The Violinist's Thumb: And Other Lost Tales of Love, War, and Genius, as Written by Our Genetic Code (20 page)

Rather than wring his hands over this technology (not all ancient viruses are benign) or prophesy doom about it falling into the wrong hands, Heidmann celebrated the resurrection as a scientific triumph, naming his virus
Phoenix
after the mythological bird that rose from its own ashes. Other scientists have replicated Heidmann’s work with other viruses, and together they founded a new discipline called paleovirology. Soft, tiny viruses don’t leave behind rocky fossils, like the ones paleontologists dig up, but the paleovirologists have something just as informative in fossil DNA.

Close examination of this “wet” fossil record suggests that our genome might be even more than 8 percent virus. In 2009,
scientists discovered in humans four stretches of DNA from something called the bornavirus, which has infected hoofed animals since time immemorial. (It’s named after a particularly nasty outbreak among horses in 1885, in a cavalry unit near Borna, Germany. Some of the army horses went stark mad and smashed their own skulls in.) About forty million years ago, a few stray bornaviruses jumped into our monkey ancestors and took refuge in their DNA. It had lurked undetected and unsuspected since then because bornavirus is not a retrovirus, so scientists didn’t think it had the molecular machinery to convert RNA to DNA and insert itself somewhere. But lab tests prove that bornavirus can indeed somehow weave itself into human DNA in as few as thirty days. And unlike the mute DNA we inherited from retroviruses, two of the four stretches of borna DNA work like bona fide genes.

Scientists haven’t pinned down what those genes do, but they might well make proteins we all need to live, perhaps by boosting our immune systems. Allowing a nonlethal virus to invade our DNA probably inhibits other, potentially worse viruses from doing the same. More important, cells can use benign virus proteins to fight off other infections. It’s a simple strategy, really: casinos hire card counters, computer security agencies hire hackers, and no one knows how to combat and neutralize viruses better than a reformed germ. Surveys of our genomes suggest that viruses gave us important regulatory DNA as well. For instance, we’ve long had enzymes in our digestive tracts to break down starches into simpler sugars. But viruses gave us switches to run those same enzymes in our saliva, too. As a result starchy foods taste sweet inside our mouths. We certainly wouldn’t have such a starch-tooth for breads, pastas, and grains without these switches.

These cases may be only the beginning. Almost half of human DNA consists of (à la Barbara McClintock) mobile elements and jumping genes. One transposon alone, the 300-base-long
alu,
appears a million times in human chromosomes and forms fully 10 percent of our genome. The ability of this DNA to detach itself from one chromosome, crawl to another, and burrow into it like a tick looks awfully viruslike. You’re not supposed to interject feelings into science, but part of the reason it’s so fascinating that we’re 8 percent (or more) fossilized virus is that it’s so creepy that we’re 8 percent (or more) fossilized virus. We have an inborn repugnance for disease and impurity, and we see invading germs as something to shun or drive out, not as intimate parts of ourselves—but viruses and viruslike particles have been tinkering with animal DNA since forever. As one scientist who tracked down the human bornavirus genes said, highlighting the singular, “Our whole notion of ourselves as a species is slightly misconceived.”

It gets worse. Because of their ubiquity, microbes of all kinds—not just viruses but bacteria and protozoa—can’t help but steer animal evolution. Obviously microbes shape a population by killing some creatures through disease, but that’s only part of their power. Viruses, bacteria, and protozoa bequeath new genes to animals on occasion, genes that can alter how our bodies work. They can manipulate animal minds as well. One Machiavellian microbe has not only colonized huge numbers of animals without detection, it has stolen animal DNA—and might even use that DNA to brainwash our minds for its own ends.

Sometimes you acquire wisdom the hard way. “You can visualize a hundred cats,” Jack Wright once said. “Beyond that, you can’t. Two hundred, five hundred, it all looks the same.” This wasn’t just speculation. Jack learned this because he and his wife, Donna, once owned a Guinness-certified world record 689 housecats.

It started with Midnight. Wright, a housepainter in Ontario, fell in love with a waitress named Donna Belwa around 1970,
and they moved in together with Donna’s black, long-haired cat. Midnight committed a peccadillo in the yard one night and became pregnant, and the Wrights didn’t have the heart to break up her litter. Having more cats around actually brightened the home, and soon after, they felt moved to adopt strays from the local shelter to save them from being put down. Their house became known locally as Cat Crossing, and people began dropping off more strays, two here, five there. When the
National Enquirer
held a contest in the 1980s to determine who had the most cats in one house, the Wrights won with 145. They soon appeared on
The Phil Donahue Show
, and after that, the “donations” really got bad. One person tied kittens to the Wrights’ picnic table and drove off; another shipped a cat via courier on a plane—and made the Wrights pay. But the Wrights turned no feline away, even as their brood swelled toward seven hundred.

Bills reportedly ran to $111,000 per year, including individually wrapped Christmas toys. Donna (who began working at home, managing Jack’s painting career) rose daily at 5:30 a.m. and spent the next fifteen hours washing soiled cat beds, emptying litter boxes, forcing pills down cats’ throats, and adding ice to kitty bowls (the friction of so many cats’ tongues made the water too warm to drink otherwise). But above all she spent her days feeding, feeding, feeding. The Wrights popped open 180 tins of cat food each day and bought three extra freezers to fill with pork, ham, and sirloin for the more finicky felines. They eventually took out a second mortgage, and to keep their heavily leveraged bungalow clean, they tacked linoleum to the walls.

Jack and Donna eventually put their four feet down and by the late 1990s had reduced the population of Cat Crossing to just 359. Almost immediately it crept back up, because they couldn’t bear to go lower. In fact, if you read between the lines here, the Wrights seemed almost addicted to having cats around—addiction being that curious state of getting acute pleasure and
acute anxiety from the same thing. Clearly they loved the cats. Jack defended his cat “family” to the newspapers and gave each cat an individual name,
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even the few that refused to leave his closet. At the same time, Donna couldn’t hide the torment of being enslaved to cats. “I’ll tell you what’s hard to eat in here,” she once complained, “Kentucky Fried Chicken. Every time I eat it, I have to walk around the house with the plate under my chin.” (Partly to keep cats away, partly to deflect cat hair from her sticky drumsticks.) More poignantly, Donna once admitted, “I get a little depressed sometimes. Sometimes I just say, ‘Jack, give me a few bucks,’ and I go out and have a beer or two. I sit there for a few hours and it’s great. It’s peaceful—no cats anywhere.” Despite these moments of clarity, and despite their mounting distress,
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she and Jack couldn’t embrace the obvious solution: ditch the damn cats.

To give the Wrights credit, Donna’s constant cleaning made their home seem rather livable, especially compared to the prehistoric filth of some hoarders’ homes. Animal welfare inspectors not infrequently find decaying cat corpses on the worst premises, even inside a home’s walls, where cats presumably burrow to escape. Nor is it uncommon for the floors and walls to rot and suffer structural damage from saturation with cat urine. Most striking of all, many hoarders deny that things are out of control—a classic sign of addiction.

Scientists have only recently begun laying out the chemical and genetic basis of addiction, but growing evidence suggests that cat hoarders cling to their herds at least partly because they’re hooked on a parasite,
Toxoplasma gondii.
Toxo is a one-celled protozoan, kin to algae and amoebas; it has eight thousand genes. And though originally a feline pathogen, Toxo has diversified its portfolio and can now infect monkeys, bats, whales, elephants, aardvarks, anteaters, sloths, armadillos, and marsupials, as well as chickens.

Wild bats or aardvarks or whatever ingest Toxo through infected prey or feces, and domesticated animals absorb it indirectly through the feces found in fertilizers. Humans can also absorb Toxo through their diet, and cat owners can contract it through their skin when they handle kitty litter. Overall it infects one-third of people worldwide. When Toxo invades mammals, it usually swims straight for the brain, where it forms tiny cysts, especially in the amygdala, an almond-shaped region in the mammal brain that guides the processing of emotions, including pleasure and anxiety. Scientists don’t know why, but the amygdala cysts can slow down reaction times and induce jealous or aggressive behavior in people. Toxo can alter people’s sense of smell, too. Some cat hoarders (those most vulnerable to Toxo) become immune to the pungent urine of cats—they stop smelling it. A few hoarders, usually to their great shame, reportedly even crave the odor.

Toxo does even stranger things to rodents, a common meal for cats. Rodents that have been raised in labs for hundreds of generations and have never seen a predator in their whole lives will still quake in fear and scamper to whatever cranny they can find if exposed to cat urine; it’s an instinctual, totally hardwired fear. Rats exposed to Toxo have the opposite reaction. They still fear other predators’ scents, and they otherwise sleep, mate, navigate mazes, nibble fine cheese, and do everything else normally. But these rats adore cat urine, especially male rats. In fact they more than adore it. At the first whiff of cat urine, their amygdalae throb, as if meeting females in heat, and their testicles swell. Cat urine gets them off.

Toxo toys with mouse desire like this to enrich its own sex life. When living inside the rodent brain, Toxo can split in two and clone itself, the same method by which most microbes reproduce. It reproduces this way in sloths, humans, and other species, too. Unlike most microbes, though, Toxo can also have
sex (don’t ask) and reproduce sexually—but only in the intestines of cats. It’s a weirdly specific fetish, but there it is. Like most organisms, Toxo craves sex, so no matter how many times it has passed its genes on through cloning, it’s always scheming to get back inside those erotic cat guts. Urine is its opportunity. By making mice attracted to cat urine, Toxo can lure them toward cats. Cats happily play along, of course, and pounce, and the morsel of mouse ends up exactly where Toxo wanted to be all along, in the cat digestive tract. Scientists suspect that Toxo learned to work its mojo in other potential mammal meals for a similar reason, to ensure that felines of all sizes, from tabbies to tigers, would keep ingesting it.

This might sound like a just-so story so far—a tale that sounds clever but lacks real evidence. Except for one thing. Scientists have discovered that two of Toxo’s eight thousand genes help make a chemical called dopamine. And if you know anything about brain chemistry, you’re probably sitting up in your chair about now. Dopamine helps activate the brain’s reward circuits, flooding us with good feelings, natural highs. Cocaine, Ecstasy, and other drugs also play with dopamine levels, inducing artificial highs. Toxo has the gene for this potent, habit-forming chemical in its repertoire—twice—and whenever an infected brain senses cat urine, consciously or not, Toxo starts pumping it out. As a result, Toxo gains influence over mammalian behavior, and the dopamine hook might provide a plausible biological basis for hoarding cats.
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Toxo isn’t the only parasite that can manipulate animals. Much like Toxo, a certain microscopic worm prefers paddling around in the guts of birds but often gets ejected, forcefully, in bird droppings. So the ejected worm wriggles into ants, turns them cherry red, puffs them up like Violet Beauregarde, and convinces other birds they’re delicious berries. Carpenter ants also fall victim to a rain-forest fungus that turns them into
mindless zombies. First the fungus hijacks an ant’s brain, then pilots it toward moist locations, like the undersides of leaves. Upon arriving, the zombified ant bites down, and its jaws lock into place. The fungus turns the ant’s guts into a sugary, nutritious goo, shoots a stalk out of its brain, and sends out spores to infect more ants. There’s also the so-called Herod bug—the
Wolbachia
bacteria, which infects wasps, mosquitoes, moths, flies, and beetles.
Wolbachia
can reproduce only inside female insects’ eggs, so like Herod in the Bible, it often slaughters infant males wholesale, by releasing genetically produced toxins. (In certain lucky insects,
Wolbachia
has mercy and merely fiddles with the genes that determine sex in insects, converting male grubs into females ones—in which case a better nickname might be the Tiresias bug.) Beyond creepy-crawlies, a lab-tweaked version of one virus can turn polygamous male voles—rodents who normally have, as one scientist put it, a “country song… love ’em and leave ’em” attitude toward vole women—into utterly faithful stay-at-home husbands, simply by injecting some repetitive DNA “stutters” into a gene that adjusts brain chemistry. Exposure to the virus arguably even made the voles smarter. Instead of blindly having sex with whatever female wandered near, the males began associating sex with one individual, a trait called “associative learning” that was previously beyond them.