Featured Creature Friday: Remarkable Rats

Photo courtesy of National Parks Service

Photo courtesy of National Parks Service

Okay, I know, the Featured Creature is usually about animals a little more exotic than your average rat. We’ve lived with rats (some of us even voluntarily), we’ve used them extensively for a very long time as research subjects, we’ve helped them spread all over the world and destroy fragile island ecosystems… what more could there possibly be to say about rats? Well, I thought this week with our Featured Creature it might be fun to try something a little different and offer you a collection of interesting links for things you might not know about a well-known sort of creature. You might be surprised, for instance, with a few of rats’ less-publicized qualities and talents, like empathy and even altruism. A study published a few years ago showed that rats will free their captive brethren, if they’re able, even if there isn’t any sort of actual reward in it for them. They may even save the captive some of their food, which if you ask me is a clear signal of good feelings from any species. (I mean I could share my Cheetos with you, but signs point to no.) Rats will also remember who’s helped them before, and are more likely to help other rats who’ve helped them. They aren’t just helping each other, though; what’s got me really excited this week is how rats are helping us. Non-profit organization APOPO is training rats and their handlers to do incredibly important work: detecting tuberculosis, and searching out hidden landmines. Sure, they don’t do that work spontaneously, they didn’t just wander into a lab one day and ask to be pointed at the tuberculosis test samples. But they’re stunningly good at the work. A single Giant Pouched Rat can check more TB samples in ten minutes than a lab technician can manage in a day… and the rats have a better accuracy rate, too, which has resulted in many previously undiagnosed TB patients being able to get life-saving medical treatment. You can’t beat these rats for mine detection, either. They’re light enough that even if they step directly on a landmine, they won’t set it off, and they’ve proved to be more efficient than mine-detection dogs at doing the work.

Rats may be one of those species that is likely to not only to survive the apocalypse but probably thrive in the midst of it — in the UK, for instance, they’re dealing not just with giant “mega-rats” but mega-rats that are immune to rat poison — but in the present they’re not just pests or pets, they’re doing an awful lot to improve our world, too. And when the inevitable world-ending cataclysm occurs, I for one would like to welcome our new mega-rat overlords.

The Memory of Joy in Present Grief

alpineloop2013_0003There are dozens of dogs in the shelter, but he’s the only one you see.

The kennel is a squat concrete outbuilding, and the sound inside is cacophanous, almost too loud to bear, between the hollow drumming of rain on the roof and the voices of the dogs, all raising the alert. You can’t actually see a single one around the plywood partitions between the chain-link kennels… except for him. He’s massive, one paw braced against the fence as he casually props himself up, head easily rising above the partitions, to get a look at you. He’s not making a sound, but the look on his face says, It took you long enough.

He’s not the dog you’re here to see, but you know immediately that he’s the one you’ll take home. When the papers are signed and it’s done, you open up the rear door of your truck to lay a blanket over the seat, and he pulls his leash out of the kennel worker’s hand and streaks through the open door, scrambles muddy-pawed right under your arm and into the back seat. Once he’s inside, the look he gives you is equal parts desperate and defiant. You don’t know where he’s come from or what he’s been through, but it’s obvious he knows a thing or two about being left behind.

You drive home with him peering over your shoulder, as if he’s always been there.


You figure a dog will help you get out of the house more, get in some exercise. You don’t entirely count on the way he changes the landscape of your existence. When you’re getting lost in your head he noses at your hand to pull you back; when you’re feeling alone, he slips in and leans against your legs, to remind you that you’re not.

You explore redwood forests together, chilly northern beaches, mountains and birch groves, canyons and landmarks. He drives you half crazy sometimes, and he keeps you sane, too. He’s there with you nearly everywhere you go, but you’ll always remember this the most: rain-slicked streets, and it’s dark enough that you can hardly even make out the shape of him beside you, except where he blocks out the reflection of moonlight on the wet road. But you can hear the clicking of his claws against the asphalt, and the cheerful sound of his panting as he keeps pace with you, and it’s the most free you’ve ever felt, like the two of you could run forever without slowing down. At night, he crawls into bed with you, tucks himself into a ball in the space behind your bent legs, a contented dot on the comma of your bodies.


You tell yourself he’s just getting older. He’s maybe eight now, nine, and it’s a decent run for a big dog. He starts slowing down, and it happens by tiny degrees but seems to come on sudden, too; first his hind feet start scraping, at first every now and again and then more and more often, against the sidewalk. You think maybe his thighs are losing their muscling, and then you think it’s all in your imagination. His walking gait changes from four beats to a strange wobbling two-by-two pace, but has he always walked that way? You’re suddenly uncertain of everything. Then he doesn’t want to go jogging with you anymore, can’t manage a slow trot for even a yard, and where he used to quietly egg you on to make your walks longer, now he lags behind even as you’re already turning home. You throw a ball for him and he stumbles and falls, like he’s not entirely in control of his own limbs; once in the span of a single game would be nothing, twice is suspicious, the third breaks your heart.

It’s not your imagination. You’ve got the Internet; you diagnose it yourself. The vet’s only a formality; there’s nothing he can do, anyway.


He doesn’t seem to entirely understand why his body doesn’t work right anymore. That’s the worst part. There’s no pain, and that’s the best you can hope for, all things considered. What you can’t help is the anxiety, which gets worse the more his body fails; he paces and frets, startles at the smallest noises, quivers with fear in response to sounds that you can’t even detect. The vet gives you Prozac, but all it does is turn the dial down a little; now you don’t just need to worry about his body giving out, you need to think about how much of this stress he can take. When he’s not panicking, he’s sleeping, spends most of the day curled up on your bed. Instead of walks, you drive him to the park and settle in together on a picnic blanket with a book. He likes to lie in the grass and people-watch, but after awhile even that exhausts him; he sprawls on his side in the grass and sleeps there, too. His tail wags easily enough (if a little crookedly) and he’s just as happy to share the bed as he always was (he kicks in his sleep, viciously, but he always has). But where he used to ghost your every move, following you around the house, now he disappears into quiet rooms and keeps to himself. He seems tired even when he’s already sleeping.

You agonize over the when; everyone tells you, “you’ll know when it’s time.” You’ve always figured that was true, but you know the lie of it now.

You don’t know. This isn’t anything like certainty. You still have to make the decision, anyway.



The morning is overcast and cool, and the park still smells like rain from the night before. Close your eyes and you could be eight hundred miles away, on the coast again, on the same streets you used to run together. He doesn’t even feel it as the mobile vet slides the needle with the sedative into his skin, just lies there and takes the treats and attention on offer, until he slowly falls asleep. You curl up around him while the vet shaves his leg, finds the vein, gives him the last shot. You’re in the grass, under a low-spread tree, on a beautiful summer day, and then he’s gone.

You drive home with an empty collar sitting on the passenger seat.

You weren’t ready to be left behind, but he’s gone anyway.

Featured Creature Friday: The Great Potoo

greatpotooI didn’t even have to think of an adjective to describe this week’s featured creature, because even its official name thinks it’s just great. I’ll tell you right now why the Great Potoo is so awesome: huge yellow eyes and a gaping mouth make it look like a completely fictional animal invented by the Jim Henson puppet workshop, and its most common call sounds like it’s trying to call its mom from some Lovecraftian afterlife.

This nocturnal bird can be found in ranges from southern Mexico into Central and South America, and they require trees for their lifestyle, so they tend to live in woodlands and on the edges of forests. Their feathers, in a range of assorted browns, look pretty unremarkable until you see the Great Potoo’s greatest trick, which is its disappearing act. Its coloration is perfect camouflage against the bark of trees where it perches, but it also spends a lot of its time actively pretending to be the tree. It takes on a posture to make itself look like a broken branch, and chooses ideal perches that help it carry forth that illusion, like it’s really dedicated to performance art. Really boring, very still performance art. They’re incredibly dedicated to the art, too; a Great Potoo won’t abandon its tree impression until a predator is almost on top of it.

This strategy carries over to their child-rearing habits, too; instead of building an elaborate nest, the Great Potoo lays an egg and sits it on top of a stump or in a little hollow on a tree, and then the parent sits on top of the egg, and later the chick, occasionally taking off after flying insects (and sometimes even bats!) , and then flying right back to continue the long-term tree impression.

Featured Creature Friday: The Legendary Lammergeier

By Arjan Haverkamp [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Arjan Haverkamp [CC-BY-2.0], via Wikimedia Commons

Ladies, gentlemen, distinguished guests, please allow me to introduce you to the most metal of vultures.

I’m not even kidding. Everything about this bird is hard-core, starting with its name. It’s called a Bearded Vulture, which admittedly is a little tame, but it’s also known as a Lammergeier — German for “lamb-vulture” — and it used to be known as Ossifrage, from the Latin for “bone-breaker,” both of which could also double as killer names for a death metal band.

Being vultures, Lammergeiers generally feed on carrion, and here’s the ultimate reason why this bird is too awesome to exist: it eats bones.

In fact, it eats almost nothing but bones, with 85-90% of its diet consisting of bone marrow. Rather than compete with other scavengers in its habitat (which stretches through mountainous regions of Europe, Asia, and Africa), it just sits back and chills while they do all the work picking the meat from the carcass. When the meal is down to the bare bones — no pun intended — the Lammergeier swoops in to claim the skeleton. The Lammergeier can simply crunch its way through bones up to the size of a lamb’s femur, or might use its beak to smash a larger bone against a rock until it cracks open. For the biggest bones — some of them just as heavy as the Lammergeier is — it’ll simply carry them aloft to heights upwards of 200 feet, and then drop them against the rocks below, cracking the bones open so they can get at the marrow inside. It’s not just a random toss, either; it takes young Lammergeiers about seven years to perfect the technique. The Lammergeier’s highly acidic stomach contents — with an estimated pH of 1 — mean it can digest even hard, dry pieces of bone; it can continue to feast on a skeleton for months after all the marrow and soft pieces are gone.

As if the bone-eating weren’t awesome enough, Lammergeiers also kill more live prey than perhaps any other vulture; they’ll use their bone-breaking technique to crack open the shells of tortoises, but they’ll also do it to kill small mammals and sometimes beat smaller birds to death with their wings. (The Greek playwright Aeschylus was said to have met a death by tortoise when a Lammergeier mistook his bald head for a stone and dropped a tortoise on him from a great height.) The Lammergeier may also use its intimidating size — it has a wingspan of nearly 10 feet — to surprise and attack larger animals like wild goats and antelope, pushing them from cliffs and ledges.

By Richard Bartz, Munich aka Makro Freak (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons

By Richard Bartz, Munich aka Makro Freak (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-2.5], via Wikimedia Commons

The bone-crushing and murder are only a part of why this bird is so great, though. It’s also just plain pretty as hell. Probably because its scavenging behavior is so different from the majority of other vultures, it also looks quite a bit different; unlike its often bald-headed fellows, the Lammergeier has a fully feathered head, including the feathery beard for which it is named and a pair of eyebrows I think we can all agree that even Spock would envy, along with brightly red-ringed eyes. The adult’s plummage is typically a sort of cream color, but they usually look more rusty red or orange, since they deliberately dye their feathers.

The adult birds wallow in iron-rich dust baths, which tints their feathers, but the behavior is thought to be very deliberate:

Why would a big, burly, black-and-white vulture gussy itself up in blush? It may boil down to a combination of diet and a society based on status. “Their diet is primarily ungulate bones,” says Margalida. They search cliff sides and valleys for sheep or chamois skeletons cleared of meat by other scavengers. While nutritious, the bones lack carotenoids, substances common in seeds and berries that give most other birds their flashy feathers.

“Red is very popular in the bird world,” says Margalida, adding that, in bearded vultures, the color appears to be a status symbol. Females, the dominant sex, are brighter than males. Color intensity also grows with age. A bird often handles conflict by puffing out and displaying its dyed ’do.

So they eat bones, they wear make-up, and if you cross them you could end up suffering a death by falling tortoise. If that’s not completely bad-ass, I don’t know what is.

Four Things You Should Know About My Dog Trudeau

Dear Trudog, what exactly are you doing?

Trudog, you know I like snuggling with you bro but this might be a little over the top.

1. Trudeau is afraid of the oven. He has oven-phobia. There is no logical reason for this. He’s never had a bad oven experience, or been afraid of any other oven or even this particular oven before. But suddenly, the simple act of turning the oven on sends him into a full-blown panic attack. If he has even the slightest inkling that the oven is about to be turned on, he will completely lose his shit. He’ll hide in corners and try to squeeze his massive frame beneath end tables. He’ll ignore all food offerings designed to foster in him a new love of the oven. He’ll pace the house while hyperventilating. Before I figured out exactly what the hell was going on and started trying to head it off — mostly by “crating” Trudeau in my bedroom any time the oven is in use, because I am completely at a loss with this one — he expressed his anxiety by becoming an actual lap dog. He felt better but I was slightly crushed.

He’s not sensing a gas leak (the oven is electric), and if he’s picking up some scent or sound undetectable to human senses, I obviously don’t know about it. Mostly he just seems to be feeling emotionally fragile. Possibly about my cooking. Maybe he realizes there’s a fair chance that my attempts at culinary excellent may one day actually result in a fiery inferno.

2. He’s a surprisingly picky eater. I say “surprisingly” because one of his more terrifying qualities is his particular taste for anything that he shouldn’t eat. Body-destroying foxtails? Delicious. Goose crap? A delicacy, you uncultured swine. Roadkill skunk? It’s like convenient take-out. An entire live elk? That meat’s just really fresh. He also has a general policy wherein anything you throw at his face will be assumed to be food until proven otherwise. So you’d think I wouldn’t have any difficulty getting him to eat anything at all, but suddenly there are no chews good enough for him.

"Excuse me this marrow bone is not what I ordered. I was thinking more like Twinkies maybe. Or squirrels."

“Excuse me this marrow bone is not what I ordered. I was thinking more like Twinkies maybe. Or squirrels.”

Meaty venison bone? Pass. Bully stick? Perhaps, if you ask nicely. Buffalo tendon? Yes, but only every other Thursday or on the full moon. The vet assures me his teeth are fine, though they probably won’t stay that way if he stops chewing on anything ever, and meanwhile I’m reduced to repeatedly placing various animal parts directly into his mouth until he realizes that actually, now that you mention it, this thing is delicious. Honestly, I think he’s probably just screwing with me. When he’s alone in the house he’s probably snickering into his paws. Which is a surprise because…

3. He is annoyingly polite. I probably brought this on myself by naming him after a Canadian, but seriously. He really likes to enjoy the furniture just like the rest of us, but first he has to check with you that it’s okay. This is his particularly pathetic opening move:

It's basically equal parts "look how amazing my manners are" and "please sir, may I have some more?"

It’s a killer combination of downcast body language, tentative tail-wagging, and wide, beseeching eyes.

You might think — as I did, at first — that this is a delightful quality. He usually won’t just hop up onto the couch uninvited, so there’s always time to put down a fur-and-drool-catching blanket. But it’s more irritating than it seems, because first of all, you don’t always know what he’s asking for. His pathetic “can I get up there?” face is the same as his “can I have food?” face and his “can I have a walk?” face and his “why don’t we have a pet squirrel?” face. Once you ascertain that he is in fact attempting to gain access to the furniture, then he has to be invited. But typically he doesn’t find invitations convincing. I don’t know, maybe he has low self-esteem or something. Because you invite him on the couch and he doesn’t get up. He just stares at you as if to say, “Really? Me? Are you sure? I thought maybe you didn’t like me! I don’t want to impose!” You have to go from casually inviting to outright imploring before he’ll actually climb up. I’m never sure whether he’s uncertain of his welcome or whether he’s really pissed off that I didn’t actually bother to send him an engraved invitation and a nice platinum card that entitles the bearer to free furniture privileges for life.

4. Trudeau is a vigorous, active dreamer. It seems odd to me to use such doing words as adjectives describing my particular dog, because a character sketch of Trudeau in general terms would be more likely to involve words like “somnolent,” “laggard,” and possibly “pining for the fjords.” He’s perfectly content to spend a good 90% of his day enjoying various depths of snooze. As I write this, he’s chosen to illustrate my point by dragging himself laboriously from his bed, staggering two steps to a cooler stretch of floor, and collapsing with a heartfelt groan, as if he’s just expended an effort equal to the Iditarod.

In his dreams, though, he is clearly ferocious. He barks in a way that would be deep-throated and remarkably loud, if he were awake. (When he is awake, he’s remarkably quiet; I’ve had him nearly four years now and heard him actually bark maybe twice.) His legs twitch in a fair imitation of a mighty sprint that never leaves him winded. Sometimes his lips curl back from his teeth in a snarl that would be truly terrifying if the sound that accompanied it wasn’t reminiscent of a distressed guinea pig. You’re not fooling anybody, Trudeau. Not even those dream-squirrels you’re chasing.

Sweet dreams, you adorable little bastard.

Sweet dreams, you adorable little bastard.

Take a Look at What It Is You’re Carrying

There used to be a box in the next room, in the closet, that’s traveled with me across four states. I packed it in a little cabin in Montana where the weather had warped the wood and blew right in through the walls. There was grit in the bottom from the desert of southern California, the tip of a pine needle stuck in the packing tape that it must’ve picked up in northern California, the mummified remains of an insect that probably wandered its way into the trap in Colorado. The flaps on the top were sealed shut with many layers of packing tape, because once that box was packed I never unpacked it, not once, although I’d moved house in that period no less than eight times. (I’m an over-achiever.) It was just paperwork in there, and it was nothing I wanted to deal with, so with each moving of house I’d open that box up, throw in the latest batch of paperwork I didn’t particularly want to deal with, seal it back up again, and then find a new space for it in the bottom of a new closet.

I finally took care of that box a few nights ago. I was lying in bed, completely unable to sleep, thinking about a bank account. These are the things you think about, when you’re me, at early o’clock when there’s nothing you can do about them. You lay in the dark with your heart pounding for no reason, thinking about all the things you need to get done, all the things that are stressing you out, all the things you’re probably failing to deal with… all the things like that box, in the closet, in the next room over. You lay there thinking about the bank account you failed to close years ago, worrying that the bank has found excuses to pile on fees until your $3 balance is an astronomical negative number, thinking you’ll probably have to pay them to get the account closed at last, worrying over the fact that you don’t even know the account number anymore. You think there might be a letter with your account number, maybe, sitting in that box. You’ve been thinking that for months.

It was so early, and I was so tired, and there was no way I was going to sleep, so I rolled out of bed, pulled that box out of the closet, took a pair of scissors to that thick-layered packing tape, and started pulling out the things inside.

There was nothing at all in that box that I needed to be stressed out about.

There was nothing with that bank account number I was looking for. (I finally wound up just calling the bank, asking them to look me up by my social, and according to them I don’t have an account there anymore at all. I’m not entirely convinced by this news.) There was nothing particularly intimidating, either, even though I’d frowned and worried and eyed that box suspiciously for so long. There was some outdated paperwork I didn’t need to keep, so I spent some quality time with the document shredder. There was some junk mail I’d never opened. There were horse magazines and some pieces of projects I’d long since finished or abandoned. And there were postcards that had also traveled with me across four states, that I’d had pinned for awhile to the walls of that little cabin in Montana, to remind myself that I wasn’t alone. There was an RCMP postcard made of real wood, sent by a friend in Canada that I’d bitterly regretted gradually losing touch with, and it still smelled like cedar. There was a card sent from my best friend when she’d lived in Japan. There was a long-ago doodle on the back of an envelope, like a petroglyph left over from another life.

I spent an hour re-reading those postcards and letters, because I still need to be reminded sometimes. I should’ve unpacked that box a long time ago… it was full of gifts I needed to re-deliver to myself, and weight I needed to stop carrying.

Last night I was walking the dog through a crisp autumn evening, listening to a live recording of The Swell Season on my MP3 player, and in a short introduction to their song “Drown Out,” Glen Hansard said into my ear, “Re-look at what it is you’re feeling guilty about, and if it’s not actually worth carrying, fucking shed it.”

I’ve often taken pride in my ability to travel light, but sometimes it’s the smallest boxes that are the heaviest. So here’s my advice to you: put those burdens down. Open them up. You might find something inside that makes you feel a little lighter, or you might realize that the burdens you carried a year ago don’t need to keep hanging around your neck. Some weights just aren’t worth carrying: fucking shed it.

All Creatures Great and Totally Epic

Birds from Earthwings and a presentation of exotic and domesticated native wild animals from Wild Wonders were huge highlights for me at the Soldier Hollow Classic sheepdog championship. (Photos of the actual sheepdog part of the event are right over here.) I’m kind of crazy about barn owls and foxes in particular, so I might’ve been freaking out internally. I’m sure you can’t blame me because LOOK HOW BEAUTIFUL THEY ARE.