Oh fer heck

*sigh*

Three cars and no transportation...

Damn it. I just went to go to the store and found that I have no clutch in the Mitsi. She'll start, but when I try to put her into gear the clutch doesn't even come back up from the floor once it's been depressed. I'd noticed it was a bit spongy when I drove in to chorus Wednesday night, but it got better as the car got warmer. It's been super cold the last few days, and before that there were no issues. I can't afford a clutch job right now and figured it was just a matter of the cold maybe making me lose some vaccuum, particularly as it got better as I drove. Guess I guessed wrong. There's no fluid being lost onto the driveway, nor through the firewall--then again, that wasn't happening with the Stealth, either, and we still had to refill the clutch fluid after about every 5 drives. That's why the Stealth is parked. John had trouble getting the cap off to do it, I can't. So I haven't even bothered to try to get her restarted once her battery went dead from sitting too long. The Jeep won't start, either, and it's been parked in such a way that I can't get to it to jump it. John had a trickle charger, but damned if I can find it.

Tomorrow after work, Andrew is going to come over and we'll try to either push the Jeep back far enough to drive alongside on the lawn and jump it, or hook a series of battery cables together and hope we can jump it that way without frying ourselves. I don't think the batteries are interchangeable between the two cars, but we can look. Maybe I'll have him jump the Stealth, too. If I remember to keep an eye on it I may be able to get one of the local mechanics to top it off when necessary. Our only independant gas station, which was also owned by our favorite friendly and honest mechanic, went out of business in September. I don't really have a relationship with the other mechanic in town so he may charge me. *sigh*

Thank God I bought cat food yesterday and thought to park the Mitsi in the turn-around. At least she won't be blocking any of the other cars if I can get them started. I'm starting to think that the cards are stacked against my going to my sister's for Thanksgiving, or even to my niece's. If I can get one going I'm still going to try, at least. I haven't seen anyone in my family for about 3 years, now. It'd be nice to see them again. Besides, I have a peep meet set up with someone from one of the message boards I post on, and was hoping to maybe set up a meet with someone (or multiple someone's) from OT.

If I can't get anything running I'll spend it here. At least, thanks to an unexpected gift from someone on OT that showed up the other day, I have a turkey to eat. I really don't know what I'd have done without all of the support and kindness being shown me by my friends--some of whom I've never met. The world is an amazing place. For all that goes wrong in it, it's still populated by the most amazing people.

Hmmm... I wonder if my nephew-in-law is capable of rebuilding a clutch? I think I need to make a call.

Later.

Thanks, guys

Perhaps this should be a comment on my last post, but it isn't. It started out that way, but, eh. It's an entry now. Maybe a way to ease back into making them? Perhaps.

I'm a bit surprised. I didn't expect I'd have readers this soon. I didn't write anything tonight. But, I shall.

I've heard from at least one person who heard that I was blogging again and wanted to know if I'd share the addy.

Yeah, it's private, but not from you guys. If someone wants my addy you have my permission to give it to them. I blew any cover I had on the board as soon as I posted the obit.

Unless your own blogs are private I'd prefer I not be linked, although there are a number of blogs out there that are public and written by people going through what I am. They're there to help others like me, and I'm reading.

I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't be private. Maybe what I have to say has a purpose. But, perhaps not yet, at least. Even if I can help someone else I don't know that I'm ready. It's still too raw.

Heck, at the moment all I know is that I need to GO TO BED! I've put lunch together for tomorrow - dumplings and sushi - shrimp, tuna, and salmon. Along with a couple of grape tomatoes that are flourishing in my one pot, and a "doughnut peach". I'll never be able to eat all the tomatoes. John was so helpful in getting them going, making sure they were watered, and like me, checking every day to see if we had any fruit and how they were growing when we spotted them. It was kind of funny, actually. He was a little reminiscent of a mother hen, checking on them and announcing any progress.

He never got to eat any of the grape tomatoes he was watching, but he knew we had at least one of the large heirlooms growing - we'd almost despaired of those. Since he died I've got at least 50 of the grapes ripened, with more to go. The heirloom has finally really started. Guess it's a late bloomer. The one he knew was there blackened and rotted on the vine, pretty much within a week of his death. I threw it into the woods yesterday. But, there are another 5 doing well, 1 of which is starting to ripen.

I'll have to take a bag of the grapes into the zoo. I'll never eat them all myself, even if I do like them as snacks. I'm actually not even sure if they're grape tomatoes. I got both vines (heirloom and grape) from another ZooEd and they weren't labeled. They're kind of a cross between a grape and a Roma. Larger, mostly, than the grapes you get in the store, but smaller than any of the Romas. But, they're good. Oh, yes. They're good.

We've missed having fresh garden tomatoes. This is the first year I've done any since we moved here. Walnut trees along with oaks don't make for good tomato gardens, hence the pots. Pots that I was always afraid of, but are working quite well. God, I wish he was here to see just how well. We did good. At least with tomatoes.

My husband is dead. I started the post to thank my friends for looking in on my blog. I'm blathering about tomatoes. Such is the way my mind is working these days. It's almost 4. I MUST go to bed. I can still get 7 hrs. of sleep and have a day at the zoo educating people about the world around them. I MUST get up and do so.

Goodnight. {{{HUGS}}} to all who read, and all you care for.

Everyone Suggests I Should Journal

So, here I am. I'll try it.

The blog's different, now. Instead of a journal of my life at the Zoo, it's a journal of my life as a widow. The Zoo will still figure in, but life is different now.

This is just a trial post. To make myself do something. Maybe it will continue, maybe it won't. But, this is a start.

Mystic's Story

WARNING: Some portions may be graphic. I will denote it so that you may skip if you choose.

As most of you know, Mystic is an Arctic Fox. My friend. A friend that I spent a great deal of time getting to know. And, I'm about to lose her. Before I do, her story deserves to be told...

She's small. Most people, upon seeing her, think she's a baby (a kit). But, she's not. Arctic foxes are small. They live in harsh conditions in the wild. And, small means less space needed to dig into a den, and less body to protect from the cold - coiling tight under or into whatever protective space they can find to conserve body heat.

As a matter of fact, at six years of age, she's already a couple of years older than she'd have been likely to get had she been born in the wild. But, even then - reaching an age of four, she would have been considered lucky compared to where she was born.

Mystic was born at a fur farm. She, and her fellow kits, were destined to be killed for their beautiful coats. At the fur farm she could measure her lifespan in months. Usually, they are killed, and their coats taken, when they are between 8 and 10 months of age.

Mystic's life took a turn when a family visited the fur farm. I have no idea where this fur farm was, what prompted their visit, nor why anyone would visit, nor why one would take their children to visit. Nor, for that matter, why a fur farm would permit visits. But, these people did, and the fur farm did.

They had the full tour, including a description of what was in store for the animals in residence. They saw her as a kit, and they found out at what age she would be killed. They found out how she would be killed.

Graphic portion begins

Being a fox is, inarguably, better than being a chinchilla, if you're being raised for your coat. A chinchilla is as soft as it is because it has 60 hairs growing out of each hair follicle. Someone - I prefer not to speculate, or think about, who, why, or how - in a Menegelesque experiment determined that a chinchilla's hair would last longer if there was still blood flow going to it when it was taken. So, chinchilla's are not killed before the portion of the coat that will be used is taken. The only portion of the coat used is a strip, about 2 - 3 inches wide, that runs from the base of the neck to the top of the tail. This is taken, while the animal lives, and the chinchilla is then discarded to its fate.

A fox is, at least, killed. Probably, because they are larger and could inflict more damage - to the coat, if not to the person taking it - than if they were not. The most normal method (odd term "normal") is to kill them via anal electrocution. They are restrained and placed on a metal plate. A metal probe is placed in their anus, an alligator clip is attached to their lip. An electrical current is passed through their body causing death. The "advantage" for the farmer is that there is no blood, so the body can be bled and the fur can be kept clean before harvesting.

That was to be Mystic's fate.

Graphic portion ends

The family found this out and - I don't entirely know what ensued, but I can guess, based upon what would have happened if I had been taken on such a tour when I was a child (or even now). Ultimately, the family (3 children, I believe) decided she should keep her coat for herself. So, they bought her from the fur farmer and took her home to become a family pet.

She'd had no socialization with people. And, I'd guess that people that work in such an industry take care to protect their own emotions - most of them just want/need a job, they're not monsters. So, they would, I imagine, take care not to get too close to any of their charges.

And, foxes are, by nature, wild animals. Shy and diffident. Raised in those circumstances, Mystic had no reason to trust, or easily form a bond with, her new family. Only time and proximity will overcome those instincts.

That was the first hurdle they needed to overcome with their new "pet". Through time and treats (many of them not recommended for a fox's diet) they managed that one. But, Arctic foxes, in particular, have a hard time indoors. Their coat is extremely thick (obviously), and they overheat easily in un-airconditioned environments. And, they shed. A lot. At least twice a year. (Remember, they need to change colour for the summer in order to maintain camoflage.)

And, their favorite things to do is to dig, and to shred things. They're related to dogs, but they play, and hunt, a lot more like cats. Their nails are designed to dig through solid ice. Imagine the damage they can do in your living room, on your carpeting, or on your hardwood floors. And, having been raised in the fur farm, it's highly unlikely that she was toilet trained, and "scenting" behavior is extremely hard, if not impossible, to break in a wild animal. Even harder when you're starting with them not trusting you. Those were issues number 2 and 3.

Then you hit the biggie. Foxes are musky. When they get to be breeding age, around a year or so, they start to "sweat" musk. It's quite pronounced when they are upset or excited (even good excitement, like anticipation of a treat, whether it be a favorite person, toy, food, or upcoming walk). It's something that they exude from their pores - it's not from a gland that can be removed -, and it smells a lot - a LOT - like a skunk.

In the Arctic they would rub this scent on the rocks and ice to identify their home territory. In your living room they're going to rub that scent on...?

(Interestingly, to me at least, I can spend most of a day in her pen and, because she's excited at seeing me, she'll be quite musky. And, she can be all over me and my possessions. But, when I come home? Not one dog, nor cat, even registers it as something worth investigating. I can bring home her shed fur and they don't care. If I bring home any wolf shed, however, I can put it on the table and watch as a line of cats and dogs forms from the table to the floor, across the room, and around the corner - each waiting their turn to check out the "intruder". Go figure.)

Tired of having a home that smelled strongly of skunk - (And, this is probably the reason that modern fur farmers take the pelts before they reach a year of age - very few, if any, fur coat wearers appreciate smelling like a skunk) - they banished her to a chain in the backyard with the family dog. So, Mystic doesn't see any reason at all why dogs and foxes shouldn't be best friends.

As a matter of fact, her best friend at the zoo is our zoo dog, Eddie. He's actually owned by the zoo and lives there. He was formerly a Humane Society dog and we rescued him and use him to teach proper training techniques, good pet ownership, and introduction to baby classes. She absolutely loves it when he's allowed to come into her pen and play with her. Well, actually, she plays and tries to ingratiate herself with him. He's mostly interested in seeing if she's burried (cached) and of her treats so that he can steal them.

Eventually, they decided (and got the kids to agree) that being chained up in the backyard wasn't the kind of life they wanted her to live. So, they started to look for a new home for her. At some point they contacted us and asked if we would take her.

Normally, 99.999% of the time, our - or any zoo's - answer to that will be a resounding NO. Because they are raised in fur farms, Arctic foxes aren't on the endangered species list. And, WAY too many people take in inappropriate species as "pets" for zoos to take them all.

Besides, if zoos do take them, it only encourages others to get them, too. After all, when "Fluffy, the alligator" outgrows the bathtub and eats the family cat, the local zoo will certainly take her in. Right? Or, that box turtle your kid found and, illegally, took out of the wild lives longer than it takes your kid to get to (or through) college? Someone, some zoo, would certainly like to have it. Right? (A box turtle can live to be 160 yrs. old. So, if you have one? Make a will. You are now responsible for it for the rest of its life. It can't be re-released.) Etc. And, the answer is almost always "NO"!

So, she was almost certainly out of luck. BUT. We were building a new Children's Zoo when they asked. And, the area was based upon a farm theme. And, like it, or not, a fur farm is a kind of farm. So... Mystic got lucky. We agreed to accept her as an educational animal. We could use her to talk about foxes, the Arctic (which is always worth educating folks about), and - sometimes, when the ages are appropriate, fur farms.

We accepted her. And, other than the fur farm where she was born and her first family, we're all she's known. And, she's been here since just after she started scenting. Which means that, of her 6 years on earth, she's been with us for almost 5 of them. And now she's being sent away to another home.

I've been telling people that she is, arguably, the most lucky animal living at the zoo. She's already lived longer than she would have in the wild. She's far past the age she would have gained had she stayed at the fur farm. With proper care she can easily live until she's in her mid-teens, or even early 20's - just like a domesticated dog or cat. But, I won't get to see it. If I'm lucky, I may get to visit her at her new home, and another peep - who recently started posting on that other place, but hasn't been around in a while, can keep me posted on her welfare. (At least, FRAPPR suggests that she's in the vicinity, although I haven't verified that.)

I'll post more about her life with us, and my involvement with her, in future posts. But, this is her early history.

SOAPBOX WARNING: If you're going to attempt to take in a wild animal - ANY wild animal (which means anything other than a dog, a cat, or a rat - yes, I said rat - not mouse, nor hampster, nor fish, bird, snake, turtle, rabbit, guinea pig, horse, goat, pig, sugar glider, nor anything else - just those 3) you'd best know what you're getting into and how you're going to deal with the inevitable issues.

These are animals. Living beings. Not toys, nor experiments, nor living lesson-plans for your kids. If they are not already domesticated - which happens over centuries, not days, months, or years - they don't belong in the average home. (Not to say that some of these animals won't make fine additions to the well-educated, motivated, home - just that education about their needs - and the willingness to provide for them - is key.) /SOAPBOX.

I'll post more about her, her life with the zoo, and my involvement with her - and how it came to be, in future posts.

But, this covers who she is and how she came to be available to be in my life in the first place. It's enough for now.

Trying really hard not to cry

I haven't been here in a while, so I'm not really expecting that anyone will actually read this. Which is probably a good thing, because what I'm going to share hasn't been made public and I shouldn't be sharing it. But, I wanted to remember the date.

They're sending Mystic away. And, there's nothing I can do to stop it. I don't own her (although, given 1/2 a chance I'd move heaven and earth to do so), they do. It's their right. It happens all the time. But, I don't have to like it, even if she will have a good home.

Today, after we played, she sat behind me on the rock on top. I sat on the lower ledge and leaned back with my head resting on the rock where she was curled up. After a bit she got up, put her foot on my shoulder to hold me in place, and sniffed my face and snuffled into my ear.

I am sooooo going to miss my little girl. My friend.

It's not public, so I can't talk to anybody there and let them know that I know. The person in charge (but not in charge of the decision) told me because she didn't want me to be blindsided when/if I heard it via the grapevine. Bless her.

The worst part is that it's kind of like the French justice system of execution. I know that it is going to happen. But, I only know that it will happen sometime in Oct. or Nov. No date to plan for goodbyes.

I've battled all day since I got the news to keep from crying. As I sit here at night, alone in my living room, writing this, I've finally lost the battle. I have to stop. I can no longer see the screen through my tears.

Trading Apes

O.K. So my version of tomorrow is a bit different than yours. So is "God's". If His day doesn't have to have a set 24 hrs. in it (and, if one wishes to reconcile evolution with creation, that's the best place to start, imo.), mine doesn't have to, either. After all, in blog terms I'm "God" here. How long would a day actually be if we looked at the revolution time of the entire universe around some set spot somewhere in the middle of it, anyway?

At any rate, here is my very favorite story to date illustrating Orangutan intelligence and ability to reason. I will warn you. It is not PG, and is not a story I tell when very young children are actively listening to what I might be saying.

This is a story I heard from a former currator at our zoo. It is true, but names will not be revealed for two reasons. First, this is not a story a zoo would want repeated except within the zoo community. I would not reveal it if for only this reason. Second, I have forgotten which zoo he told me experienced this lesson and, since I wouldn't tell anyone anyway, it hasn't been important enough for to me to ask him again.

There is a zoo here in the U.S. that has, or had - in case they have remodeled since this occured - a moated Orangutan exhibit. You've seen them. Maybe not with Orangutans, but with other species. They are open air exhibits that use an expanse of open water as part (it's always only a part, not the whole) of the means of separating the animals from the humans.

While they do a good job of keeping the human visitors separated from the species on exhibit they can't keep everything apart. Wild birds quite often use these water spaces as a temporary - or semi-permanent - home during their migratory season. Wild ducks, in particular, like to use zoo moats as their summer homes, breeding and raising their young during the summer months and migrating south for the winter, only to return the following summer.

I digress, but I must talk about Buster. He is the only wild duck at our zoo that has a name. He showed up at the moat running through our African savannah exhibit four years ago, on his first migration back to the north. Was he born here, or did he just find us? Who knows? His upper bill had been torn by something. Again, we have no idea what. But a portion of it was partially torn off and dangling. There were a few attempts to capture him in order to render first aid, but he fended off all attempts.

Both out of attempts to make a rescue and pity for his temporarily hindered feeding ability, zoo staff broke the hardfast rule against feeding the wildlife and supplemented his diet. (We want them to migate - it's what they are supposed to do - and, in an ideal zoo world, we'd as soon they not come back as they can introduce disease into our captive population. The last thing we want s for them to decide to overwinter. We don't want them to die, but we can't afford to feed them all, much less house them.) Nature prevailed and eventually the damaged portion fell off and the remaining bill healed over leaving him with an upper bill a bit shorter than the lower and marred by some scar tissue.

As a good duck should, he migrated with the flock. And, as a good friend should, he's returned every year. With his distinctive bill he is easily recognized. He has fathered any number of chicks. And, even though he no longer requires it, everyone turns a bit of a blind eye if maybe a bit of grain or corn gets spilled his way. He's come back every year. We look for him. He's here now. And, I think that the year that he finally doesn't return there will be a bit of sadness in everyones heart that will almost equal the sadness we feel when we lose a "real" member of our animal family.

Back to the Orang story. Like ours, ducks would migrate in and out as the seasons turned. Captive animals get used to the wildlife that share their space. (Even the cheetah and tiger cubs have grown enough, and gotten used to them enough, that they rarely bother to chase the squirrels that share their yard. We're not finding near as many left over tails this year.)

But, this zoo had a young, adolescent, Orang who hadn't been exposed enough to be jaded to the migratory ducks, yet. One day, as a duck went sailing past in the moat, he reached out and grabbed it. He didn't kill it, he just grabbed and held onto it. He was quite proud of himself. It moved. It was animated. It was a cool toy. He carried it around his exhibit and showed it to the people watching. It flapped. People laughed and pointed. Orangs, like human children, understand the difference between people laughing "with" them as opposed to people laughing "at" them. This was fun. This was worth repeating.

So, he repeated it. Many times. Always fun. No injury. He'd eventually release the, now indignant, duck and either let it go on its way or catch it again, only to release it again. But, 'rangs are strong. And, they don't really realize just how strong they are. The inevitable happened.

The day came that when he caught the duck he accidently killed it. He didn't know what had happened. He just knew that his mobile toy wasn't working and people weren't smiling and laughing. Instead, visitors were horrified as he tried to show them his toy and make it work. They told zoo staff what he had. This was the first that the zoo staff knew about his fun pasttime. They don't have the advantage of spending the day watching the animals they care for. Their day is spent cleaning, preparing diets and enrichment, on paperwork, etc. Just like any other job, the fun stuff, the actual interactions that are fun, are few. (They found out later, from frequent visitors, what had been going on before.)

But, faced with visitor concerns they needed to act. Dead animals that are not being eaten (feeding wild animals seems to hold a bizarre fascination for children, and adults, alike, even though almost nothing is ever fed "live") is not considered fun by the majority of paying adults and their children. And, the first thing they needed to do was to get the dead duck off of the exhibit.

Orangutans like to trade. In Star Trek terms they would be the Ferengi of our world. They will trade almost anything for something that they hold in greater value. It doesn't even seem to be something they need to "learn". They do it naturally. So, the keepers, in a hurry to get the dead duck out of the hand of the 'rang and off of exhibit so that they can get on with their work, decide to ask the 'rang to trade the duck for a banana. It worked beautifully. They took the 'rang a banana, asked for the duck, and the trade was made. They went back to work.

Of course, life is not an illustrated comic strip. There was no way for the keepers to see the lightbulb that immediately appeared over the young 'rangs head.

Live duck = laughter from people I don't know.
Dead duck = keeper (read best friend) attention + banana.

No comparison. Dead ducks win in value.

It took another three or four trades of banana for duck (remember, even keepers get a day or two off once in awhile, while swing keepers hold down the fort) before all of the keepers traded notes and realized belatedly, and to their horror, that they had unwittingly created a serial duck murderer.

There is only one answer for something like this. As humans we experience it all the time in the marketplace. It's called valuation. One day a given commodity is worth x number of dollars. The next day the value goes up, or down, according to supply and demand. The keepers decided to devalue dead ducks.

In practice, with an Orangutan, it would work like this... Yesterday a dead duck was worth one banana. Today a dead duck is only worth 1/2 of a banana. Tomorrow a dead duck is worth 1/4 of a banana. By the end of the week, or whatever timeframe the 'rang sets, a dead duck has no value at all. Just hand it over and maybe get a reward for doing something we ask that has no duck related content whatsoever.

Would have worked with no bumps, except for one small flaw. The first keeper faced with the initial devaluation attempt wasn't thinking like an Orangutan. He, or she, faced with the necessity of taking away the duck along with the devaluation blueprint took an entire banana , instead of the half banana that was to be the final offer, into the trading position.

Faced with the Orangutan, duck in hand, the keeper broke the banana in half and made the offer. The Orangutan looked at the offer, considered it, and... did I mention how strong they are?

Yep. You guessed it. No problem as far as the Orangutan was concerned. He was more than willing to trade 1/2 of a duck for 1/2 of a banana.

Orangutans - Part 3 - Escape Ape

The first of my favorite Orangutan intelligence stories involves an ape at the zoo in Sacramento. This happened only a few years ago, and was widely reported. It is a true story.

It seems that each morning, when the keepers arrived for work, they were walking into a building where all of the Orangutans had been released from their cages and were wandering around inside. The first time this happened they blamed the keeper for not having properly secured their cages for the evening. But, something like that would be extremely unusual. No one that I know of, including myself, ever leaves an animal enclosure without checking - and double-checking - the lock mechanism to ensure that it is secure. The keeper insisted that the cages had been locked properly.

After the same thing happened on subsequent days, they finally installed a camera system to see what was going on after they left for the evening. Well, they found out - and it was something that no one expected.

See, Orangutans are really, really smart. And, as I've said, they learn very, very quickly. And, Sacramento's male was no slouch in either department.

Upon finding them out the next morning the zoo pulled the tapes from the prior night. They showed the keeper locking up and double-checking everything, turning off the regular lights, putting on the night lights, bidding everyone goodnight, and leaving. The showed all of the Orangutans settled in for the night. Then they showed their male Orang looking around furtively, making sure they were all alone...

A digression... Male Orangs, once they become the dominant male in their group, develop huge cheeks and a large air sack that hangs down from under their necks. These are air sacks. When he see a threat, or needs to call to members of his group, he will fill these sacks with air and bellow. It is a call that can be heard for a mile or more in the jungle. Orangutan teeth are well developed, and look quite like our own. They can use them very delicately - I've seen them expertly hold a kiwi fruit against the window and, using only their teeth, expertly strip the flesh from the delicate skin without making a single tear - but they can bite quite hard if they choose to do so. For dental checks we will teach them to grin to show us the front of their teeth, and open their mouths on command to check for cavities or other damage/abnormality. But, no one is ever going to be so foolish as to stick their hands in the cheeks of an unsedated Oranguatan to look to see what is inside. And, to search the cheeks of a dominant male, you'd not only be sticking your hand inside, you'd be sticking a large part of your arm inside, as well. Not gonna happen. Their male had figured this out.

Once he decided that the coast was clear he was seen reaching into his own mouth, down along the gumline inside of that huge cheek and extracting a piece of wire about 3 inches long. No idea where he found it, but he had - and he'd kept it. He'd seen how the keepers used their keys to open the locks. As far as he was concerned, the wire was reminiscent of a key. And, for all intents and purposes, in the right hands, a wire is as good as a key. And, he had the right hands.

Yep. They captured it all on tape. He pulled out the wire, went to work on the lock, and in short order had used it to pick the lock and release himself from his enclosure. Then he went around to the other cages and picked those locks, letting everyone else out to play. Then, after checking to make sure no one was watching him, he re-secreted the key along his gum line, so that it wouldn't be found and taken away.

Dumb apes? Not on your life.