"Mesabi"

Tom Russell has a new album coming this fall, called Mesabi after the Iron Range mining country of northern Minnesota (Hibbing, home of Bob, Dylan stands there). It’s one of the best yet from the man who might be America’s best songwriter storyteller.

Tom’s work is unique. It is not just that he is hard to categorize, though that is part of it-- I have heard him described as a folksinger, a country singer, a cowboy singer and – the term he prefers – an “American composer.” I have even heard him called a “Neo-Beat”, though his work in that vein has more to do with the strangeness and delights and weirdness of a youth in Southern California, when you could still believe it was a Golden State.

No; I think that one of the unique things about Tom is that he keeps on growing, with a body of writing ripening like old whiskey in oak kegs. As Libby says, the songs on Mesabi could not have been written by a young man. Many are sad but none are cheaply sentimental – see “Farewell Never Never Land”, where child actor turned junkie Bobby Driscoll snarls at a young Tom Russell “like a dog with a bone.”

The album is a ramble through Tom’s life, from its roots in a surreal but still shining California, through dreams and movies, to his present querencia of El Paso and, standing just across a border at once as porous as a sieve and starkly real, its dark twin Juarez. Tom, resisting every fashion, moved to El Paso in 1997 to become the primo bard of our sometimes deadly and ever- fascinating borderlands. Outsiders will never get it, but it’s a writers country, with a vein of stories that will never be exhausted. (Warren Zevon on LA : “They say this place is evil- that ain’t why I stay…”)

A sampler:

The album begins with the song “Mesabi”, a rousing kick-off that manages to combine Dylan’s youth there and Tom’s in LA, and maybe those of all of us drawn to wandering and storytelling, who as Kipling wrote “… yearned beyond the skyline where the strange roads go down”; those who would sing with Tom “Please don’t let me do the work my father did!” Its landscape runs from the iron-cold borders of the north to the alluring ones of the south, the home in his youth of “La Bamba” and mythical dark- eyed maidens.

“Farewell Never Never Land”: I thought I wouldn’t like this one as I’ve never had a whole lot of use for Peter Pan. I was wrong. Some perceptive writing teacher – William Kittredge? – said that good writing must approach the edge of sentimentality without ever going over that edge. The song balances “straight on til morning” against the scornful unyielding pride of former child actor Bobby Driscoll; like so many of Tom’s songs its virtues are as literary as they are musical, except that you don’t find yourself singing short stories.

Same goes for his remarkable evocation of Sterling Hayden, a larger than life figure who would not fit into today’s Hollywood (there are a lot of these characters inhabiting Tom’s work). Hayden was a Gloucester fisherman on a sailing ship, then a Hollywood star. Then he threw it away: then he wrote a good book about that. His autobiographical book The Wanderer has always been a favorite of mine. Tom “digs him up again”* with a perfect portrait.

In “The Land Called Way Out There” Tom departs southern California with a song about the death of James Dean, a song about dread and the chill of mortality; a haunted ballad that will scare you into a cold sweat at 2AM. Or perhaps his actual farewell to California is in “Roll the Credits Johnny”, a romantic – in the best of senses – tribute to movies as they were, when they still meant something.

And so we arrive at the border. “God Created Bordertowns” is merry, a carnival song – but the carnival is El Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, and the dancers are grinning skeletons in fancy dress. “Good Night Juarez” is another song on the same imaginary soundtrack that also features the Anglo’s narcocorrida “Hills of Old Juarez” from 2001, which in retrospect saw the current plight of what some call Murder City better than any politician or analyst – the poet’s curse. And you don’t have to watch it on television – if you live in El Paso, you can look across the river from your top floor windows and watch it unfold. If you have a heart, “Good Night Juarez” should break it.

The album returns to serenity, as it should, with “Love Abides”, but not without a detour through the elegant but somehow ominous“Jai Alai”, about an aging pelota player. The bonus tracks are interesting too. “The Road to Nowhere”, from the newly released Monty Hellman movie of the same name, makes me want to see the movie. But the remarkable cover, with Lucinda Williams and Calexico, of Bob Dylan’s most haunting song “Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall”, made my hair stand on end. I never thought anything could beat the original, but this one does.

This album won’t be out until fall, when Tom will be touring. If you’d like to hear these ballads live, check out the schedule on his website and make sure you catch him when he comes to your town.

* Tom and I both like to plant quotes and references.So OK, scholars: what am I almost quoting here?

Update: it occurs that I should add a note on Tom's art book Blue Horse/Red Desert: The Art of Tom Russell, coming in the fall from Bangtail Press. I have already sent some thoughts on the subject to them:

I have a lot of art on my walls, from Giorgio di Chirico to Russ Chatham to folk paintings by Mongolian nomads. But lately one that hangs right here by my desk catches my and everyone else's eye; a little oil of a crazy spangled border rooster, the Gallo de Cielo himself, by songwriter and artist Tom Russell.

Style? I suspect Picasso and other great faux- naif Euro tricksters were in his head first, but I see affinities everywhere in the west and especially in our southwestern "querencia": all things New Mexican and Mexican, Border and Desert: santos, retablos, El Dia de los Muertos and La Virgen de Guadalupe; Colima pottery dogs and Plains Indian paintings, stories and songs on hides and tipis.

And the subjects are pure Tom Russell, out of his unique songbook: not just the mestizo border but also cowboys and Indians and dancing skeletons with sixguns; horses and dogs and roosters and flowers; and, further off in geography and time but still a part of Tom's world, boxers and beats and bluesmen and old rock and rollers, the fifties that formed us-- his is a wild wide world. Buy this book for a window into it...

Gun News

New grips from Herrett's for my odd (unique?) but useful little S & W .22. I have put Herrett stocks on all my DA revolvers for years-- I recommend them without reservation.


The other? Well, I have cut my "collection" radically to what I can really use. But-- well, here is what i wrote to my friend Daniel in California who might possibly also be addicted to Good Stuff:

"I did something-- not DUMB, but faintly embarrassing-- I somewhat impulsively acquired-- NOT "bought", my excuse-- another shotgun-!

"What happened: I had a large amount of non- cash credit at Ron's from getting rid of my "collection", too much to get back in cash by far. It wasn't burning a hole in my pocket, but as Lib helpfully reminded me its cash value was shrinking.

"I was reading over a lot of vintage stuff for the project. Deep in Elmer Keith I casually remarked:"You know, if I could find a classic US double in 16/ 28', say 6 1/2 or almost 7 pounds-- a "Keith- Askins" rather than a 26" "O'Connor"-- it would be cool to get it for sit- down dove and the rare duck-- at least if we didn't have to pay-- maybe even open it up for steel-- barrels would be thick..." Just musing. Dear enabling Lib said, "well, if Ron got one in". Still fantasizing I said, "Parkers and Foxes are too expensive, LC's too iffy, Lefevers too old. Now IF he ever got a 16 Ithaca NID..."

"Understand, though I was looking at photos in Elmer's '49 (?) book I hadn't seen one in a decade...

"SO I walk in last Sat on our way to SF and there is, of course, a plain Field Grade NID 16 with 28" barrels.

"It was (not badly) refinished which cut price but not offensive to me. All functional, good trigger pulls, safety built up to use with gloves and NON auto-- both pluses. It is a "57 Chevy" (actually made in 1936) to [any car geeks out there?] the Manufrance's Citroen "Traction Avant" or the Sidley's-- ??-- MG TC, but that is OK. It CRIES for a vintage Chevy- esque red rubber recoil "Ithaca sunburst" recoil pad which I have already ordered. It weighs the desired six and a half, has a pistol grip, and is SCARILY tightly choked as it is marked and EK liked-- some must come out or I will pulverize anything under 40 yards!

"No excuse at all for more unless I lose one of these-- unlikely!"

Daniel kindly reassured me:

"Incredible story about the Ithaca 16 - no mere coincidence that, or addict's relapse, "someone" was looking out for you (although I did like the description "dear enabling Lib"). Thank goodness I don't have a place like Ron's to pass by on my way into the city..."

Any rate, here it is:



On deck: dog pix (mine and relatives); River Monsters; a preview of new Tom Russell stuff, an interview with Lauren, and probably more, bigger, better & worse...

Stealth of the Chicken Hunter

Just before Christmas last year, I lost my best girlfriend to breast cancer. I’m thankful that although Sheri’s no longer physically present in my life, her spirit endures, and that wild woman’s genes are coursing through the veins of her granddaughter, Kylie. A few days ago, Kylie’s mother looked out the window to catch Kylie outside, sneaking up on the chickens, with bow and arrow, ready to let ‘er rip! This image gives me great joy – she’s making her grandma proud.

Elisha Tripp, 1974- 2011

Eli Tripp, one of Jackson's two closest high school friends and a constant presence in our lives during the Bozeman years, died this week of complications of Cystic Fibrosis. He was 37 and fought himself and his disease to remarkably good health for years. CF is still a killer though.

His obit in the Bozeman Daily Chronicle gives a hint of his unique personality and interests.

"Elisha Stetson Tripp passed away Tuesday, May 10, 2011, at his home in Bozeman due to complications from cystic fibrosis. Eli was born in St. Johnsbury, Vt., on Dec. 21, 1974, to Patricia Stetson and Nathaniel Tripp.

"In 1982, Eli moved to Big Timber where he attended Big Timber Grade School and The Bridge School, graduating from Headwaters Academy in Bozeman.

"Eli loved all things outdoors. He thoroughly enjoyed growing up between the Big Timber ranch and the Vermont farm. Exploring, hiking, fishing and hunting were some of his early passions. Springtime would find him with his new hatchlings of goslings, ducklings or chicks, trailing behind him. He especially relished summers, canoeing and camping with his father and his brother, Sam.

"In addition to taking courses at NYU Film School and MSU, Eli was a student of life, backpacking in Europe and the Arizona desert. He filmed, painted, sculpted and chronicled the many challenges of his life through epic poetry. He had a voracious taste for film, literature and a passion for science. He loved opera, riding his motorcycle, dancing, singing, working his bird dogs, gardening and cooking. But most of all he loved spending hours playing with his kids and teaching them all he knew. Huge bonfires, star gazing, rock hunting, studying animal tracks, playing pirates.

"Eli loved to help others. He trained as an EMT, worked in search and rescue, volunteered on the Gallatin County Sheriff's Posse and was a lieutenant in the Sweet Grass County Sheriff's Auxiliary. He was an expert shot, a trained sniper for law enforcement, and a founder/partner in Templar Tactical, a Bozeman-based manufacturer of high-quality firearms.

"Eli was a mentor, inspiration and hero to the cystic fibrosis community. He was always on the cutting edge of research with his friend and long-time doctor, Frank Accurso, of Denver Children's Hospital. Eli was relentless in his CF treatments and self-care. He beat the odds. Despite obstacles that would stop most others, Eli lived each day to the fullest, with memorable humor and few complaints."

Libby said that in their teens Jack, Eli, and Chris "were a combination of the Three Musketeers and the Three Stooges". I remember them hunting and camping out and blowing up toy soldiers, grilling Cornish hens and "eating them like dogs", and catapulting a roadkill gopher in a plastic bag into the trees of a hostile neighbor. I remember Eli's annoyance when the Crow shaman who cut all of our hair could not figure out how to dye his hair "chrome". I remember his utter delight at-- fourteen?-- when he asked me why I kept handguns and I said simply "To shoot bad people with". He was hip and green but always a fan of the Second Amendment. He was never the slightest bit conventional. I still treasure a predator skull of dubious legality he found on the family ranch and gave us for a wedding present.

His life became difficult but he never gave up. Jack and Chris up in Washington were planning a trip out to see him when his time ran out. We will miss him, but Eli always knew how to live, perhaps in part because he never doubted he would die.

Andrey's Photos

Andrey Kovalenko, ornithologist, breeder of our Kyran, and ace photographer, has a new wildlife photo site. He travels all over Central Asia but I bet more of them are from his own Kazakhstan , with its incredibly varied landscape, than anywhere else. Here is an example, plus one of him with Kyran's father Berkut and with Lib and fellow photographer Oleg Belyalov in the Tian Shan.

Commonplace Book

Another good quote: Samuel Johnson from Boswell's Life:

"Questioning is not the mode of conversation among gentlemen. It is assuming a superiority, and it is particularly wrong to question a man concerning himself. There may be parts of his former life he may not wish to be made known to other persons, or even brought to his own recollection."


This HAS to be the ultimate source of Patrick O'Brian's Diana Maturin's " I do not find Question and Answer a Liberal form of conversation..."

Sent by commenter "rob's uncle" on just that subject-- emphasis his.

Some Evo Books...

A friend of a friend, who was not as I was raised in what I might called the Evolutionary Tradition (but most emphatically in the religious one), wrote something disbelieving of evo orthodoxy. Often such things raise my hackles. But this seemed a golden moment to sway minds rather than be snarky, so I responded carefully. This is a modified version.

I was raised in the Catholic church and with evolution, which church contrary to pop think has never had a problem with it as it treats the bible allegorically. (And I am not speaking about po- mo liberalism-- my first evo bio was taught in a Catholic school pre- Vatican 2, ca 1960!) I went on to study populations and evolutionary biology with a side of genetics at U Mass Boston starting in 68. Eventually my literary side took over and after six years of doing both I left but I came within an organic chem course or two of getting my degree so I am not exactly a “layman”.

So: here is a short course of books I have found illuminating or even entertaining but with substance, about the evidence for evolution, the truth of its existence, and the non- existence of any conflict between it and religions not based on literal readings of ancient books. I do not have too much energy to argue these days-- health pretty good but typing will never be good again-- but perhaps perusal of these will preclude argument?

First the great pain in the arse’s first NON pain in the arse book, though far from his first good one-- for that you have to go back to The Selfish Gene and the knottier but probably better Extended Phenotype: Richard Dawkins’The Greatest Show on Earth. Dawkins’ books have infuriated me for years because of his unnecessary attacks on religion, since he is the most lucid “explainer” around. In this book he makes explicit and (almost) un- grudging peace with the religious in order to-- why I am recommending it-- give the best account of macroevolution for the layman available, explicitly including transition fossils. It is The Best Example of its kind.

Sean B Carroll is a former Catholic school boy (like me he learned his evolution there first) with a much sunnier view of religion than Dawkins, who is both an evo- bio guy and a good writer about some of the mechanisms that drive it and the history of its discoverers. Endless Forms Most Beautiful, on "Evo- Devo", is one of his best.

Francis Collins is a Christian biologist who has spent a lot of time reconciling science and religion. He is a good friend of the (dying?) atheist firebrand and excellent writer Christopher Hitchens, who has stated in print that he both respects his science and-- no Dawkins he-- is grateful for his prayers if skeptical of their efficacy. The Language of God is probably the best one to start with.

I can think of many other books but frankly if these don’t demonstrate both a strong case for (macro) evolution and transition fossils AND the compatibility of sane science and sane religion I doubt anything will.

Against some po- mo arguments that science is just another "belief system" akin to or in rivalry with others, let me add: science is the west or Europe's great step forward because it is more than a POV; because it is FALSIFIABLE; because it can at least approach truth and reality by reasoned thought.

(Two Patrick Hemingway dinner quotes:
“I don’t get these post- modern deconstructionists who say science is a belief system. Do they jump out the window and expect to fall UP?”

And:
“Did the Moslem hijackers use flying carpets or hijacked planes?”)

And re short- time Creationism: the only possible explanation for that would be that God is an ingenious hoaxer who made fossils appear old in order to lure people into Hell, a la Gosse’s 19th century Vestiges of Creation. First, a crude and frightening concept of a gleefully cruel, childish God; second, if true it would be morally necessary to support a rebel angel like Milton’s Satan or even Pullman’s wimpier PC version.

I will add as an afterthought that Theodosius Dobszhansky, one of the co- authors of the so- called “Modern Evolutionary Synthesis” ie the one we use, was a practicing Eastern Orthodox Christian.

(Suspense novelist Michael Gruber: “I’m a practicing Catholic- practicing and trying to get good at it..”)

Real Zoo Short # 8: Fruit Loops

A woman I shall call SP was what we had as a semi- vet before Dr S. She had her moments. Paul remembers:

"I recall SP always wore white, I think because she wasn't a vet but liked to correct people when they called her Dr. P. The main thing I recall was her constant use of writing reminder notes on her white sleeves. Always had little squiggly blue lines all over. And I admired her acid tongue. I recall when John, the Environmentalist Zoomobile guy (I think he only lasted one season), suddenly realized that our barrels of mosquito and fly spray that was stored behind the barn (by the parking lot) actually contained POISON. Oh my! When he told SP of this revelation, she looked him dead in the eye, and stated: "Well, ya know, John. You can't kill mosquitoes with Fruit Loops." And walked away."

Real Zoo #7: Kimba

Kim was an African spot- nosed guenon, a really lovely little monkey and unlike many captive primates quite sane, but she was also a domineering little prima donna; she treated people the way Ataika tends to treat dogs, as lesser beings that were good as servants but who occasionally needed a good bite to keep them in line. This seemed funny if you were not on the receiving end as she was so small and elegant (like Taik) that you might think her bites wouldn't hurt much. You would be wrong. And unlike Taik she was a monkey and could rain down destruction from above.

Other Steve:

"When Kim was little, her keepers (Paul, K, Richard) established dominance and kept it. Those who came along after she was mature fared less well. I was one of the many. We started off well enough and worked together for over a year before she caught me in a moment of weakness. K and I were doing a Zoomobile in a small classroom full of kids crowded around us. I had Kim on leash and was just saying to myself, “This is unwise. She moves like lightning. Somebody could get torn up here.” Just then, Kim leapt at a kid and I yanked the leash hard toward me. I grabbed her with what I knew was a sacrificial hand and she ripped open my finger. K moved very quickly, pinning her and back in the cage she went. Then we calmly did the customary “That’s why monkeys don’t make good pets” lesson, as the blood poured down my raised arm.

"That was one class that really got the message. Dr S [Do you see a recurring pattern in these stories? SB] fixed me up later.

"The only person who handled the adult Kim well was G M. He had heard all the other stories and decided that a confrontation was inevitable, so he planned an offense. One day when they were together and were perfectly calm, he grabbed her hard and bit her. This had never happened to Kim before. After that, G was King of the Guenons."

Paul's story in response also reveals the Macchiavellian mind of our supervisor Richard:

"Yeah, I love G's plan, too. King of the Guenons is not a title to be taken lightly.

"Do ya recall the escaped Kim incident with Richard? He was, without a doubt, her superior and she knew it. But..... one fine day she got away from him (or maybe from someone else, I don't know) in the Rotunda. We were closed at the time. She had a grand time, running around the circular shelf at the top of the building. Remember?- we had slide projectors up there, running film loop of animals projecting across the building from one side to the other.

"Richard nicely called to Kim to come down. Later he screamed, pleaded, demanded, begged, etc., and there is no way she would come down. He tried all the usual tricks, including ignoring her and eating treats in front of her, and so on. Nothing worked. Then he noticed V R [sweet tall vegetarian woman with a voice and accent rather like a young Julia Child-- SB] in the kitchen. And Kim loved to attack V R (or anyone else).

"So, or course, Richard waited til Kim was above the kitchen door, and called so sweetly "Oh V, would come out here for a moment?" Innocent V came waltzing out into the Rotunda, Kim dove for her head, and Richard plucked little Kim right out of the air. It was a beautiful move. And was V PISSED!!! "YOU USED ME YOU USED ME YOU USED ME" But it worked."

Incidentally I came up with the same strategy as Glen but not in his cool rational manner. I was on the 'mobile at a school with K and Kim and she ran up to me, grabbed my arm, and bit me HARD. So I grabbed hers and did the same, instantly. She shrieked but did not bite me again.

Always wondered what the sight of a long- haired zookeeper biting a monkey did to those third- graders though...

Quote of the Day

(From Jonathan Hanson):

The countryside is a soggy sort of place where animals and birds wander about uncooked - Gladys Mitchell

Turkish friends

I’ve always suspected that we shepherds sometimes have too much time to think, and sometimes the result is often reflected in the activities that we undertake with our herds. Here on the western range, herders race their sheep wagons to claim the best camp sites on common grazing range when it opens in early December. In Wales, herders put LED lights on their sheep, so that Samsung could videotape the patterns the lights made as the herding dogs worked the herd.

In Turkey, it’s a competition that takes place at a major festival straddling a river. The herder must try to call his sheep to follow him as he jumps into the river, getting the herd to jump in behind him and cross with him. Any herd willing to do that is obviously devoted to and trusts its herder. While we were in Turkey last fall, we didn’t get to see the competition, but we did visit the river crossing where it occurs, and later found a video of the event. Winners of the competition included our friends, the Kayis family. Here's the video.


Brothers Ibrahim and Musa, and their father Hasan, run their family livestock outfit with about 400 sheep outside of Denizli, Turkey.

We walked through the fields with the herders of this family, inspecting their dogs and admiring their sheep. Some of the sheep came to investigate, obviously favored pets of the herders. But since most of Turkey remains unfenced, herders are with the sheep nearly constantly. Rather than pushing the sheep from place to place, as the sheep came close to the edge of the field, the herders called the sheep to turn and move away. Much of the movement of the herd was based on verbal commands - a logical extension of a close relationship between herder and herded.

We learned from our fellow shepherds that their livestock are treasured beasts, and colorful collars are beaded and placed on the necks of sheep to compliment their beauty. Some sheep are also shorn in a striped pattern, with the wool died to provide another striking pattern, again a show of beauty.

The family also raises massive livestock protection dogs. We watched a cell phone video of two of the dogs killing a 450-pound wild boar. Impressive animals.

Although wolves are treated as vermin in Turkey, this family of herders does not shoot at wolves. “If you have good dogs, the dogs will take care of the wolves,” Ibrahim told us. “If you trust your dogs, they can handle them.” They do place spiked anti-wolf iron collars on the dogs to help the dogs that actively battle wolves.

We learned much from our new friends and hope that our paths will cross again in the future.

Cute Puppy

Because nobody can resist and it is all Win: Paul Domski with a Chris Mason galgo pup, photo by Daniela Imre last weekend.

More Antique Images of "Salukis"...

Or whatever you want to call them. This one is French- Algerian from the 19th century. What interests me is that it is a very heavily feathered dog, like a "mountain" Central Asian dog today ("Khalag tazi"?), but from a place where there are only smooth "sloughis" now. There may be reasons for this, all too typical: colonials suppressing "poaching", locals no longer being able to afford to keep dogs, Europeans deciding whatever remnant was left was "pure". But it does show fluid boundaries and types, still again.

Notice how many quote marks I used here? All extremely deliberate...


Special thanks to Jess, who has just lost a good dog-- one that looked a bit like this one, actually.

Photoblogging: "Mongoliana"

I have been-- I hope forgivably-- absent, doing an article, a review, and a long shot (double? triple?) book proposal. As I type too slowly these days, and dictation is still slow for technicalia and odd language, I haven't had the energy for much blogging; I have done over 12,000 words in the last week or so, only 2000 or so "paid for", the rest on spec. Hopeful, anyway...

I should be back in the game in a few days. Meanwhile, I have a few images to intrigue you that do not need much commentary. The first is from a 1920's National Geographic: the Mongol princess Nirgidma,who led a long and adventurous life in places as various as Paris and the Tian Shan, with her eagle in the second. She knew everybody-- Google her.

The next two are by me. The first, both beautiful and horrifying, is the Bogd Kahn's ger, which stands in the utter darkness of a room in his palace and is not on public exhibition (I bribed a guard with a bottle of American vodka-- why people in Asia prefer Smirnoff to better I do not know-- exoticism?!)-- and polished it off with him to get this shot, and I have not seen another example. Somewhere between 200 and 400 snow leopards died to make it (it is completely lined inside as well)-- an odd kind of Buddhism...

The Bogd Khan, last "priest king" of Mongolia and, according to some, inferior only to the Dalai and Panchen lamas, survived, obese and blind and debauched, into the communist era. While he may not have been a monster himself, he was associated during the Russian civil war with Baron von Ungern Sternberg, one of the most disturbing minor figures of history-- and be glad that he is minor. As it was, he rained medieval death and horror on Urga, now better known as Ulan Bataar, and hoped to conquer the world like Jengiz, possibly with the Bogd Khan as a figurehead. Good bio here; science- fiction with him as a character here.

The Bogd Khan's restored palace is magnificent, though at least when I was there you could only see the outside. Here is a fine Imperial (five- fingered) guardian dragon at the gate:


(Photo of ger enhanced by Jackson Frishman).

Curlew and company

It's a thrill for me every spring when I encounter a group of long-billed curlew, which I had the pleasure of finding Saturday alongside the highway north of Daniel, Wyoming.

They are beautiful and graceful birds, but these guys sure had dirty bills and feet from plodding along in the mud, poking for treasures.

A little further north, near Bondurant, the snow is still very deep, but even small animals came out of their burrows to enjoy the sunshine, racing back and forth with glee.

After a pleasant drive to Jackson for groceries and to run errands, Jim and I were pleased to encounter this gorgeous redhead (an American kestrel) very close to home.

Loving these beautiful spring days and the critters we're able to encounter.

Blind Cave Cockatoos: An Exchange (Real Zoo # 6)

The Real Zoo had a blind Cockatoo named Cookie, who did not live in a cave. In one of our discussions I mentioned The Incident of the Blind Cave Cockatoo.

I should add that in those days I, Paul, and our supervisor Richard were the three people with the responsibility to teach the flock of (often remarkably naive-- remember "special bonds" below) volunteers natural history...

Paul responded:

"I don't recall Blind Cave Cockatoos, but I can easily picture Richard, or maybe even me, telling people that Cookie is one of those fabled birds. I always admired Cookie the cockatoo- especially when he loudly told KM [we do NOT do names of the innocent or guilty here!--SB] to get f***ed, over the PA in front of a zillion cub scouts, at the Topsfield Fair. Hilarious. Will give details later, if you want."

I answered: "That story is all yours, Paul.

"Blind Cave Cockatoos" was ME, though Richard was there and I think you were. It was Educate The Volunteers time and some little Buffie asked me if ALL Cockatoos were blind. Without blinking I answered “Yes, Buffie. They live in caves. That’s why they are white, like cave fish. They search for their food under stones...”

"I don’t know how long I might have gone on but Richard bellowed “BODIOOOO!!!!”

"He WAS laughing though.

Paul has the last word:

"Ahh. Yes, I can picture you doing that. What's more, I love your use of the name "Buffie". I immediately picture the sweet little pig-tailed freckled darling, who signs her name with a cute little heart over the "i" instead of a dot.

"Reminds me of another sweet young thing who was hired at a pet shop I sometimes visit. I went in, box in hand, and gave it to her with my request of "about 50 crickets, please". She had such a cute little puzzled look when she said.... We.... but we.... only sell them by the dozen".

Headline of the Week

From Arthur Wilderson: "Swedish flamingoes massacred in frenzied anteater attack".

It is actually true if a bit breathless...

Prompted by this and perhaps the recent Zoo posts, Arthur added some thoughts on a distant relative, the ground-dwelling late- Pleistocene monster Megatherium:

"I saw a mounted megatherium skeleton in Chicago's Field Museum. I was pretty impressed, and then thought, "yep, that's what they invented atlatls for." Trees, people, bears... I could readily imagine it backhanding any serious problem across the room with little difficulty.

"The notion of gutting and butchering a beast with such enormously robust bones and such a deep, massive torso with just little hand axes was fairly daunting too. Definitely a job for all the men, women and children in the band, well, those that aren't standing guard to discourage the attention that all that blood and offal would inevitably attract."

Speaking of which, the new crash- of- the- megafauna book, Once and Future Giants by Sharon Levy, is good-- much on the late great Paul Martin, though it goes well beyond his original thoughts and refines them. Apparently his fascination with the late Pleistocene started when a mentor put a ball of giant sloth dung in his hand-- as he did to me.

"Une Chienne de Barbarie"

Another non- Arab or at least geographically North African portrait, from the Louvre, courtesy of Daniela. The given title as I got it was ""Un Chien de Barbarie", but given the obvious I have changed the sex in the title!

Daniela called the portrait "a little 'Taik"-- see below (top, most recent, by GG)...

Queen Victoria's Hound?

Terence Clark sent a fine Landseer portrait from the 19th century of what appears to be a female saluki-- or, better, tazi; actually to my eye the dog seems eastern, Asian, even specifically "Turkmeni". She is doing the rarely portrayed "propitiating" smile and but for color resembles Ataika I think. Terence said, quoting the Country Life article, that it was a portrait of a dog called "Eos", a favorite of Victoria's, and could better be seen at this gallery.

Jess at Desert Windhounds was puzzled-- like all of us she is curious about what one might call non- traditional saluki provenance, and this one and the name Eos seemed disconnected:

"Eos was a greyhound belonging to Prince Albert, brought with him from Germany."

Terence suggested the dog in the painting might be one of two "Indian greyhounds"-- salukis-- that the younger Prince Albert (King Edward to- be) brought back from India in 1876, but Jess reminded him the dog in that painting couldn't have been one of the Indian salukis because Edwin Landseer died in 1873.

And why should we care? I do, at least, because with increasing efforts by scientifically illiterate breed fascists to restrict the term, and all legal breeding, to the descendants of forty- odd Arab dogs randomly selected by British colonial administrators in the early 20th century (apologies to Terence, an Arabic- speaking former diplomat who does NOT believe this!), we need all the evidence we can find of the high- quality "metapopulation" that runs from North Africa through Central Asia. Jess is on the track:

"According to The Year-book of Facts in Science and Art, John Timbs, 1839, from 1830 to 1837 eleven Persian Greyhounds [emphasis mine-- SB] were bred or kept in the Zoological Society Gardens. Which wouldn't include dogs in private hands.

"The Book of Sports, British and Foreign, 1843, has an account of Zillah (who was black and tan though I've never read that Landseer painted her), and mentions that at that time there was a dog at the Zoological Society Gardens, and one owned by the Duke of Devonshire, who owned several Landseer originals, and had one of his own dogs painted into "Laying Down the Law."

"I can find a record of a Landseer work called "Persian and Greyhounds" from 1837, but no image online."

Does anyone have any leads?

Old Bird

Last week, Anne Price of the REF e- mailed to tell me that her Harris tiercel Indiana Jones had died, very much of old age and attendant frailties. Anne:

"This morning I said goodbye Indiana Jones, a.k.a. Indi, my Harris Hawk. I would be lying if I said I weren’t sad, but he was kind enough to give me a few days notice, and at 31 years old, he gave me so many more years than I ever expected.

"Many of you reading this “knew” Indi nearly as long as I did; helping me fly him at Marine World, taking care of him when I was traveling in LA, San Diego, and ultimately Colorado. For those of you who never knew, or have forgotten Indi’s history, he was found sometime in 1980 in a cardboard box outside the Alexander Lindsay Nature Center in the eastern Bay Area, which is now the Lindsay Wildlife Museum and one of the premier nature/wildlife rehabilitation centers in Northern California. He was very heavily imprinted to people, and had an old break in his left wing at the elbow. No one knows where he came from. After getting him back on his feet, the museum placed him at the San Francisco Zoo.

"All I can recall, since I was 12, almost 13…was that he showed up one day from the Zoo, and our department manager at Marine World Africa USA announced that our park had acquired a bunch of animals, traded some, and he was in the lot. It was 1981, and since we were all Harrison Ford fans, and the FIRST Raider’s of the Lost Ark had just come out, we named him Indi. He had been handled at the zoo, but couldn’t fly……or so they thought! We flew Indi all over the place, hundreds of feet, off of buildings, roofs, across a lagoon, everywhere. He was amazing, ignoring the sea gulls, cutting through that San Francisco wind and fog, and always giving his all.

"Fast forward to 1991, and after 18 months of wrangling and permitting paperwork with the State of California, I drove up from LA to Vallejo (half way between San Francisco and Sacramento for you non-California types), and Indi was mine. That was April 1991, 20 years ago this month. Doug and I were living in Air Force family housing in San Pedro, and I even occasionally flew Indi there at Ft. MacArthur, across the quadrangle, sometimes using my upstairs neighbor’s balcony.

"Sometime around 1995 when Doug got out of the Air Force and we moved from Black Forest back up to Denver, Indi decided he no longer liked kids…10 years being petted at a zoo was apparently enough. He simultaneously decided that he was no longer afraid of four-legged creatures, like cats and dogs. He had always looked warily at bobcats, tigers, and various other mammals on leashes, but as long as they kept their distance he was fine. No longer; now he screamed at dogs, and when we got Otto in 1996, Indi actively flew at the end of his leash trying to kill him. Poor Otto got the message and to this day gives all raptors a wide berth.

"Around the same time I started using Indi to teach the new volunteer class at REF. For many folks, he was the first raptor they got to see up close. He was a very tolerant, if not occasionally clownish, assistant teacher.

"Two states, five homes, one dog, two kids, 20 years as part of our family, 30 in my life altogether. How many people get to love an animal for 30 years, unless it’s a macaw, tortoise or elephant?

"Glenna took this photo yesterday; as I said, I could see things were coming to an end. I am very grateful that he waited until we returned from Jamaica one week ago today, and I don’t believe he suffered. Right up to the last 24 hours of his life, he was eating, drinking, could see, hear, and both give and receive affection from those who loved him. We should all be fortunate to die so well."

When I gave her my condolences I remarked that his longevity was biologically interesting. She agreed and added:

"From a purely biological standpoint, it was interesting to see what happened to his feet. This is what a 31 yr old arthritic raptor food looks like…check out his hallux. His left foot was completely normal, but I’ve seen this in a couple of my birds with wing injuries; as they age, the foot on the opposite side of the injured wing starts displaying twisted talons or swollen joints, almost as if it’s compensating for the injured opposite limb. We have a 23 year old female ferruginous hawk, with a left wing injury just like Indi had; the talons which have twisted on her right foot are the inside/medial or “power” talon, and the middle one. I keep them trimmed a bit shorter than normal, in order not to further twist or deform the way the toe lays….I did the same thing for Indi."

Dancing for the joy of spring

Had to haul our last load of hay from our friend's ranch on Sunday. It was very overcast and the ranch is ancient and captivating. These sandhill cranes were in the fields, and I'm sure they were dancing for the sheer joy of spring, rather than simply practicing their mating dances they will soon be performing. I was too far away for any great shots, but I think I captured the mood.

One of the herders from Nepal was finishing up the feeding for the day, putting out hay for the horses and small goat flock used as a meat source for the herders.



The old cottonwood trees on this 100-year old ranch are full of nesting raptors, including two nests occupied by Great Horned Owls.

There are lots of treasures on the ranch, including this row of wagon wheels, next to an old sheep camp that was used to the point of it decomposing into the earth.

This last shot makes me smile every time I see it. It's our new litter of guardian puppies, firmly latched onto their mother for their dining pleasure. The pups are consuming lots of dog kibble now also, getting a minimum of three feedings a day from us, in addition to their mother's milk.

"Zarzo"

...is what Tom Russell calls Montana poet, sometime cowboy, and hard- core writer Paul Zarzyski Recently Tom sent me Zarzyski's 51--"30 poems, 20 lyrics, 1 Self- Interview", and it is the best "Western" book and the best "Writing" book I have read in an age.

Paul is often lumped with the Cowboy Poets and has some things to say about that. While he has rodeo'd and written some great "cowboy" poems (and a classic western ballad, recorded by Tom, I'll quote below), he is also a "serious" (I hate that term) modern poet who studied under the likes of Richard Hugo in Missoula. And he was not born in the saddle-- he came from Wisconsin, and like me is half Alpine- Italian. Which means he not only eats better than most cowboys; he can write about it.

His subjects are as varied as his styles. Let me give you a few examples; first, a sample of that rodeo ballad he did with Tom, "All the Way for the Short Ride":

Well the chute door swings open
Here we go again
The desperate dance
The swing and the spin
Dust rising from a crossbred bull
Fire meets with pride
A man comes a long way
For just the short ride

Second, something true from the Italian side, from "Sadly-- Oh-so-Sadly-- I have to Explain The Sopranos to Someone Who Just Does Not Capice":

Which is all to say we work goddam hard
at being sad. It's simple logic-- bah-da- boom,
bah- dah- bing. No sad, no mad. No mad,
no glad, no glad, no mangia! And we
all live to mangia, am I right or am I right?
Good! You finally got it! It looks like
maybe I won't have to kill you after all
'ey?....

A poem about autumn among other things, that reminds me just a little of Ted Hughes' October Dawn, but with boxing, a recurrent Zarzyski theme:

Autumn puts its overnight kibosh
on summer, buckles the hot
August knees with a crisp hook
to the liver, a definitive i-dotting
body shot, then drops it
with a sockdolager to the jaw. Rocked,
summer does the sunfish-
tossed- on- the- dock death
rattle flop. I, quivering, bones
chattering with thrill, lust after this
socked- in morning, thick air
pungent with whiffs of the unpicked
edible inky caps-- words stirred
so near I can catch the staccato ticking
of my Muse's red stiletto heels...

I could go on, but buy the book!

The "Interview" is almost a book in itself, a passionate poetical rap on the working writer's life, with observations both thoughtful and pungent. He tells tales of horses and fishing, of Cowboy Poetry gatherings and late night parties, some with long- gone characters I drank with too. A few opinions I would mildly disagree with; for instance, I am not as hard on the "New Formalists". Paul is unusual himself in that he writes rhyming pieces-- what he calls "songs"-- as well as "modern poetry". Perhaps my mixed "Kiplingite" heritage inclines me to straddle the line, but so does he! No matter-- he is still somebody I'd stay up drinking and arguing with and I suspect mostly agreeing with...

Elsewhere, he gives excellent, opinionated advice (especially relevant to today's generation of ironists). He quotes mentors William Kittredge and Richard Hugo: if you are not risking sentimentality you are not even in the ballpark. He riffs on "wild": "Did you come to hide? Or did you come to ride? To spur the words wild? Nets, roll bars, seat belts, helmets,bullet- proof vests, panoplies, bear bells, shark repellent, sun screen, safety glasses, rain gear, mosquito dope, ginko biloba not encouraged". He tells of defending Brokeback Mountain to a crowd of official cowboy poets-- I have tried that task one- on- one, and take my hat off to him. He gives near- recipes any real cook can figure out (look at page 172)...

And more, and more-- and it left me wanting STILL more; maybe, say, some of his early stuff with wild food and hunting- 51 still has a little bit of fishing. But that doesn't even rise to the level of a complaint-- this is the one to get, even if you have, as I do, all his earlier stuff. Paul, next time you are in NM, stop by Magdalena and I will buy you a drink of your choice (Polish vodka?) at the Spur. And we'll eat risott' with wild funghi...

Real Zoo #5: Squirrelly

From Other Steve:

Every Spring, children living near the zoo would come in with baby squirrels that they had “found.” Chances are, they had been found after the children had knocked them out of their nests, but, each year, we’d take them in and the girls who made up the diets in the kitchen would raise them. As they grew, they would learn to treat the kitchen as their playground. As the kitchen was the social center of the zoo, every keeper would be in and out of the kitchen each day, so the squirrels used the keepers as trees and we got used to having them scurry up our legs, around our torsos and eventually perch on our shoulders or heads.
When the squirrels got old enough, the girls would open the kitchen door so that they could begin getting used to the big world outside and, by mid-summer, they would spend as much time outside as inside.

One hot July day – a busy Sunday when the zoo was packed - a very large woman was standing outside the glass wall of the kitchen, pointing at the diets being made so that her children could see what the animals eat. I was just leaving the kitchen, when I saw one of the young squirrels dart up her leg, under her voluminous dress. She immediately screamed and started whacking her thighs, where she was undoubtedly feeling tiny claws gripping her flesh as the little guy scurried up her body. I then saw a small squirrel-shaped lump pass her waistline under her dress and start running around her stomach and chest, trying to escape the woman’s blows. I rushed over to help – admittedly more for the squirrel’s benefit than for the woman’s. Her dress had a large scoop neckline and, as the squirrel darted across her chest under the dress, I stuck my hand in her neckline and tried to grab him. By this time the woman was screaming her head off and everything else in the zoo stopped as all the visitors turned to see what the matter was. After several seconds of my groping and the woman frantically whacking both me and her chest at random, the squirrel headed south and down her leg, dashing off to a nearby oak tree.

I then stepped away from the woman who was still upset but beginning to calm down. It was only then that I glanced to the throngs that were staring at me with their mouths agape. Then I realized….they hadn’t seen the squirrel at all. They only saw a crazed zookeeper violating a poor defenseless woman with her small children watching. I wanted to say, “No, wait, you don’t understand… there was this squirrel….” But I knew it was useless. All I could do was slink away in shame. I went to hide in the kitchen, imagining the headline that would surely be on the front page of the Monday’s Boston Globe: “Zookeeper Gropes Defenseless Fat Woman in Broad Daylight.”

Hans

I just got word that my friend Hans Windgassen, artist and pigeon man, died in Pennsylvania this week. I knew he had been having heart trouble lately but he passed it off to me as not very serious. Born in Germany, he lived and taught in Pennsylvania for many years. Although we could argue about trivial things like politics our mutual love for pigeons, nature, and art cemented our friendship. He painted two large paintings for us in his unique style (impressionism with just a dash sometimes of expressionism?) and gave them to us as gifts. He also supplied the Barb pigeons whose genes run in my loft.

Here he is with me on a visit a few years back.

A couple of his pigeon portraits-- he loved to paint the "color breeds".


"Les Girls", our reigning queen and princess.

Me beside his portrait of me and some of my passions. He flattered me by making me skinny; ironically, PD and exercise have since this photo whittled me down to become more like the painting...

He is survived by Barbara Polny, and our thoughts go out to her in this sad time. I think some readers have paintings by him as well, so maybe we can get more later...

Bulgarian artists

Our travels in Bulgaria last fall resulted in Jim and I both falling in love with that country and the people who inhabit it. We were pleased to spend time with brothers Atila and Sider Sedefchev, some of the most interesting and fun people we encountered on the trip. They have a working farm that breeds and conserves native livestock and their native livestock protection dog, the Karakachan. These men live their lives devoted to the notion that native species should be conserved, and that in order to have native livestock in their proper form, they must live in association with native large carnivores, and thus must have the livestock protection dogs that were bred to challenge and protect against attacks by those carnivores. The system is not complete if any component is missing, according to these two.

Sider's wife is a wolf biologist, and the family founded and operate the "Large Carnivore Education Center" on the grounds of the farm. The center also houses two captive European wolves, and a European brown bear. They teach the public about the need for co-existence. If that weren't enough, both the brothers are wonderful artists. The pieces directly above and below are oil on canvas pieces created by Atila, while the final piece on this page is "She-Dragon loves a shepherd" by Sider. My photos are taken from brochures, and don't do their work justice.


If any readers are tempted to travel to Bulgaria, a visit to the Large Carnivore Education Center is well worth the trip. High on a mountain, amid the habitat of animals wild and domestic, it's a fabulous place of learning. It would be a natural place to host international conferences about carnivores as well.

Books + knowledge = Danger

It’s been an interesting and chaotic week. Had a great morning out on a sage grouse lek, watching and listening as the male grouse strutted and smacked each other. No hens at the lek yet, but it’s early in the breeding season. Never had any good direct light that morning (it was heavy overcast) so my photos aren’t great. The best part was getting to see a ferruginous hawk swoop in and try to take a grouse (sorry but the photos weren't good enough to post). The ferrg failed, but it was a thrilling try!

My children’s book publisher, Boyds Mills Press, sent me the layout for my next book with them, “The Guardian Team.” I’ll share it when I can, but take my word for it that it’s beautiful. It features the true story of livestock guardian dog Rena, the wild burro we adopted and named Roo, and the half-dozen orphan lambs these two raised together.

I spent most of the week slaving away on a book proposal, and that gets put in the mail tomorrow. I’m keeping my fingers crossed the book will find a happy publishing home. It’s on pastoralism, is proposed as a photo essay, and is my second non-fiction title for adults.

My first non-fiction title got some attention this week as well. The book was released in October 2008, and is called “Yellowstone Wolves: A Chronicle of the Animal, the People, and the Politics.” It’s a fully footnoted history of Wyoming’s wolves, and the files that were used as references are now in the permanent collection at the American Heritage Center in Laramie, Wyoming.


Seems like the book would have been a natural title for sales in bookstores in and around Yellowstone, doesn’t it? But book sales within our national parks are controlled by “educational, non-profit institutions” in partnership with the National Park Service. Books sold by the non-profits must be approved by the park service. Apparently the park service doesn’t like my book and recommended it not be sold in Yellowstone, I was told today, “because some of the information in the book was not based on verifiable facts.”

I laughed out loud at that claim. The fact is, the book makes the park service uncomfortable because the agency doesn’t come across in a positive way, so they've blackballed it. Not for sale in the park, and the influence has spread to at least one other “educational institution” that works with the park, where I was pretty much dis-invited from a book event.

It’s depressing that unless my books tout the official policy line of the government, my books won’t appear in my neighborhood national park – one that gets more than 3 million visitors a year, offering the opportunity for substantial book sales. So please, people, support banned books! Unlike the park service and its “educational association” counterparts, here’s what some reviewers had to say:

“Yellowstone Wolves is a lively and carefully documented account of the use and abuse of science, multiple levels of politics, interpretations of the law, administration of justice, rural sociology, media, and unbridled propaganda as provided from all sides of a hideously complex subject. This book is a chronologically based, practical documentation, and the author's personal commitment to the issues is profound. … Particularly interesting is the book's unflinching insistence that agencies of the federal government represent the most important impediments to application of 'best available science' within specific issues of conservation biology." --Jason A. Lillegraven, Professor Emeritus, Departments of Geology/Geophysics and Zoology/Physiology, The University of Wyoming, 1/11/09

“Urbigkit's undeniably thorough treatment of the subject, featuring impressive historical documentation, makes this book one that no serious conservationist should overlook.” --Foreword Magazine - Reviews of Good Books Independently Published, Jan/Feb. 2009

“Cat [has] shown us the unimaginable interplay of biology, politics, factionalism, economics, and emotion that may revolve around the recognition, management, and political manipulation of an endangered species. . . . She has demonstrated the complexity and anguish of wolf conservation and provided a unique perspective on a fascinating story.” --Ronald M. Nowak, Zoologist

“Yellowstone Wolves provides a wonderful example of how wilderness management issues such as the reintroduction of a predator quickly become 'wicked' problems, involving multiple truths, conflicting science, bureaucratic and political pressures, special interest groups, concerned members of the public, and the legal system. On the wolf issue in Yellowstone, Urbigkit notes the government agencies have their own agenda, and change their policies and procedures to ensure this agenda is met. ...Urbigkit provides a valuable service by highlighting the political nature of decision making and the troubling self-selection of science to serve bureaucratic and political ends in wilderness, park, and wildlife management.” -- John Shultis, IJW book editor, August 2009, International Journal of Wilderness.

'This book is an invaluable and unique addition to the story of wolves in the greater Yellowstone area.' -- Elaine Jones Hayes, Laramie County Library System, from Wyoming Library Roundup, Fall/Winter 2009.

On the bright side, I'm proud to join the ranks of authors with banned books.

Real Zoo # 4

Me on "My Scars", or "Julian's Dogs".

It was said that at a reunion (that none of us attended) that there was a scar show. Mine, at least the ones I still have all these years later, are not from the wolf or the alligators or even the otters or the gibbon who TRIED.

"I was afraid enough of Shyly that he never got me. Careful with Kim but she bit me anyway (I bit her back and she mostly played nice after).

"Worst things that hurt me were Richard's tossing me a shit encrusted paint scraper (infected cut on hand--ER sewed me up and it went off anyway; [vet] Dr S fixed it; still have scar).

"And scariest: night guard Julian’s out of control German shepherds (he used to brag how they put his little girl in the hospital).

"One night, thinking he had them under control (I was alone on exile at night because of that microphone incident), I went to drain the pool of the little African clawless otters. I was halfway back to the rotunda when I heard the dogs running behind me. Turns out the old drunk had passed out.

"In one of the few times in my life that I thought fast, I realized I would never get through the door, so I slammed it towards me and hung on to the handle for dear life, YELLING for Julian and for a visiting friend. They hit my legs hard in the next second-- it was more like being hit with a baseball bat than being bitten, and I have been bitten a lot. One was sort of worrying me, and I felt that if I fell, I was dead.

"Julian and Mike got to me in what must have been seconds but felt like minutes. There were a bunch of superficial cuts and a dime- sized hole in my shin with bone showing-- luckily somehow no major vessels seemed to be spouting. I literally do not remember and it is not in my general style but Mike says I told Julian that if I ever saw the dogs loose again I would “get my .38 and kill his ass”.

"As I had already paid the ER for the scraper fiasco without reimbursement, I elected to just clean it, though I think I had Bill S look at it-- trusted him more. As you can imagine there is still a pit in my leg you can put a finger in, 40+ years later.

"We were innocents. If something like that happened today I’d own the ZOO!"

There will be more-- next, OS on baby squirrels. I may add zoo digressions too-- Betsy and her breeding margays, the first, with photos, or "some people CAN keep animals" (and her amazing TV appearance with Roger Caras).

To be continued...

Real Zoo # 3

Other Steve on the two baby black leopards, and television.

(I-- Steve B-- found the cubs, still very small when Annie first introduced them to me, rather intimidating, unlike the much bigger but almost doglike, playful young tiger. They weren't so much malevolent as little forces of nature, like animated thorn bushes who BIT. Hard. (Betsy Huntington on margays, on TV: "Yes, they bite. EVERYTHING bites. I bite!") I should add that Annie who raised them loved them and got affection back. Me they bit-- and as I reminded her yesterday, once you picked one up, putting it down was like trying to get off animate Velcro).

OS:

Nobody wanted to do [kid's] TV, especially Major M, so I was ordered to go. After a while, I got to really like the Major. He really understood animals and was a terrific guy.

He sympathized with the "bad pet" theme that we always tried to get across and, one day, because all the local ghetto kids wanted to buy a black panther, I decided to take Dudley on his show. This was a bit audacious, taking a six-month old black leopard on a kiddie show, but Dudley, unlike his sister Denise, was really slow in the head. I could always see his intentions before he did anything, so, I figured that, even though he was unusually big for his age, I could handle him.

The stage hands helped me bring the stainless steel cage up from the loading dock and into the studio. When the segment started, the cage was on the floor. I opened the door and tried to coax Dudley out, but he was frozen - in a mild state of shock from all the lights and cameras. So I reached in and grabbed his scruff and slid him out onto the floor. He still hadn't moved. Bob and I knelt down on either side of him. Right away, Bob says, Now, Steve, Dudley doesn't seem to be having any fun being here. In fact, he doesn't look happy at all. Why is that?" (He was great at knowing what you'd want to say and he'd feed you cues to start your spiel.) "No, Major, leopards are wild animals and they are not really comfortable in situations like this, blah, blah, blah."

This went on for a while. It was a perfect show. I was getting exactly what I was hoping to get out of it. Then Dudley suddenly, quietly, turned his head to the side 45 degrees and chomped down hard on Bob's ankle, then froze into his new position. We both stared at him for a second, not wanting to do anything drastic in front of the cameras. Then Bob said, calmly, "Now, can you see what Dudley has done, kids? He's biting my ankle and it's very painful. Tell us why he did that, Steve." "Well, Major, as we were saying, he's a wild animal and he's scared in unnatural surroundings. He's really at home in the forest. This is the reason why a black leopard makes a really bad pet." "Well, we can see that, can't we kids? So, if kids want to have a pet, what should they do?" "Well, Major, the Animal Rescue League has lots of dogs, blah, blah, blah."

When we broke for the commercial, I pried Dudley's jaws off Bob's ankle and got him back in the cage. There was blood seeping out of his boot and he said, "Well, that went very well. I think you really got your message across." It was true. The squealing kids really shut up when Dudley chomped his leg. They REALLY paid attention after that.

It was the most successful TV show I ever did, but I realized that I had taken much too big a chance. As I got back in the truck, I said to myself, "Next time I'll bring a safer animal like Corey the Tapir."

(Zoonote: Remember the Great Tapir Caper? [SB: Yes, and we will get to THAT debacle-- already have plenty of material, & getting more])

When I left the studio, it was already dark and I realised that, in rush hour traffic, it'd take forever to get to the zoo, so I drove across the river to my apartment. I went upstairs and asked Cathy to come down and help me with something. She came down and looked into the back of the van, which was all dark. She peered into the cage and could only see two yellow eyes. "What's that?" "That's Dudley" So we carried the cage up three flights of stairs. My next door neighbour who always seemed to come out her door at the wrong moment, opened her door, screamed and went back in.

Cathy was always amazing with animals; still is. She'd never met Dudley, but we dragged him out and put him on the couch. I gently stroked his ruff, as he was still in a state of mild shock and I wanted to warm him up. Cathy got him a dish of milk and was putting it in front of him when he suddenly came to life. He tore the corner off the couch, leaped about seven feet to the drapes, tearing them down. Then he tore the cord out of the TV. He was crushing the alarm clock when I got my hands on him and muscled him into the cage. That was the end of the excitement for the day.

After that, my neighbour saw me bring Vinnie the [King] Vulture in the house once and, after she saw me with a boa around my neck one day, she moved out.

(Steve B again: One more, on why some domestic animals at the zoo may be worse pets than leopards...)

Real Zoo #2: Volunteer's First Day

My old zoo group has responded so enthusiastically that I have enough material to fill the blog with nothing else for a while. I will restrain myself, but at least start with some of this irresistible material from Other Steve, who last gave us The Law, and a bit from me about what animal I worked with actually turned out to be dangerous. OS:

First Day / Last Day

“Excuse me, you’re the new volunteer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Monica.”

“I’m Steve. Has Richard mentioned that you shouldn’t stick your hand in the gibbon cage?”

“Yes, but I felt so bad for them having to be in this small cage in the rotunda all winter, I thought I’d give Shyly a little scratch on his back.”

“I know, it’s really tempting, but it can be very dangerous. Maybe, you’d better…”

“But he really seems to like it.”

“I’m sure he does, but Lady is his mate and, believe me, she’ll get very jealous. Gibbons have very long canines and…”

“I know, but I really feel that I’ve developed a special bond with them. Maybe it’s just that nobody else understands……”

CHOMP!!!

“I’ll take you to the hospital, Monica.”

(Notes back from me to the group on that memorable gibbon:

"Shyly, jeez. He fell in the lagoon once and Eric D and I jumped in. We were not fools (and pretty strong). We each grabbed a hand and stretched him between us to throw him back on the island.

"And he began without much effort to sort of close his hands and draw us together like somebody working out on a bowflex machine.

"Teeth bared. Grinning.

"We got him on the island, barely. And decided maybe next time we should let him drown or at least go under twice first. I mean, I'm not that big-- but ERIC? [who weighed about 300 pounds]

"I had to clean his island at the end of my night shift (in waders with a fire hose) and he was always waiting. Really the only evil thing there but for [night guard] Julian’s “they put my daughter in the hospital!” dogs. The leopards were more like mindless little velociraptors, and Emily [kinkajou/ lycanthrope] mentally ill-- Shyly was smart enough to know he was in prison and hate his jailers. Working with him was like being a guard in Walpole [State Prison].")

Steve's Law: Tales From the Real Zoo # 1

Far Away and VERY Long Ago, in a zoo on a most distant coast, a bunch of young people worked in a big(gish) municipal zoo. Annie D, who introduced me to Betsy of Querencia (who volunteered there, but I didn't know her then), and who often comments here, was one, and I was another. We often get together online and tell tales of those wild days forty- some years past, together with our far- flung former colleagues Paul, Glen, and Other Steve.

The stories are rude and funny and speak truth about what happens where humans and animals meet-- obviously a subject of interest to Q- Blog and its readers. We have decided to start up an open- ended series of old tales, beginning with a universal rule of animal handling, courtesy of Other Steve, that I call Steve's Law.

So: pay attention, volunteers: it is the summer of 1970, our creatively foul- mouthed supervisor Richard is going to give a quiz on your recent studies, and you will fail. Other Steve has been here for a while-- listen to him...

"Every year, the new recruits (and especially the volunteers) have to be warned, especially about the primates. To me the tipoff comes when one of them says, "I understand that you have to be careful, but I feel that I have developed a special bond with (Bo, Shyly, Kimba, etc)." [Mt lion, surly plotting gibbon, dominatrix spot- nosed guenon-- SB] "That's when you know that, soon, you will be driving this person to the hospital.

"Special bond = imminent injury.

"Cautious respect = less frequent injury.

"As we all have learned, unless you pick earthworms as your animal of choice, you're going to leak a little red fluid now and then."

The Law. To be continued....

Commonplace Book/ Quote of the Day

Nunc post scripsi totum

pro Christo da mihi potum!

(Now I have written everything...

For Christ's sake give me a drink!)

Amen!

"The painful results of atlatl violence..."

Reid sent this excellent link to Atlatl art, but one combination of art and caption was too irresistible NOT to reproduce. Read The Whole Thing.

The painful results of atlatl violence:

Thanks!

Busy-- just finished an assignment for Shooting Sportsman, starting two pieces on spec for Double Gun Journal, taking notes for my forthcoming Living Bird review, reading galleys of Pete Dunne's new installment in his seasonal birding series, Arctic Autumn (outspokenly pro- hunting, among other virtues, and yes, he gets a blurb!)...

But need to thank whoever got Levy's new "Pleistocene Overkill" book Once & Future Giants from my Wish List, and whoever thought of and sent The Horse, the Wheel, and Language, which also looks close to my heart's obsessions.

Re Overkill: I am aware Paul Martin, who first conceived of the Pleistocene Blitz: an inspiration to multidisciplinary researchers and to me personally though I only met him once, when he handed me a 12,000 year- old chunk of giant sloth dung; Libby's brother's PhD advisor; brave survivor of polio's effects for over 50 years; controversial proponent of "re- wilding", and of, in Michael McClure's and Grayal Farr's phrase, of Bringing Back the Pleistocene, is dead at 82. I hope I can convince busy Reid to put him in some proper paleontological- archaeological context (he crossed boundaries-- Libby's brother was a palynologist!) But meanwhile: Paul Martin, RIP.