The octopus is nature’s ultimate multitasker: master of disguise, escape artist, and owner of not one, not two, but three hearts. This cephalopod quirk sounds like overengineering, but it’s all part of a survival strategy that’s equal parts genius and absurd. While humans struggle to keep one heart healthy, octopuses juggle three—and still find time to solve puzzles and unscrew jars.
Here’s how it works: two of the hearts, called branchial hearts, pump blood to the gills, where it picks up oxygen. The third, the systemic heart, sends that oxygen-rich blood to the rest of the body. But there’s a catch. When an octopus starts swimming—awkwardly jetting through the water like a deflating balloon—the systemic heart stops beating. This forces the octopus to rely on its two gill hearts, making swimming a surprisingly exhausting activity. No wonder they prefer crawling along the seafloor. It’s the marine equivalent of your car stalling every time you hit the highway.
Why evolve such a convoluted system? Blame their blue blood—literally. Octopuses use copper-based hemocyanin instead of iron-based hemoglobin to transport oxygen, which is less efficient in warm environments but works brilliantly in cold, deep waters. The three-heart setup helps compensate for this by keeping blood pressure high enough to supply their active lifestyle and large brains. Yes, octopuses are essentially underwater geniuses with a cardiovascular system designed by a committee.
The hearts’ odd behavior doesn’t end there. When an octopus flees a predator, its systemic heart kicks back into gear, reviving circulation for a quick escape. But this burst of activity leaves the animal so drained that it often needs a timeout afterward. Imagine sprinting for your life and then needing a nap just to recover from the effort of sprinting.
The three-heart system also explains why octopuses hate being out of water. On land, gravity strains their hearts, and the systemic heart can’t cope without buoyancy. Even brief exposure can be fatal—a design flaw that makes them the ultimate homebodies of the ocean.
Humans might find this setup bizarre, but octopuses make it work. Their two gill hearts even have a backup plan: if one fails, the other can take over both jobs temporarily. Talk about teamwork. Of course, all three hearts share one tragic flaw: they stop beating for good after the octopus mates. Most octopuses live only 1–3 years, their hearts ticking down like a biological hourglass.
So, next time you see an octopus lounging in a reef, remember: beneath that relaxed exterior are three hearts working overtime. Two are keeping the lights on, and one is just waiting for a reason to quit. It’s a reminder that evolution doesn’t always prioritize elegance—sometimes it just slaps on extra parts and hopes for the best. And in the octopus’s case, it worked. After all, they’ve survived for 300 million years, outlasting dinosaurs and reality TV. Maybe three hearts aren’t such a bad idea after all. Just don’t ask them to go for a jog.
