Last time I promised you exciting news about sauropod neck-muscle mass. Let none say that I do not fulfil covenents. And, as usual, when talking about sauropod neck muscle mass, I’m going to start by talking about bird legs. Look at this flamingo:

Ridiculous, right? Those legs are like matchsticks. How can they possibly work. Where are the muscles?

And the answer of course is that they’re on this ostrich:

Check out those huge drumsticks!

Birds make it easier to move their legs by lightening them: shifting the muscles proximally and operating the legs via tendons. (I assume that if we could see the behind the feathers of the flamingo, we’d see a similar, though smaller, “drumstick” at the top of the tibiotarsus.) Lighter legs are easier to shift back and forth, and help to make the ostrich such a superb long-distance runner.

Cursorial mammals do something similar, though perhaps not to the same extent as birds: look how all the muscle mass in this pronghorn’s legs is concentrated at the top.

(This seems to be less true of short-distance speed-runners like the cheetah, where the sheer amount of muscle mass may be more important.)

That’s all very well, Mike, but what has it got to do with sauropod necks?

Well, cursorial animals need to shift muscle mass proximally to reduce the energy required to keep moving their legs back and forth. And in the same way, sauropods needed to shift the muscles of their necks proximally to reduce the sheer weight of the neck. With sauropod necks, it’s not so much a matter of being able to move the neck around quickly (although shifting muscle proximally will help with that, too): it’s about being able to keep the darned thing up at all.

Just as the proximally located leg muscles of birds operate their legs by tendons, so proximally located neck muscles in sauropods — whether proximally within the neck, or even moved right back onto the torso — would have operated the neck by tendons. We know from histological studies including Klein et al. (2012) that the long cervical ribs found in many sauropods are ossified tendons, and a full decade ago we argued in Taylor and Wedel (2013) that this ossification occurred to avoid the energy wastage involved in stretching tendons — the same reason the the tendons in the distal limb segments of birds also ossify.

So far, so good: we’ve discussed all this before. The question is this: what were diplodocids doing? We’ve argued, at least to our own satisfaction, that shifting muscles proximally and ossifying the tendons is a good thing for sauropod necks, yet diplodocids (and other sauropods with short cervical ribs) were evidently not doing this. Why not?

One important question is, what exactly were they not doing? Were they still shifting the muscles proximally, but not ossifying the tendons? Or were they not shifting the muscles proximally at all? We’re arguing, at least tentatively, that the evidence of bifurcated cervical ribs suggests the flexor colli lateralis muscles were single-segment. But I don’t think it follows that the longus collus ventralis muscles were necessarily also single-segment. It’s possible that they were still multi-segment muscles, but that the tendons remained unossified in diplodocids for some reason. But if so, what reason?

Suppose for a moment that in diplodocids the ventral muscles, as well as the lateral ones, were single-segment. If apatosaurine necks being used in combat, as we think, and there was an evolutionary advantage to increasing the ventral muscle mass, then they would not have had the option of larger muscles more proximally, operated via long ossified tendons. Their only option would have been to make those single-segment muscles larger — which could be the origin of the gigantic cervical ribs in apatosaurines.

Or perhaps the important movements in apatosaurine neck combat were lateral movements. In this case it might make sense for the neck to become deeper just to provide enough space for large (i.e. dorsoventrally deep) lateral muscles.

Finally, one more thought: all of this is to do with ventral and lateral musculature, but what about dorsal muscles (longus colli dorsalis, intercristales and interspinales)? One would expect these to be much larger and more significant, given the problem of holding up a multi-ton neck at all, let alone moving it around. Yet we see no osteological evidence of special morphology here, beyond relatively small epipophyses.

We discuss this in our 2013 paper, starting at the bottom of page 26 — see the section “Asymmetric elongation of cervical ribs and epipophyses”. In fact, since the relevant part of this section is short, I’ll just quote it here:

Why did sauropod necks not evolve this way [with posteriorly elongated epipophyses]? In fact, there are several likely reasons.

  • First, positioning and moving the neck for feeding would have required fine control, and precise movements requires short levers.

  • Second, although bone is much stiffer than tendon, it is actually not as strong in tension, so that an ossified tendon is more likely to break under load.

  • Third, muscles expand transversely when contracted lengthways. For epaxial muscles in sauropods necks, this expansion would strongly bend ossified epipophyseal tendons, subjecting them to greater stress than simple longitudinal tension. (The same effect would also have caused some bending of cervical ribs, but the lower stresses in ventral musculature would have reduced the effect.)

Truthfully, I have never found this section 100% persuasive. The reasons we give for not elongating the epipophyses make sense so far as they go, but they don’t do much to explain why we see absolutely no obvious muscle-attachment modifications in the dorsal parts of sauropod vertebrae.

Or maybe we do, but we’re just not recognizing them?

What are we failing to see?

References

 


doi:10.59350/7ppge-gpg13

On the excellent and convivial social network Mastodon, someone going by the handle “gay ornithopod” asked what turned out to be a fascinating question:

What are your thoughts on how the coloration of sauropods would change as they matured? What would you expect to see for example on this guy in comparison with an adult?

My first response was that we can only say it’s not unusual for extant animals to change colour through ontogeny, so the null hypothesis would have to be that at least some sauropods (and other dinosaurs) did the same. But I don’t think we have any information on the specific coloration.

At this point Adam Yates chipped in to observe that:

While we can’t know (as already discussed), it is my experience that the overwhelming pattern is for colours to become duller and patterns more muted as animals age.

That was surprising to me. I found myself thinking about all the birds that hatch out an undistinguished brown color, and develop spectacular colours as they age. Adam pointed out:

Yes there are those, but for everyone of those I’ll show you a lizard, snake or crocodylian with wonderful, vivid colours and patterns when young that fades with age (classic example is the Komodo Dragon).

I hadn’t know that Komodo Dragons hatch as colourful little critters, before later adopting their classic muted grey-green colour, but check out the photos and videos at ZooBorns:

Beautiful.

So this is interesting: it seems birds do one thing (become more colourful through ontogeny) while crocs and other reptiles do the opposite.

So the phylogenetic bracket is of little use to us here. Somewhere along the line from the most recent common ancestor of birds and crocs to modern birds, the ontogenetic trajectory flipped … but where along that line? With what implications for other dinosaur groups?

It’s a decent bet that primitive dinosaurs such as Saturnalia retained the ancestral condition, and became progressively less flamboyant through ontogeny, whereas bird-like raptors such as our old buddy Velociraptor assumed their most colourful plumage later in life. But what about sauropods? I’m not sure there’s any way to tell.

In classic palaeoart, sauropods were always a uniform greenish grey or brownish grey, or just plain grey. In more modern palaeoart we are seeing far more interesting colours and patterns: for example, the vivid black/white contrasts in John Conway’s Dreadnoughtus:

But if such patterning did occur, was it in juveniles or adults? (Or both, of course.)

I would like to understand why crocs and lizards have the trajectory they do. It’s easy to understand that juvenile birds are nondescript to avoid predation, but adults become more visible to attract mates. But how does the opposite trend make any sense? How is it of use to baby lizards to be highly visible?

Thoughts?

 


doi:10.59350/axx5z-v8w06

Taylor 2015: Figure 8. Cervical vertebrae 4 (left) and 6 (right) of Giraffatitan brancai lectotype MB.R.2180 (previously HMN SI), in posterior view. Note the dramatically different aspect ratios of their cotyles, indicating that extensive and unpredictable crushing has taken place. Photographs by author.

Here are cervicals 4 and 8 from MB.R.2180, the big mounted Giraffatitan in Berlin. Even though this is one of the better sauropod necks in the world, the vertebrae have enough taphonomic distortion that trying to determine what neutral, uncrushed shape they started from is not easy.

Wedel and Taylor 2013b: Figure 3. The caudal vertebrae of ostriches are highly pneumatic. This mid-caudal vertebra of an ostrich (Struthio camelus), LACM Bj342, is shown in dorsal view (top), anterior, left lateral, and posterior views (middle, left to right), and ventral view (bottom). The vertebra is approximately 5cm wide across the transverse processes. Note the pneumatic foramina on the dorsal, ventral, and lateral sides of the vertebra.

Here’s one of the free caudal vertebrae of an ostrich, Struthio camelus, LACM Ornithology Bj342. It’s a bit asymmetric–the two halves of the neural spine are aimed in slightly different directions, and one transverse process is angled just slightly differently than the other–but the asymmetry is pretty subtle and the rest of the vertebral column looks normal, so I don’t think this rises to the level of pathology. It looks like the kind of minor variation that is present in all kinds of animals, especially large-bodied ones.

This is a dorsal vertebra of a rhea, Rhea americana, LACM Ornithology 97479, in posteroventral view. Ink pen for scale. I took this photo to document the pneumatic foramina and related bone remodeling on the dorsal roof of the neural canal, but I’m showing it here because in technical terms this vert is horked. It’s not subtly asymmetric, it’s grossly so, with virtually every feature–the postzygapophyses, diapophyses, parapophyses, and even the posterior articular surface of the centrum–showing fairly pronounced differences from left to right.

That rhea dorsal looks pretty bad for dry bone from a recently-dead extant animal, but if it was from the Morrison Formation it would be phenomenal. If I found a sauropod vertebra that looked that good, I’d think, “Hey, this thing’s in pretty good shape! Only a little distorted.” The roughed-up surface of the right transverse process might give me pause, and I’d want to take a close look at those postzygs, but most of this asymmetry is consistent with what I’d expect from taphonomic distortion.

Which brings me to my titular question, which I am asking out of genuine ignorance and not in a rhetorical or leading way: can we tell these things apart? And if so, with what degree of confidence? I know there has been a lot of work on 3D retrodeformation over the past decade and a half at least, but I don’t know whether this specific question has been addressed.

Corollary question: up above I wrote, “It looks like the kind of minor variation that is present in all kinds of animals, especially large-bodied ones”. My anecdotal experience is that the vertebrae of large extant animals tend to be more asymmetric than those of small extant animals, but I don’t know if that’s a real biological phenomenon–bone is bone but big animals have larger forces working on their skeletons, and they typically live longer, giving the skeleton more time to respond to those forces–OR if the asymmetry is the same in large and small animals and it’s just easier to see in the big ones.

If either of those questions has been addressed, I’d be grateful for pointers in the comments, and thanks in advance. If one or both have not been addressed, I think they’re interesting but Mike and I have plenty of other things to be getting on with and we’re not planning to work on either one, hence the “Hey, you! Want a project?” tag.

References

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