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Curling with opossums
Dec. 26th, 2012 11:06 amLast Friday night, Laura and I went out for pizza with a couple of good friends. We were driving back home afterwards, north on Damen Avenue, when I thought I saw the silhouette of a small critter amble through the headlights of an oncoming car.
"I think there's a possum in the street up ahead," I said.
I slowed down, and as we got closer we saw that there was indeed an opossum in the middle of the street, just our side of a stop sign and crosswalk. It was walking in a slow circle, while cars alternately stopped and drove carefully around it.
"That poor possum," Laura said as we in turn drove past. "It looks scared. It's stuck in the middle of the street and doesn't know which way to go."
"Should we go back and help it?" I asked.
"I don't know. Yes."
So I swung us around the block, through an alley, and back onto Damen going south. As we approached the intersection again, we could see the opossum still waddling in a circle in the middle of the street. I pulled over and put on the flashers. Laura went to the trunk and retrieved our new snow shovel and windshield brush. Her parents had recently given them to us, and we'd had no opportunity yet to use them for their intended purpose.
Laura gave me the shovel and we headed toward the opossum. She held up a hand to stop traffic. On the west side of the street was a CVS with a big parking lot. On the east was a row of houses and small businesses. When the opossum came to a point in its circle where it was facing east, I put the shovel down beside it to force it to keep going in that direction. Laura kept the brush against its other side, and in that configuration we minced our way across the street. We must have looked like we were curling, with the opossum as our stone.
When we reached the curb, the opossum tried to turn again, but I kept the shovel firmly in place until it climbed up onto the sidewalk. We guided it across the sidewalk and through a wrought-iron fence into someone's yard, where it waddled off into the bushes.
Duty done, we dashed back to the car and stowed our gear. As we drove down the street, I could see that the opossum had left the yard and was now in the entry way of a business a couple of doors down. A pedestrian stopped to take a picture of it.
I sure hope that was the side of the street it wanted to be on.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
"I think there's a possum in the street up ahead," I said.
I slowed down, and as we got closer we saw that there was indeed an opossum in the middle of the street, just our side of a stop sign and crosswalk. It was walking in a slow circle, while cars alternately stopped and drove carefully around it.
"That poor possum," Laura said as we in turn drove past. "It looks scared. It's stuck in the middle of the street and doesn't know which way to go."
"Should we go back and help it?" I asked.
"I don't know. Yes."
So I swung us around the block, through an alley, and back onto Damen going south. As we approached the intersection again, we could see the opossum still waddling in a circle in the middle of the street. I pulled over and put on the flashers. Laura went to the trunk and retrieved our new snow shovel and windshield brush. Her parents had recently given them to us, and we'd had no opportunity yet to use them for their intended purpose.
Laura gave me the shovel and we headed toward the opossum. She held up a hand to stop traffic. On the west side of the street was a CVS with a big parking lot. On the east was a row of houses and small businesses. When the opossum came to a point in its circle where it was facing east, I put the shovel down beside it to force it to keep going in that direction. Laura kept the brush against its other side, and in that configuration we minced our way across the street. We must have looked like we were curling, with the opossum as our stone.
When we reached the curb, the opossum tried to turn again, but I kept the shovel firmly in place until it climbed up onto the sidewalk. We guided it across the sidewalk and through a wrought-iron fence into someone's yard, where it waddled off into the bushes.
Duty done, we dashed back to the car and stowed our gear. As we drove down the street, I could see that the opossum had left the yard and was now in the entry way of a business a couple of doors down. A pedestrian stopped to take a picture of it.
I sure hope that was the side of the street it wanted to be on.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
Cheeta! Cheeta!
Dec. 28th, 2011 08:36 amUPDATE! 11:44 a.m. I was right to be suspicious of this story. Turns out that R.D. Rosen in the Washington Post debunked Cheeta's supposed longevity back in 2008. The news media has done an abominable job of fact-checking today. NPR itself acknowledged in a sidebar to a Cheeta story in 2009 that the chimp identity was not what it claimed to be. This clearly isn't as big a fuck-up as the reporting in the run-up to the Iraq War, but it's a difference of degree, not kind.NPR News is reporting in its headlines this morning that (to paraphrase) Cheeta, the chimpanzee who played Tarzan's ape sidekick in the movies, has died at the age of 80. This makes it sound like Cheeta was the only chimp to play Cheeta, which he wasn't, and that his age was well-established, which it wasn't.
There were something like fifteen or sixteen different apes (including at least one orangutan and one human) who played Cheeta in the films and TV shows, often with more than one in the same production. And while the Cheeta who just died is alleged to have been born in 1931, this has never been established as fact, nor has the claim that this chimp was acquired from the estate of Johnny Weissmuller in 1957—nor, really, the claim that this chimp was one of the original actors from the Weissmuller-era movies.
Chimps in captivity have been known to live into their 60s, but 80? It's possible, of course, but the chain of custody on this chimp is based on hearsay. I don't believe it myself. But whether it's true of not, the story being reported in the NPR news blips leaves a lot to be desired, implies facts that aren't facts, and reports hearsay as straight fact.
I swear, it's like NPR based this news report on an email forward from my mother.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
Rabbit transit
Dec. 3rd, 2011 10:55 amRabbits, I would like to sit you down and have a very serious discussion with you. I understand that the way you zigzag as you flee is an effective way to evade most predators, and has served you well for millions of years. But when your zigzag pattern is no wider than the car following you, it only causes problems in both sides.
So in the future, rabbits, when confronted by a car, please consider bending your course in a direction perpendicular to your original course of travel. Either that or next time I may just do my best to hasten the evolution of your species. And I'll feel badly about it.
So in the future, rabbits, when confronted by a car, please consider bending your course in a direction perpendicular to your original course of travel. Either that or next time I may just do my best to hasten the evolution of your species. And I'll feel badly about it.
Of spiders and flies
Mar. 10th, 2011 08:24 pmLaura and I were talking over some of the difficulties I've been having this week with my revisions of The Accidental Terrorist when she gave me the absolute perfect image for the central conflict in the book. The main character, in her view, is a fly trapped in a spiderweb, struggling to free itself with only the vaguest notion of the nature of its predicament.
(See, I'm the fly, and the LDS Church is... Yeah.)
This image is so spot-on, so apt to something I was struggling to articulate to myself, that I wish I could somehow work it into the book. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, since I don't want to be too heavy-handed about it), I'm pretty much constrained by the reality of my experiences during the six months of my life that the book covers, and those six months did not include any spiders.
No, the spider didn't become a factor in my mission until five or six months after the events of the book. I was serving in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, by then. My companion and I lived rent-free in a small house in the middle of a wheatfield owned by some local Mormons. We were a little bored in that town, and one thing my companion did to pass the time was adopt a little spider that lived in a web in the window frame of one of the empty back rooms. He would go around the house catching flies and dropping them into the web, then watch the spider kill them. This was the best-fed spider in northern Idaho. It grew so quickly that after about a month its web (which it unstrung and re-spun every day) was so strong that you could strum it like a guitar and it wouldn't break. The spider itself was as big as the first joint of my thumb.
When that companion eventually got transferred out of Bonners Ferry and a new one took his place, the two of us decided that the spider had to go. It was so big that neither one of us dared to get close enough either to relocate it or to smash it to death. Instead, we used a cigarette lighter and a can of hairspray to flambé it from a safe distance. We could hear the individual strands of the web pop in the flames. The spider itself shriveled up and crackled with an awful sound.
I have several other animal stories from that Bonners Ferry house, involving mice and bats and such, but they're even more disturbing than this one so I'm going to save them for the sequel. The most disappointing animal story, though, was that we slept in one morning and missed seeing a huge moose in our front yard. The nearest neighbors had tried to call us, but apparently the phone didn't wake us up.
Where did this post start? Oh, yeah. With my wife being awesome.
(See, I'm the fly, and the LDS Church is... Yeah.)
This image is so spot-on, so apt to something I was struggling to articulate to myself, that I wish I could somehow work it into the book. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, since I don't want to be too heavy-handed about it), I'm pretty much constrained by the reality of my experiences during the six months of my life that the book covers, and those six months did not include any spiders.
No, the spider didn't become a factor in my mission until five or six months after the events of the book. I was serving in Bonners Ferry, Idaho, by then. My companion and I lived rent-free in a small house in the middle of a wheatfield owned by some local Mormons. We were a little bored in that town, and one thing my companion did to pass the time was adopt a little spider that lived in a web in the window frame of one of the empty back rooms. He would go around the house catching flies and dropping them into the web, then watch the spider kill them. This was the best-fed spider in northern Idaho. It grew so quickly that after about a month its web (which it unstrung and re-spun every day) was so strong that you could strum it like a guitar and it wouldn't break. The spider itself was as big as the first joint of my thumb.
When that companion eventually got transferred out of Bonners Ferry and a new one took his place, the two of us decided that the spider had to go. It was so big that neither one of us dared to get close enough either to relocate it or to smash it to death. Instead, we used a cigarette lighter and a can of hairspray to flambé it from a safe distance. We could hear the individual strands of the web pop in the flames. The spider itself shriveled up and crackled with an awful sound.
I have several other animal stories from that Bonners Ferry house, involving mice and bats and such, but they're even more disturbing than this one so I'm going to save them for the sequel. The most disappointing animal story, though, was that we slept in one morning and missed seeing a huge moose in our front yard. The nearest neighbors had tried to call us, but apparently the phone didn't wake us up.
Where did this post start? Oh, yeah. With my wife being awesome.
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It's a good thing I don't believe in omens or I'd probably think that 2011 is fucked. One of the first sights I saw on New Year's Day, when I was out walking the dog in the morning, was a dead squirrel hanging from power lines where they attached to the second story of house in our neighborhood.
The squirrel looked perfectly intact. It was hard to tell how it died. Maybe it had a heart attack. Maybe it froze to death. Maybe it touched a bare spot on one of the wires and fried. Whatever happened, I found the sight of it fascinating and compelling. After I took Ella home, I went back with our good camera and took as many pictures of it as I could.
Over the following days I kept checking on the poor creature. It appeared to be gripping one of the higher wires with its back paws, while it's body was draped over a lower wire. I thought it would likely fall off soon, or that someone would remove it, but as days turned into weeks the squirrel just kept hanging there. At first I found this encouraging. As January turned to February, though, I found it more and more disturbing.
Laura and I considered leaving a note on the front door of the house, reasoning that perhaps the residents had never looked up and seen the dead squirrel decorating their home, but we never did. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we were walking Ella together past the house. A compact SUV was parked at the curb, and three young children were carrying things from the house to the vehicle while a parent loaded the back.
"Oh my God," I said loudly as we passed the kids. "Is that squirrel still hanging up there?"
Laura elbowed me in the ribs, but it was too late. As we continued down the sidewalk, we heard a kid behind us say, "What squirrel?" Then there came a startled squeal of disgust.
I smiled, because I'm the kind of person who finds that sort of thing funny. Message delivered.
This past Saturday morning, out walking Ella again, I checked on my friend Wallenda. (Yes, I have named the dead squirrel.) I didn't think I needed more pictures of it until I noticed that the squirrel was now clinging to the wire with three paws instead of two! My first thought was that the thing had been slowly trying to pull itself up onto the wire and make good its escape from death. Or maybe a strong wind had just blown it around and another paw had caught.
It was only when I was able to examine the new photograph against the older ones that I realized the squirrel was now hanging upside down from one of the lower wires. Its back paws must have finally lost their grip on the higher wire and somehow snagged on the way down. Or someone deliberately moved the squirrel.
Whatever the case, I will keep monitoring Wallenda's progress. Now that the weather is warming up, he should make for an interesting sight over the next few weeks as he thaws, assuming he doesn't fall on someone's head. And if he really is an omen for the year, maybe the message is that even when you're down you can't be counted out.
The squirrel looked perfectly intact. It was hard to tell how it died. Maybe it had a heart attack. Maybe it froze to death. Maybe it touched a bare spot on one of the wires and fried. Whatever happened, I found the sight of it fascinating and compelling. After I took Ella home, I went back with our good camera and took as many pictures of it as I could.Over the following days I kept checking on the poor creature. It appeared to be gripping one of the higher wires with its back paws, while it's body was draped over a lower wire. I thought it would likely fall off soon, or that someone would remove it, but as days turned into weeks the squirrel just kept hanging there. At first I found this encouraging. As January turned to February, though, I found it more and more disturbing.
Laura and I considered leaving a note on the front door of the house, reasoning that perhaps the residents had never looked up and seen the dead squirrel decorating their home, but we never did. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we were walking Ella together past the house. A compact SUV was parked at the curb, and three young children were carrying things from the house to the vehicle while a parent loaded the back.
"Oh my God," I said loudly as we passed the kids. "Is that squirrel still hanging up there?"
Laura elbowed me in the ribs, but it was too late. As we continued down the sidewalk, we heard a kid behind us say, "What squirrel?" Then there came a startled squeal of disgust.
I smiled, because I'm the kind of person who finds that sort of thing funny. Message delivered.
This past Saturday morning, out walking Ella again, I checked on my friend Wallenda. (Yes, I have named the dead squirrel.) I didn't think I needed more pictures of it until I noticed that the squirrel was now clinging to the wire with three paws instead of two! My first thought was that the thing had been slowly trying to pull itself up onto the wire and make good its escape from death. Or maybe a strong wind had just blown it around and another paw had caught.It was only when I was able to examine the new photograph against the older ones that I realized the squirrel was now hanging upside down from one of the lower wires. Its back paws must have finally lost their grip on the higher wire and somehow snagged on the way down. Or someone deliberately moved the squirrel.
Whatever the case, I will keep monitoring Wallenda's progress. Now that the weather is warming up, he should make for an interesting sight over the next few weeks as he thaws, assuming he doesn't fall on someone's head. And if he really is an omen for the year, maybe the message is that even when you're down you can't be counted out.
William Ratfriend
Sep. 13th, 2008 09:16 amIt's raining fairly hard here in Chicago this morning—not like in Texas, certainly, but hard enough that there's standing water a foot deep in places on our street. Ella and I just got back from an hour-long walk in that deluge. We had a famous time, chasing wet squirrels in the park and clambering on the maze of playground equipment that is forbidden to dogs.
Ella was kind enough to deposit a pile of turds near a large plastic rolling waste bin. It was the kind of bin with a hinged lid that is supposed to stay closed to keep rats out. The lid was open, though, and I swung the tied plastic bag of Ella's turds through the air and into the bin. Two points!
But the thud and swish of the bag landing in the bin was followed immediately by a harsh, raspy squeal. Startled, I moved near the bin and peered over the rim. A medium-sized rat was hunched in the sludgy foot of garbage at the bottom. I jerked back, then peered in again. The rat was soaked and looked terrified.
I drew back again. I had never seen a terrified rat before. I didn't know if it was injured, or if it had babies in there, or what, but clearly it was unable to climb the smooth, wet sides of the bin and escape.
I didn't really take much time to think it over. Really, the rat and were enemies. If it were in my basement, I would not hesitate to lay a giant trap to snap its spine. But the park was neutral ground, a human-rodent-canine DMZ. After looking around to make sure that Ella was sniffing somewhere else and not paying attention—she likes to chase rats almost as much as rabbits and squirrels—I carefully tipped the bin away from me. I heard the garbage shift and the rat squealed again. When the bin lay on its side on the ground, a gush of filthy water flooded out.
I moved around to the opening and peered in. The rat was pacing back and forth above the garbage on a sort of lip on the bottom of the bin, where the wheels on the outside were recessed. Now that I could see it better, it did not appear injured. I figured I'd done what I could and walked away to join Ella as she sniffed for rats under the playground equipment.
I looked back at the bin a minute later from a distance and saw the rat's head poke out. It scurried out and I lost sight of it almost immediately. Before we left the park, I righted the bin again, and Ella was never the wiser.
Ella was kind enough to deposit a pile of turds near a large plastic rolling waste bin. It was the kind of bin with a hinged lid that is supposed to stay closed to keep rats out. The lid was open, though, and I swung the tied plastic bag of Ella's turds through the air and into the bin. Two points!
But the thud and swish of the bag landing in the bin was followed immediately by a harsh, raspy squeal. Startled, I moved near the bin and peered over the rim. A medium-sized rat was hunched in the sludgy foot of garbage at the bottom. I jerked back, then peered in again. The rat was soaked and looked terrified.
I drew back again. I had never seen a terrified rat before. I didn't know if it was injured, or if it had babies in there, or what, but clearly it was unable to climb the smooth, wet sides of the bin and escape.
I didn't really take much time to think it over. Really, the rat and were enemies. If it were in my basement, I would not hesitate to lay a giant trap to snap its spine. But the park was neutral ground, a human-rodent-canine DMZ. After looking around to make sure that Ella was sniffing somewhere else and not paying attention—she likes to chase rats almost as much as rabbits and squirrels—I carefully tipped the bin away from me. I heard the garbage shift and the rat squealed again. When the bin lay on its side on the ground, a gush of filthy water flooded out.
I moved around to the opening and peered in. The rat was pacing back and forth above the garbage on a sort of lip on the bottom of the bin, where the wheels on the outside were recessed. Now that I could see it better, it did not appear injured. I figured I'd done what I could and walked away to join Ella as she sniffed for rats under the playground equipment.
I looked back at the bin a minute later from a distance and saw the rat's head poke out. It scurried out and I lost sight of it almost immediately. Before we left the park, I righted the bin again, and Ella was never the wiser.
Cuttlefish camouflage
Feb. 19th, 2008 07:07 amSpeaking of animals, there's a cool article in today's New York Times about camouflage in cephalopods.
The elephants are coming! The elephants are coming!
I went with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eleanor and a couple of other friends, wow, maybe three years ago to see the elephants emerge from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, and it was a sight worth waiting around in the midnight cold for. It's a sight that must be seen one last time.
I went with
eleanor and a couple of other friends, wow, maybe three years ago to see the elephants emerge from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, and it was a sight worth waiting around in the midnight cold for. It's a sight that must be seen one last time.
Recent wildlife sightings
Sep. 13th, 2006 03:01 pmHearing a friend's story last night about spotting a coyote crossing Santa Monica Boulevard reminded me that Laura and I have had some wildlife sightings recently.
August 24th, pulling into our hotel parking lot in Anaheim after having been to Disneyland, we spotted a huge raccoon lumbering across the asphalt.
August 27th, waiting to board our flight at LAX, we spotted James Brown being pushed in a wheelchair.
September 9th, outside a friend's birthday party at Dempsey's on Second Avenue in the East Village, we spotted Drea de Matteo sitting at a table outside the restaurant next door.
August 24th, pulling into our hotel parking lot in Anaheim after having been to Disneyland, we spotted a huge raccoon lumbering across the asphalt.
August 27th, waiting to board our flight at LAX, we spotted James Brown being pushed in a wheelchair.
September 9th, outside a friend's birthday party at Dempsey's on Second Avenue in the East Village, we spotted Drea de Matteo sitting at a table outside the restaurant next door.
Indiana Pigeon and the Radial of Doom
Sep. 19th, 2005 05:02 pmIt's not been exactly a relaxing day at the office, but something I just witnessed down on Park Avenue sure amped the stress. As I stood at the corner, waiting to cross, I looked left and saw a big SUV pulling to a stop at the curb just up from me. Just ahead of the front right tire, as the vehicle rolled forward, a pigeon was waddling as fast as its leg would carry it, looking for all the world like Harrison Ford running from a tumbling boulder. The gap between bird and rubber narrowed, and my heart leaped into my throat as suddenly the tire brushed the pigeon's tailfeathers.
The pigeon fell forward, wings spread, and I was sure I was about to see it crushed. But the wings fluttered and the pigeon jumped to the side, strutting away beneath the SUV as if trying to prove that nothing could ruffle its feathers. The only thing that would have made the moment more harrowing is if the pigeon had reached back under the tire for its hat.
The pigeon fell forward, wings spread, and I was sure I was about to see it crushed. But the wings fluttered and the pigeon jumped to the side, strutting away beneath the SUV as if trying to prove that nothing could ruffle its feathers. The only thing that would have made the moment more harrowing is if the pigeon had reached back under the tire for its hat.
