I’m so glad these taxonomy issues are being raised on a popular science Youtube series:
One of our favorite warm weather activities with Irie and Tiki is to take them swimming, either at the beach, if we can spare a couple of days for a getaway, or at the lake. Wherever we go, though,…
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Thank you! My dog flourishes at home with his adopted sis and my husband and I. But when strangers come in the house it's something else. Unless we're in a neutral setting, he is pacing, VERY reactive and just a totally different dog. You can't judge a dogs character by their first meet and greet in my opinion. Especially if it's their territory.
BAD RAP Blog
This is “Mr. Ethiopian wolf,” pretty much the world’s leading expert on the species:
There is a very interesting discussion in the Q and A portion about the introgression of dog genes into Ethiopian wolves and why that’s not necessarily always a bad thing.
The current research is working toward a full genome sequence of the Ethiopian wolf, and if they are like coyotes and “Holarctic” wolves, I bet there will be some surprises in store.
“Whether God exists or don’t, don’t matter. You still owe him.”
Yer Big Dog
2 Dogs 2000 Miles
I received a lot of feedback about my recent blog “False Confidence about Microchipping a Pet” which pointed out some of the pitfalls about micro-chipping your dog or cat, not the least of which is that most people haven’t registered that microchip properly. In the process I learned about a free national micro chip registry called Michelson’s Found Animals. This week on DOG TALK (and Kitties, Too!) I interviewed Aimee Gilbreath, the Executive Director of this animal welfare foundation, and I learned the valuable service they were providing to all of our pets. I immediately signed up both Maisie and Wanda – the website makes it super simple. I breathed a sigh of relief knowing that if I was so be separated from them (heaven forbid) that a microchip scanner would tell anyone who and where I am to reclaim them.
Think how many cats are lost every year – kitties slip out of their homes, without collars or tags, and are taken in by other people or by a shelter that cannot find the rightful owner because the cat doesn’t have a microchip or it hasn’t been properly registered. Michelson’s Found Animals fills a special niche in rescue because it seeks to remove from shelters those animals whose owners would reclaim them, if only they could be found. Michelson’s Found Animals identified microchipping and registry as an obvious, simple and overlooked aspect of how to reduce pets in shelters: you could reunite those pets with their heart-broken families, if only those pets were micro-chipped and the information was stored in a national database.
Based in Los Angeles, Michelson’s Found Animals was founded by the philanthropist Dr. Gary Michelson (a retired human surgeon whose specialty was spinal surgery, for which he received hundreds of patents) who clearly wanted to make a difference in animal welfare. Beyond providing surrender prevention programs and education, low cost microchips and scanners for shelters, no cost spay and neuter services to low income households and the no-fee microchip registry for everyone, Dr. Michelson thinks way outside the box, as I learned on Wikipedia:
“Found Animals provides a kitten foster program which saved more than 1,000 kittens in 2015 and the Saving Pets Challenge which raised $ 1 Million for animal welfare organizations nationwide. In 2008, Michelson’s Found Animals foundation launched the Michelson Prize and Grants in Reproductive Biology an international competition with a 25 million dollar prize that represents a unique experiment in innovation aimed at solving the problem of pet overpopulation. His goal is to encourage researchers from a wide variety of scientific fields to take on the challenge of non-surgical pet sterilization. Recognizing that interested parties may not have access to funds the research and testing would require, also offered is the companion Michelson Grants in Reproductive Biology that will provide up to $ 50 million in funding for promising research. The Michelson Prize seeks to make sterilization accessible and affordable worldwide and aid developing countries where this problem is even greater.”
It is therefore with pleasure and pride that I can say that Michelson’s Found Animals will be the beneficiary of the Pooch Party August 4th at the boutique Only in Beverly Hills, celebrating the 2nd Annual Dog Film Festival’s return to Los Angeles on August 5th.
Tracie Hotchner is a nationally acclaimed pet wellness advocate, who wrote THE DOG BIBLE: Everything Your Dog Wants You to Know and THE CAT BIBLE: Everything Your Cat Expects You to Know. She is recognized as the premiere voice for pets and their people on pet talk radio. She continues to produce and host her own Gracie® Award winning NPR show DOG TALK® (and Kitties, Too!) from Peconic Public Broadcasting in the Hamptons after 9 consecutive years and over 500 shows. She produced and hosted her own live, call-in show CAT CHAT® on the Martha Stewart channel of Sirius/XM for over 7 years until the channel was canceled, when Tracie created her own Radio Pet Lady Network where she produces and co-hosts CAT CHAT® along with 10 other pet talk radio podcasts with top veterinarians and pet experts.
Tracie also is the Founder and Director of the annual NY Dog Film Festival, a philanthropic celebration of the love between dogs and their people. Short canine-themed documentary, animated and narrative films from around the world create a shared audience experience that inspires, educates and entertains. With a New York City premiere every October, the Festival then travels around the country, partnering in each location with an outstanding animal welfare organization that brings adoptable dogs to the theater and receives half the proceeds of the ticket sales. Halo was a Founding Sponsor in 2015 and donated 10,000 meals to the beneficiary shelters in every destination around the country in 2016.
Tracie lives in Bennington, Vermont – where the Radio Pet Lady Network studio is based – and where her 12 acres are well-used by her 2-girl pack of lovely, lively rescued Weimaraners, Maisie and Wanda.
I caught this bass at a private pond in South Carolina a few weeks ago. It was one of several I caught on a Zebco Omega Spincast.
I am, however, going again for trout this weekend, and I have to say, I’ve caught one of those in ten years.
Every time I ask for advice on trout, I get told to get a spinning reel. I cannot use one of those reels without getting so frustrated with it that break it into many pieces.
I have to use the spincast technology. No discussion. I am stuck using the reel that gives me the least amount of grief, because I cannot go down to the trout stream and have a wild cussing fit at a tangle every three to five casts. It’s supposed to be relaxing. It’s not supposed to be a war.
The Zebco reel I have comes with red “Cajun” line that is about 10-pound test line. That’s a bit much for trout, so I am thinking of just doing a leader on it. I’m not taking that 10-pound test off, because it’s much easier to get on a bass hole than a trout stream in this part of the world.
The odds of me catching a trout are extremely low. The only way they could be lower is for me not to go or to throw rocks in the creek before I cast.
So I’m going down to play in the creek and dumb around with a stick and some fake worms that look like giant sperm.
Probably to catch jack again.
I wish this stream had other species in it, because then I could try for a smallmouth or a bluegill when I get bored and frustrated with salmonoids.
I am not much of a waterman or an angler. I’m a ridgerunner, landlubber sort.
So I am off again. Waste some time. Deposit a few yards to the miles of line that I can’t retrieve out of a snag, along with my hooks and sinkers,
And watch people who don’t even know that a rainbow trout is a Pacific salmon or that a brook trout is a char catch over their limit and hide from the game warden.
There is no meritocracy in fishing. It’s not like hunting deer, where you figure it out over the trips you take. I can call a white-tail right up to my feet, But every time I got to the fish, it’s a different hell. The primitive rayfins with minuscule brains have me outsmarted.
I don’t mind hooked a nasty largemouth bass and hauling in it, but that’s not something I’d want to eat. They come in all spikes and green rage, like some sort of water monster that you’ve roused from the depths.
The one trout I’ve caught fought beautifully and angelically, like a cherub wheeling in the water before landed it. It was a rainbow, the transplanted Pacific salmon whose ocean going form is called a steelhead. It was a native to this land as people with German last names, pale skin, and blue eyes.
But it was more native than I was, more at home in the water than I ever could be in my terrestrial existence.
So humbled by a damned fish.
If you were to travel the back roads along the wild border between Calhoun and Gilmer Counties and mention my name to some well-worn local, you would probably get “You mean that guy who kills all the turkeys?”
I am Scottie V. Westfall III. Junior is my father. The elder has passed on.
I have never killed a turkey, though I’ve certainly seen the birds slinking along on gray November days, the sort of days when you hope against all hope that a white-horned stag might come slinking out of the thickets and into rifle range. When the bipedal fantails come trudging out of the gray gloom, I’ve been sorely tempted, but I’ve held my fire.
Not in season. Let them be.
My grandpa killed 8 turkeys in one season. The limit is 2.
He saw them as the Holy Grail of wild game. He made his own calls and spent hours scouting and “chumming” them. “Chumming,” of course, meant the copious dropping the “yellow call” in the March woods, and “yellow call” was cracked corn. Baiting turkeys was illegal as taking more than the yearly bag limit.
He and often argued over conservation issues, but he liked playing the scofflaw, a sort twentieth century version of the old European poacher who loved to flaunt the king’s edicts about the king’s game.
Turkey hunts in spring begin before the sun rises. The birds start moving and then start courting once there is just enough light to see, and the big tom birds drop from their treetop roosts and go about the business of fighting and fanning before the often reluctant hens.
The trick is to hit the woods before the birds come down and begin the process of “talking turkey.” The talk a man gives the tom bird is supposed to be that of a dopey but receptive hen that is looking for a male company but just can’t make her way toward him.
If a tom is “henned up” with plenty of female company, he’s not likely to leave them to look for the yelping idiot on a distant ridge. He’s going to be content to stay with his harem and fan and puff up for them.
The best hunters have strategies for the birds, but the very best– the ones who shoot 8 birds in a season– use the yellow call. They risk the game warden’s fines, but if he really wants the bird, it’s a risk that some will take.
Before there was ever a turkey season, my grandpa set out a bunch of game-farmed Eastern wild turkeys in the back country. The dumb things were too tame to be sporting birds, so he took to harassing and harrying with sticks.
And they soon learned to fear man, and they thrived in the backwoods. When their numbers were high enough, my grandpa opened his own season and shot a tom. He was totally flaunting the North American model of wildlife conservation. He’d set out private birds on private land, and now he was opening his own private season.
I can’t say that I approve of such things. I’m more or less in love with public wildlife model that has served our game species so well. I don’t hate conservation laws, which are mostly based upon the most rigorous science available.
But a few days ago, I saw a few big toms out fanning in a pasture. The greenness of the new April grass painted a pastel promenade ground, and the bird’s iridescent feathers were shining in the April sun.
I saw in them the beauty that had so beguiled my grandfather. They drove him into the scofflaw world of sniping turkeys with a .243. They were what led him the regular haunts in the March woods with buckets of yellow call.
“You gobble. You die,” said the vanity plate on my his Ford pickup.
And for the turkeys he took, it certainly meant death.
But in their gobbling, he truly lived. He was a wild beast of the woods as his ancestors were, hunting hard the wild game without any regard for such artificial abstractions as law and conservation science. It is the way that our kind lived for much of our 200,000 year existence. It is a way that has brought down many species, including the passenger pigeons which used to fill the skies on warm spring days.
The pigeon died at the Cincinnati Zoo in 1914, more than 19 years before my grandfather was born. They died off as the wild turkey nearly did. We just couldn’t stop killing them.
The turkey was saved, though, and is doing well. And the bag limits and seasons get more liberal every year.
I think of my grandpa when I see these birds on clear April days. I know that he would be out there questing for them, yearning for them, coaxing them, ready to harvest as a wild hunting man should.
And I can only come up short. I’m an ersatz hunter-gatherer, wet around the ears, domesticated by the post-industrial world.
Yet still seeking that essential wildness that lies in gray woods of my people.