,” “zipper spider,” “McKinley spider” and–in California, I’m told–the “golden orbweaver”:

Argiope aurantia Lucas, 1833

Well, then, what should we call it? I call it “Argiope aurantia,” and I suspect (and hope) that my family knows what I’m talking about…but my neighbors sure don’t.

So what is to be done? The simplest and most accurate solution is to avoid colloquial names altogether, and use only the scientific name: After all, that’s preciously why they exist, and it is no coïncidence that it’s they’re the exact same in all languages, in all countries.

Alas, that’s not going to happen.

But at least for scientific publication, the scientific name is mandatory. Except, after once identifying a well known species by its scientific name, an author can use a common name approved by the publishing organization. In this way, I could write about the “yellow garden spider, Argiope aurantia Lucas, 1833,” and from that point on merely call it the yellow garden spider.

The American Arachnological Society’s most recent–yet admittedly out-of-date–list of common names is available here as a free pdf.

In order for this to be consistent, though, the organization must maintain a list of “approved common names.” You may have guessed from my usage that among all those common names for Argiope aurantia, the only one acceptable in a scientific publication of the American Arachnological Society–and therefore the only one I would use in casual conversation–is “yellow garden spider.”

At this writing, that spider list recognizes common names for only 220 spiders (of almost 49,000 described species), 131 mites, 48 scorpions, 3 harvestmen, 2 pseudoscorpions, and 1 vinegaroon.

The Entomological Society of America maintains its own list, 61 pages long (that’s about 2,400 species, but I’m not going to count them) of (mostly) insect common names approved for its publications (out of ca. 1 million described species).

These organizations take the recognition of common names quite seriously and have strict rules, not only for their acceptance, but for their syntax: E.g. “orbweaver” is one word (hyphens are eschewed), “leaffooted bug” takes no hyphen between the Fs, but “bug” is a separate word, as it is a “true bug”; a “sowbug” is not a bug (much less an insect) so it’s one word.

Furthermore, common names take no upper case, unless as the first word of a sentence or a proper noun: e.g. “American cockroach,” “Gertsch antmimic,” “McDaniel spider mite.”

This all matters. Well, maybe not for normal Homo sapiens, but for those of us nerds who really are concerned with knowing as closely as possible how any given critter is classified. Let’s face it: When telling your neighbor what’s climbing up his back, a “big ol’ red & black slimey, bitey-lookin’ thing” will still suffice.

*sigh*


*👆 The yellow garden spider (see what I did there?) is presumably called the “writing spider” ’round these parts because they spin a stabilimentum: i.e. a zigzag thickening of silk in the center of their their web, whereupon they rest. Local legend has it that if the spider writes your name in that zigzag, you’ll die that very night!
**👆 Unfortunately, banded garden spider is the accepted common name for a different species, viz. A. trifasciata (Forsskål,1775). This source of confusion highlights one of the problems with “unofficial” common names!
Argiope trifasciata, the banded garden spider
(This slightly cropped photo by John and Jane Balaban is used under
Creative Commons License)

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What’s in a Name, Pt 2.

Last time we discussed the process of naming biological organisms following Carl Linnaeus’s binomial nomenclatural system, i.e. each named critter has two parts to its name, a genus and a specific epithet. These names, by international agreement use Latin or Greek endings, so as an example of an odd species name, I mentioned “Cartwrightia cartwrighti Cartwright, 1967,” where:
1) the genus, Cartwrightia was created in 1958 to honor Oscar Cartwright who, in 1967,
2) named a new species in in that genus, cartwrighti, to honor of his brother, Raymond, and, since the Oscar named the species,
3) his name as author follows the species name, so we get yet another “Cartwright.”

But there are odder names! And, before I go any further, if you have any interest in this, please see the writings of Stephen B. Heard: His book, Charles Darwin’s Barnacle and David Bowie’s Spider is a delight. I learned of it from his highly entertaining and informative blog, Scientist Sees Squirrel.

Now, I confess that for most of my entomological career, I was a die-hard, stick-in-the-mud traditionalist who believed and espoused the notion that scientific names should be descriptive, e.g. Homo sapiens Linnaeus 1758. or Latrodectus mactans (Fabricius, 1775). The etymology of the former was discussed in my previous posting; the latter is interesting because the Greek Latrodectus can mean “secretly biting” and the Latin mactans can mean “slaughtering or killing.”

Oh, yeah–lest I forget–L. mactans is the spider commonly called a black widow.

Adult female Latrodectus mactans feeding on an American cockroach, Periplaneta americana Linnaeus, 1758

I grudgingly accepted naming species for scientists, such as Messrs. Cartwright, above, and even places; e.g. the defunct cockroach pictured above is in the genus Periplaneta, the Greek roots of which can mean “all around wanderer.” The species is P. americana: not too hard to figure that one out.

But I drew the line at non-scientists or even–perish the thought–fictional characters. Until, that is, my favorite cartoonist of all time was honored by having a chewing louse*👇, Strigiphilus**👇 garylarsoni Clayton, 1990 so-named in recognition of Larson’s “…enormous contribution…made to biology through [his] cartoons.”

Cool, right?

And then I saw this spider:

Article
Eriovixia gryffindori Ahmed et al., 2016
(Its head is downhill, to the left)

This, friends, is Eriovixia gryffindori Ahmed, Khalap & Sumukha, 2016. It’s commonly called the “Sorting Hat spider.” Definitely fictitious, right? But what a perfect name!

BTW, it could be a bit difficult to see this spider on dry leaves:

So not only have I come to accept fanciful names, I now embrace them. They stir my curiosity, and have led to many delightful hours of researching names and animals to which I would otherwise have paid no attention!

In closing, I give you the longest proposed scientific name, a fungus eponymously named for the famed town***👇 in Wales, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch: Myxococcus llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogochensis Chambers et al., 2020 (the “ensis” on the end indicating that it is named for that town).

Next time–the dread “common name”!


*👆 Chewing lice are commonly called “bird lice,” and this species is only found on owls.
**👆 Strigiphilus can be loosely translated as “bristle-lover”
***👆Google Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (without the “ensis”).

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