Well, as I said earlier, I was not being too serious, and I’m kind of disappointed that no one has shown up with a picture of a deer neck bone yet. I actually found pictures of a couple examples, but I have no way to scan them; sorry. They’re on pp. 150-151 of Vertebrate Fossils: A Neophyte’s Guide by Frank A. Kocsis Jr, for those playing along at home. Frank’s examples are from the Pleistocene, but they look to be a reasonable match to my untutored eye. However they both only measure 3’’ wide. On the other hand, the atlas of the modern bison (which I assume, without any real attempt to check, is closer in proportion to modern domestic cattle) is 8’’ wide, so it seems like a deer might be the better guess after all.
On preview, I see astro managed to scare up some deer neck photos! Bravo! On the other hand, that was apparently an 8-month old deer whose atlas was deformed to begin with, so some variation is perhaps to be expected.
Anyhoo, the real issue here is why modern taxonomy continues to dance around the issue of people being fish. Look at you, using carefully parsed evasions like “fishlike vertebrates.” Yet earlier you had no trouble conceding that “we are Osteichthyes,” and you also defined Osteichthyes as “bony fish…” immediately after assuring us that taxonomists don’t recognize the term “fish.”
I’m sorry, “bony” what? I didn’t quite catch that, could you repeat it a bit louder, without the parentheses? You say we Osteichthyes are “bony,” I got that… but “bony” what? What else are we besides bony?
Say it. Say you’re a fish.
SAY IT.
It makes me uncomfortable? I’m not the one running away from the logical conclusion here. Or should I say “swimming?”
And I think you’re overstating the obscurity of Linnaean taxonomy. Every kid knows that whales aren’t fish; that’s because Linnaeus could give them a list of distinct characteristics explaining why they aren’t fish. Go out and ask a 10-year old whether a whale is a fish or not. But now whales are fish again… Opps, “bony fish.” Only modern taxonomy has no interest in explaining why whales are bony fish, or even admitting that whales are fish. Instead they prefer to claim that fish don’t exist.
So I’m mostly sad for that little kid who just won a goldfish at the state fair, and who might have run up to a taxonomist to show it off, as kids often do. “Look what I got!” he would cry, face alight with pride and wonder, holding up the little bowl. “What kind of fish is this?” And the Linnaean taxonomist would kneel down and tell the child about goldfish, and explain their domestication from Asian carp, and point out the features that show how that child’s humble goldfish is related to the mighty shark, and how more distant relatives evolved new features to become frogs, and reptiles, and even people. And the child would look at that goldfish with new eyes, and his wondering mind would be opened to a life appreciating all the interconnected intricacy and mystery of nature.
But no longer. Now that big-eyed kid runs up to you, and asks you to tell him what fish it is, and you look at him with stern contempt and declare: “There is no fish.”
And that kid’s huge puppy eyes fill with confusion and hurt and tears, and he runs away in shame, having learned never to trust again. And that memory festers into a phobia of sharing experiences; he becomes bitter and introverted, unwilling to acknowledge doubt; scornful and contemptuous of those around them.
And when he hits college, he eventually gravitates to taxonomy, so it all works out after all. And he spends the rest of his life terrorizing children: “Say, what’s your favorite fish? WRONG! There ARE no fish! What’s the difference between birds and reptiles? WRONG! Trick question! Go get me the belt.”
I would be happy to discuss it further, but we’ve gotten well off track here.
