Don’t know if you heard. Someone just found a sabertooth kitten. It was dead, but still. It was fresh from the permafrost in Siberia and fully coated in rich reddish-brown fur. Only the head and forepaws remained, and in order for it to be so spectacularly mummified, it would have had to be buried quickly, and frozen. I can picture the little nipper chasing some chilly prehistoric shrew and jamming its adorable head with its little fuzzy ears into a hole when the frozen ground collapsed. The back bits were maybe scavenged right off but the buried bits stayed adorable for 35,000 years, and now we know what they look like. I cannot begin to parse why this feels so important.

It’s remarkable and a tribute to humanity that scientists can figure out so much about ancient creatures, from the slimmest of clues. We may be a sad, silly, doomed species, but we have Mozart, and hospice nurses, and now we have a sabertooth kitten head and people who know how to study it.

There is no protruding toothage. Science has estimated our little friend was three weeks old. Or, to give it its due, 35,000 years and three weeks old. It was dug out of a frozen riverbank in a sparkle of ice crystals and embedded in a protective cushion of sabertooth fairy dust.

Oh yes.There had to be a Sabertooth Fairy. I’m no expert, but these are mammals, and if they were born with saber teeth, I’m pretty sure Mom would have shut the door on their particular evolutionary track right quick.

Sabertooth cats do not have long, curved, conical teeth, like the canines of modern dogs or cats or Ricky Gervais, but long, curved, flat teeth with serrated edges. Which makes them somewhat more fragile. Rather than using them to puncture and immobilize prey at the neck vertebrae, it is assumed they used their massive claws to grob onto a large animal and then slash the Bejesus out of their bellies or throats with their saber teeth. Then they pop off behind a tree and wait for their prey to bleed out, quickly. Then it’s lunchtime. Yes, this happened before Bejesus existed, which just goes to show the retroactive impact he had.

A lot can be surmised by a critter’s dentition, and musculature, and the like. If, for instance, I were swallowed up by a landslide and dug up thousands of years from now, they’d take one look at my teeth—a chaotic jumble, not ever acting in concert and apparently in full stampede—and determine that I was a Jell-O-vore. They’d go further than that. I was obviously a social creature, because nothing—not my riotous teeth, not my spindly musculature, not the discovery of my remains in an deposit of maple sugar—indicated I would survive long without the support of my tribe. And I wouldn’t.

One thing that did disturb me was the passing mention that the kitten was found by scavengers searching for mammoth tusks in eastern Siberia. Uh-oh. Nothing about this sounded good, so I looked it up, and sure enough, it’s boom time for tusk-hunters. A mammoth tusk can net the finder the same amount of money he might make in a year at the crappy job he no longer has. So itinerant tusk prospectors are assaulting the riverbanks of Siberia with earth-moving equipment, evicting the topsoil, eroding the streams, smashing the landscape, and otherwise destroying the environment for short-term gain. Because money. Because our systems, world-wide, are set up to balloon the wealth of the wealthy, and not to benefit or support the concerns of the vast human sphere. It is simply a miracle, and an oversight, that whoever found a half a kitten did not recognize its worth, and it ended up in the hands of scientists and not collectors. Hobbyists. Hoarders.