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Critters

Giant squid captured on film

If this checks out, the giant squid, Architeuthis Dux has been captured on film by a Japanese research team.

Marine biologists have been trying to film a live, adult giant squid for decades. This is a major breakthrough, especially as they have a sample from the creature filmed, for DNA verification. The Washington Post article has a single frame of the film. To get some perspective on the find, this particular squid is as big as a school bus. No news when the film will be released.

Tipped to the story by the SquidBlog.

Scott sent a link to a National Geographic article with several other photos.

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Critters

Squid stuff

PZ Myers goes into wonderful detail on how cephlapods can bite with no internal skeleton; and Danny points to a photo of a baby octopus. Which most likely won’t be biting very hard.

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Critters Events of note Weather

The last to be rescued

Excerpted from the Humane Society article After the flood, animals find way to survive in the Big Easy.

Adrift in this floating living room, the golden-coated pit bull found shelter in the only place the water couldn’t reach: a black-metal frame encasing the air conditioning unit in a nearby window. At least that’s where the rescue team found the frightened animal. He had somehow clawed his way through the accordion wing on the left side of the AC unit, and squeezed himself between the air conditioner and the metal bars.

Despite his dire predicament, the frightened dog was not about to leave his metal perch—at least not with strangers. Growling, barking and inching further back into his self-imposed jail, the dog fought every attempt by rescuers to grab him with a control pole, but the animal had literally backed himself into a tight spot, and the team was able to quickly collar him and pull him from the inhospitable house.

And yet, the hold on life for these animals who rely on the milk of human kindness for their survival, remains tenuous. Teams are already finding animals whose skin looks painted onto a skeleton. One, four-person team this week discovered, much to its horror, a dead bull dog in an upstairs bathroom. The owners, apparently thinking they would be gone for days and not weeks, locked the white-coated creature there, with limited food and water. He died beside the bathroom door, obviously hoping for an escape.

Team members heard the Jack Russell yipping as they walked along Monticello Avenue, near the canal that drains into Lake Ponchatrain. They chased the dog, white with a dashing brown patch over his left eye, under the brick house, where he refused to budge for minute after agonizing minute under the broiling Louisiana sun.

The rescuers mapped out their strategy on the fly. Earnest staked out the right side of the house, Moore and Anderson the left, and HSUS volunteer Jane Garrison monitored a small boxy hole in front of the house, through which the rescuers hoped to flush the terrier.

“Go the other way, Jack,” encouraged Anderson, in a tone meant to send the dog the opposition direction. “This is not the best way to go…It’s very bad for a Jack.”

“Go on, Jack,” yelled Earnest from the other side of the house. “Go through the hole.”

“I’m your best hope, Jack,” Garrison cooed at the animal, looking to entice him to her waiting leash.

For whatever reason, the dog followed orders. He eventually peeked his head through the boxy hole, just enough for Garrison to place a leash on him and hold on for dear life.

New Orleans resident Eugene Kaufman, re-united with this 20-year old blind dog, Samantha. At this time, the HSUS has rescued 2783 cats and dogs, 121 horses. and over a thousand other animals, mainly farm animals. But there are thousands more still to be rescued, and it could be weeks, even months, before these animals have a home again. (See slideshow of effort.)

You’re all tired out from giving: to the Red Cross, the United Way, so many other good and helping organizations. All I’m asking is that you give 5.00 to the Humane Society to help care for these animals. Just 5.00, that’s all I’m asking. But if you want to give more, I won’t argue with you.

I am donating 2 dollars for every picture pledged by the folks who volunteered for the Critters for Critters campaign–including this timely and charming picture of a dog dressed for Mardi Gras, donated by Neil at Life With Dogs and these lovely pictures from Baldur–in lieu of running the auction. I wish it could be more.

And if you have a pet or pets, now is the time to think about their care if you’re faced with a disaster. Remember, the rule of thumb is to have at least three days of supplies (a week is better) on hand for all living creatures in the house; have pet carriers within easy and quick access; and if you have to evacuate, evacuate early rather than late, and always assume it will be weeks before you can return.

If you don’t have a pet, you have a friend in need just waiting for you at your local shelter.

I have a difficult time going to the HSUS site and reading the stories anymore. As positive as so many are, others break your heart. There’s the one where the sherrif’s department searched a home for survivors and found two people dead, but the couple’s shepard was still alive, standing guard over their bodies. Chances are they did not evacuate because of their dog, and the bitter-sad irony is that the dog was the only one to survive.

The HSUS is pushing now to make pet rescue incorporated into all local, state, and federal evacuation procedures. There’s a petition you can sign at the site, as well as letters to send to Congress, FEMA, and your local government. You should also check your own state’s policy in this regard; several states include animal evactuation because they know that many people will put their lives at risk rather than leave their pets.

Another thing to consider is having microchips inserted into your cat or dog, just in case. Regardless, have a plan in place; don’t leave your pet behind.

Bid on the original artwork for a Mutts comic strip being auctioned by the cartoonist, Patrick McDonnell to raise money for the HSUS rescue operations.

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Critters

Small moments

My roommate came home this afternoon and asked when the bush on the corner had been removed. I had just been downstairs and when I looked out the window, the small, sickly bush on the corner of the dirt in front of our place was still there; still stubbornly hanging on, even if the management had taken no care of it this summer. We’d watered it, but it never looked great. The birds like it, though, as well as the squirrels.

I was surprised and said I’d just seen it when I came upstairs. “No, not the small plant. The big one on the side of the building.”

I was suprised, shocked really, and ran downstairs and outside. Where once was a big bush, three formed into one covering the cable box and overlapping the corner, there was now stubs cut low to the ground. It was awful, but what was worse were the few finch standing on the stumps looking bewildered. When I came out they took off, one female flying in circles in confusion before making a beeline for a car and hiding underneath it.

This was the habitat for our finches, those we had been feeding for over a year now. This was their home and their protection from hawks and other predators; their sanctuary. The only reason we felt we could feed the birds was knowing that they had the safe shelter of the bush in case of danger or dog or people walking by.

It was also a sanctuary for the rabbits as they made their way up the lawn from the street below, and provided a dark green accent to the brick of the building — about the only one this summer since the lawns died from the drought.

I came storming into the house and called the management office and asked why they removed the bush. The young woman who answered didn’t know but checked and came online to tell me that the maintenance was ‘removing some of the older, bigger bushes’, why she didn’t know. Maybe there was a paranoid idiot who was afraid of the shadows, because lord knows Americans jump at shadows, and hack and pick at nature until there is nothing left unknown, uncontrolled, and free.

I am ashamed to say I yelled at that young woman, though this is something I rarely do. I am a quiet person by nature, regardless of what you might think from these pages. But I yelled at her. I told her about the generations of finches who had made their home in the bush, and since they had removed the shrubs in front of our place last year, all that’s left now for shelter is the big trees–home to the hawk and the eagle. I yelled at her and said that all they do is cut down and take away.

Later I called to apologize–yes, I apologized. If I were made of the same cement that seems to pass for ‘ground’ in America nowadays, I may not have gotten so upset when I went out and saw the birds unsure of what happened to their home. Perhaps someone got annoyed because the birds shit on their cars. They rarely did, though; they were content to hang around the corner, safe in their bush. When I apologized and tried to explain why I was upset, I could hear the girl think, “they’re only finches”. Common as dirt, small, brown; you never see them unless you really look; or hear them unless you listen.

But this summer I found out that finches are a wonderful little bird–rich with personality and spirit. I could go out on a sunny morning and stand by the door and listen to the birds in the bush, and no matter how sad, feel uplifted by their sound. We had created a living, viable space in this little corner; filled with simple lives and simple sounds. And now it’s gone, and all that’s left is dead stumps and dirt.

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Critters

My cat, the little princess

Been a long time since I did a shaggy cat story.

You all know Zoë, my cat. My little princess. My sweet faced little adorable furball. My lovely little, silver-haired darling.

Otherwise known as “The Bitch”.

Zoë is a bird friendly cat, which means that she stays indoors at all times. We have a large, carpeted cat tree in front of the window, as well as several rubber mats that she can claw to her heart’s content. She gets quality ‘bird’ (chasing feather on string), ‘keep away’ (playing hide n’ seek throughout the house), and ‘earthquake’ (shaking the tree or chair while she’s on them, which she loves) time, not to mention the ‘under the blanket monster’, the ’stair climb’, and the Lap.

 

She gets a mix of healthy dry food, formulated for both her teeth and her advancing years, as well as a dollop of wet food in the morning and evening (and treats at noon and before bed). She’s amazingly healthy, happy, active, and I think quite a looker. She’s the most beautiful cat I’ve owned, and with a loving, curious, playful personality.

And she has claws. She has, probably, the world’s longest cat claws.

 

At the vets, they look on in horror at those claws, as they leave gouges in the hard surface of the examining table. “Oh my!”, they exclaim, as they quickly reach for the ‘huggy’ to wrap her in before doing an examination. I’ve finally figured out that the most junior person in the office is the one delegated to hold Zoe while she gets her shot. I sure as heck don’t hold her.

We also try to clip her claws, with varying degrees of success. Varying, that is, from poor to “I’m ripped to shreds, and only clipped on claw and I need a transfusion”. The roommate and I hesitate to try again as we don’t want to cut into the quick and cause Zoë to bleed.

(Loosely translated: “The roomie and I are cowards.”)

Now, it’s not unusual for an indoor cat to have long claws, and long claws don’t necessarily mean that there’s a problem (other than they can hook into carpets and get yanked out). But Zoë also has a habit of extending her claws and gently inserting them into whatever is closest. Usually us.

When I’m working in my chair, and her butt is half over my TiBook, her front paws are extended, oh so sweetly, over my leg, claws lightly sunk in. And then she’ll slightly flex them in tune to her purrs, sending tiny little pinpricks of exquisite agony into my skin. My roommate’s arms are a mass of scars from all the play time. I am luckier in that she doesn’t claw me during play time because I’m Mom; roomie is just the hairless, idiot, older brother and therefore fair game.

 

If she’s on my lap, though, and something startles her, she uses her claws to obtain traction in order to launch herself off –accompanied by my screams of anguish, which I think has the neighbor really confused about our lifestyle. (Especially if he gets a closer look at roomie’s arms.)

I have gotten fairly adept at sensing her tensed muscles and quickly grabbing her front claws in order to preserve what’s left of my legs. I am not always successful, and my knees have a series of little red dots all over them, accompanied by thinner red lines of old markings. Last week, though, was the corker. Last week, she sunk her claws in so deep, she punctured a blood vein and now I have this massive dark purple bruise on my leg, with this tiny little pinprick in the middle.

 

Zoë cleaning my blood from claws.

I am mad at her. I am so mad at her. When she isn’t snuggled up into the crook of my arm, head back against my chest, looking up at my face with absolute and unconditional love, I’m really going to be so pissed.

The little Bitch.