And that's not good.
The good news is I finally got a laptop, which means the last of my NaNoWriMo excuses just dried up. The wireless network is halfway working (the laptop half, that is; the desktop is being stubborn, even more stubborn than its owner, who has just about thrown her hands up in despair.)
So here are a few tidbits that got written along the way, but weren't posted due to...let's just call them my issues, shall we?
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While searching for employee engagement program suggestions online, I found a blog post that stressed the importance of action; specifically, for managers to prefer small actions over large-scale plans. The last bit essentially said, “Take a look at that to-do list and all those future plans, determine one small step you can take towards those goals, and take it.” That may just have been the key that finally sent me shopping for my laptop. It serves a dual objective: on a professional level, it is a useful tool that will help me grow my business, and on a personal level, it represents the last standing excuse I had to not try NaNoWriMo this year. It’s more than a single step, it’s a small skip. Now let’s see if I can keep up with my feet.
I will give myself a smaller target for this month, one which should (technically) pose no problem: to reach 50,000 words on my blog (the equivalent of a NaNo project) by Halloween. I’m only 10,000 or so words away; still, life has a way of throwing successful distractions my way. My other goal of any importance is to find a way to successfully hold the laptop and the cat (if not the cats) on my lap simultaneously. That hasn’t happened yet. Right now I’ve got Timmy lying down along the crease between my legs, and the laptop perched at an odd angle between my right knee and the Lazyboy arm. That will not work over the long run.
Ohh, UFC 86, Rampage vs. Forrest…highly distracting.
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Bless Tina Fey’s heart. She’s simply brilliant as Sarah Palin. Hopefully, her gig will only last for another month.
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Tomorrow is the “Pattes de l’espoir/Paws for Hope” fundraising walkathon for the Canadian Cancer Society. I think it’s a really neat event since the actual walker is your dog - you’re just along for the ride. Besides, it’s one of the rare times my dogs have ever received mail (other than the veterinarian’s Xmas card.) So tomorrow morning, I will wake up far too early for a Sunday morning, pack Dudley into the car and make my way to Bois de Belle-Rivière to enjoy the crisp autumn air with a pack of other canines and dog-owners united for a good cause.
All right, in my particular case, I support this walkathon for entirely selfish reasons. With the number of people affected by cancer slowly sliding from one out of every three to one out of two, and losing both my parents to cancer, as well as a number of aunts and uncles, in my case, I’m afraid it’s not a question of “if” I ever have to face cancer, it’ s a question of “when”. Hopefully, when that day comes, there will be some answers and some support. Until then, I walk.
Sometimes, it makes me wonder when people ooh and aah at the fact I take part in these types of activities, or that I volunteer. Um, hello? Opportunities abound; there are slews of great causes out there, and most if not all can always use the help. It’s in the paper, it’s online, it’s everywhere you take the time to look. I look at it like this: you can donate money, or you can give your time. Personally, I try to do a bit of both. But, for Pete’s sake, people, pay it forward.
Which reminds me of a new “reality game” called Akoha, which calls on people to “play it forward.” I’ve registered to be a beta tester, but it hasn’t panned out yet. Otherwise, the public launch is planned for next year. It just sounds like a fun way to do good around you, and if it raises a little awareness at the same time, all the better. I’m so looking forward to taking part!
(723)
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
writing prompt: a room with a view
I’m cheating a bit with this prompt.
My office cubicle has no window, and even if I prairie dog over the partition, there is no window in sight. There’s a window in the conference room, but the door is almost always shut. Managers in closed offices have windows; while I don’t particularly envy the ones with a lovely view of the parking lot, I must admit it is useful to remote start your car on cold winter nights. I am jealous of those who see the wooded lot on the north side, as they get to see the ongoing adventures of our small woodland creatures – birds of all kinds, a lot of squirrels, the occasional groundhog or hare.
My bedroom window has a window, but no view really – unless you consider the garage roof and the neighbour’s hedge a view. Besides, I kept the drapes open for years, until I started dating Pat, who can only sleep in absolute darkness but often goes to bed at dawn. It also helps to avoid a repeat of an unpleasant incident that occurred a few years back, as I awoke (in very little clothing) to the sight of a man right outside my window, on the garage roof, trimming the neighbour’s hedge with no forewarning whatsoever!
Like I said, I’m cheating here. The prompt made me think of the “masked thief” Pat and I caught peeking in from our ground level windows earlier this week. Cats are regulars, but this was a first. I can’t say what attracted him; it’s not like we were cooking anything. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it was the only thing to look at, really, under the back porch, a spot that affords some protection from the apparently endless drizzle and downpours we’ve been having this summer.
(301)
My office cubicle has no window, and even if I prairie dog over the partition, there is no window in sight. There’s a window in the conference room, but the door is almost always shut. Managers in closed offices have windows; while I don’t particularly envy the ones with a lovely view of the parking lot, I must admit it is useful to remote start your car on cold winter nights. I am jealous of those who see the wooded lot on the north side, as they get to see the ongoing adventures of our small woodland creatures – birds of all kinds, a lot of squirrels, the occasional groundhog or hare.
My bedroom window has a window, but no view really – unless you consider the garage roof and the neighbour’s hedge a view. Besides, I kept the drapes open for years, until I started dating Pat, who can only sleep in absolute darkness but often goes to bed at dawn. It also helps to avoid a repeat of an unpleasant incident that occurred a few years back, as I awoke (in very little clothing) to the sight of a man right outside my window, on the garage roof, trimming the neighbour’s hedge with no forewarning whatsoever!
Like I said, I’m cheating here. The prompt made me think of the “masked thief” Pat and I caught peeking in from our ground level windows earlier this week. Cats are regulars, but this was a first. I can’t say what attracted him; it’s not like we were cooking anything. Perhaps it was simply the fact that it was the only thing to look at, really, under the back porch, a spot that affords some protection from the apparently endless drizzle and downpours we’ve been having this summer.
(301)
Friday, July 18, 2008
writing prompt: there is no music
Writing prompt: There is no music. What sound inspires you? What living music makes your heart skip a beat? (…) Name your melody.
I once read the story of a long-term care facility somewhere that had adopted a cat. The cat would spend most days wandering the halls, but whenever a resident was at death’s door, he would jump on the person’s bed and purr, as though to accompany them to the gates of the afterlife. The cat was so reliable that whenever he settled down like this, they would summon the family to the resident’s bedside. Should it come to pass that my death comes at the end of such a decline, I can only hope to go like that, simply because the cat’s purr is the most soothing sound I know.
It’s a vibration, perfectly attuned to the hum of the universe. Its power is primeval and resonates deep within my being. It warms me from within better than any fire. Like ocean waves lapping at the shore, its meditative rhythm slows my breath to its pace. It calls forth blissful memories of comfort and home, of my mother stroking my hair, of being rocked to sleep, of pure, entire love. If my last experience in this lifetime is to feel a cat purring by my side, then I will have been truly blessed.
(203)
I once read the story of a long-term care facility somewhere that had adopted a cat. The cat would spend most days wandering the halls, but whenever a resident was at death’s door, he would jump on the person’s bed and purr, as though to accompany them to the gates of the afterlife. The cat was so reliable that whenever he settled down like this, they would summon the family to the resident’s bedside. Should it come to pass that my death comes at the end of such a decline, I can only hope to go like that, simply because the cat’s purr is the most soothing sound I know.
It’s a vibration, perfectly attuned to the hum of the universe. Its power is primeval and resonates deep within my being. It warms me from within better than any fire. Like ocean waves lapping at the shore, its meditative rhythm slows my breath to its pace. It calls forth blissful memories of comfort and home, of my mother stroking my hair, of being rocked to sleep, of pure, entire love. If my last experience in this lifetime is to feel a cat purring by my side, then I will have been truly blessed.
(203)
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
forgive me blogosphere, for i have sinned
It has been two weeks since my last post. Ah, I could go on making excuses, about how summer is just so delicious, how my freelancing has really picked up in the last month, how I've got a story brewing to post on fanfiction.net, how Pat had surgery last Friday to repair two broken metacarpal bones...but that's all they'd be - excuses. So instead, let's move forward, with a little something I wrote last June 18, but that I never got around to posting.
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Yesterday, the sky was crowded over the street where I live, as this year’s hatch of mayflies took to the air in a desperate but dignified bid to cram as much breeding and flying and just plain living as possible into their oh-so-ephemeral existence. Their swarm cloud was thousands-strong, hovering and undulating among the cedars and pines. For a while, a robin perched on a power line in their midst, turning over an interesting tidbit in its beak. Before long, it presumably retreated to its nest for the night, leaving the sky to the mayflies. I sat on the stairs with my hoody pulled up, to avoid the occasional mayfly landing in my hair. They didn’t even pause to mate: one would keep flying upright, the other would line up underneath and curl up their abdomen. Unfortunately, I don’t know which is which, but the resulting union lost its grace in flight, often hurtling down, tumbling out of the sky; at best they looked like drunken bumblebees until the two parted ways. The supple limbs of my Japanese lilac also served as a crash pad for overenthusiastic couples too otherwise-occupied to remain aloft. It was a quiet spectacle that made the evening sky hum; already, the darkness creeping in signaled the end of the show, and I’m sure their death knoll was beginning to toll. I sat, the sole witness to their lives’ singular majesty.
This morning, a single mayfly alighted by my front door knob; by tonight, it will be over for another year.
(339)
---
Yesterday, the sky was crowded over the street where I live, as this year’s hatch of mayflies took to the air in a desperate but dignified bid to cram as much breeding and flying and just plain living as possible into their oh-so-ephemeral existence. Their swarm cloud was thousands-strong, hovering and undulating among the cedars and pines. For a while, a robin perched on a power line in their midst, turning over an interesting tidbit in its beak. Before long, it presumably retreated to its nest for the night, leaving the sky to the mayflies. I sat on the stairs with my hoody pulled up, to avoid the occasional mayfly landing in my hair. They didn’t even pause to mate: one would keep flying upright, the other would line up underneath and curl up their abdomen. Unfortunately, I don’t know which is which, but the resulting union lost its grace in flight, often hurtling down, tumbling out of the sky; at best they looked like drunken bumblebees until the two parted ways. The supple limbs of my Japanese lilac also served as a crash pad for overenthusiastic couples too otherwise-occupied to remain aloft. It was a quiet spectacle that made the evening sky hum; already, the darkness creeping in signaled the end of the show, and I’m sure their death knoll was beginning to toll. I sat, the sole witness to their lives’ singular majesty.
This morning, a single mayfly alighted by my front door knob; by tonight, it will be over for another year.
(339)
Monday, June 9, 2008
hero of the day?
I just have to mention the performance Kent Desormeaux turned in at the Belmont Stakes. In an industry overpopulated with, shall we say, not the straightest and narrowest of walkers, the man followed his gut and pulled Big Brown back, finishing dead last. In a year that saw Eight Belles put down on the Kentucky Derby track, the story holds. That he is being worked over by everyone and anyone who had monetary interest in the outcome of the race comes as no surprise. Some are even going so far as to say the fix was in, thanks to the mob. I'll take my chance at being naive. I salute the guy who thought to put the horse first, and racing be damned.
(123)
(123)
Monday, June 2, 2008
hindsight is always 20/20
So Richard Martineau, of whom I have written about previously, posted à "free to good home" ad for his dog on his blog. Turns out that since the birth of his third child, the couple has had little time to devote to the dog, who is bored silly.
A few of the comments gently chided him not to have any more children, lest the eldest get bored. Another spoke up, saying that hippy tree-hugging animal-lovers will boo hoo the fact he's reneging on an implicit promise to care for the dog its entire life, while they should realize that it takes a real animal-lover to be able to let the dog go to someplace where he will be truly loved and cared for. I thought about this, and it almost made sense, except that:
1. If you can only spare the time to care for a limited number of beings, due to time constraints or whatever, could you not foresee this? Did it not dawn on you that you wanted children within the next fifteen years or so, and that they would take up a lot of your free time? Because let's be frank, you do not want to change your lifestyle to accommodate the dog and the baby. So be it, but you should have thought of that beforehand. I also sincerely hope your parents and in-laws are in good health; I'm afraid to ask how you would solve the dilemma of becoming a caregiver as well.
2. If there were enough foster/adoptive homes to handle and care for all these no-longer-convenient pets, it would be a wash. Problem is the numbers are anything but even. So goodhearted people pour money, time and their hearts into cleaning up your mess. And you have the gall to title your post "Chien à donner - snif". Cry me a river, buddy.
(310)
A few of the comments gently chided him not to have any more children, lest the eldest get bored. Another spoke up, saying that hippy tree-hugging animal-lovers will boo hoo the fact he's reneging on an implicit promise to care for the dog its entire life, while they should realize that it takes a real animal-lover to be able to let the dog go to someplace where he will be truly loved and cared for. I thought about this, and it almost made sense, except that:
1. If you can only spare the time to care for a limited number of beings, due to time constraints or whatever, could you not foresee this? Did it not dawn on you that you wanted children within the next fifteen years or so, and that they would take up a lot of your free time? Because let's be frank, you do not want to change your lifestyle to accommodate the dog and the baby. So be it, but you should have thought of that beforehand. I also sincerely hope your parents and in-laws are in good health; I'm afraid to ask how you would solve the dilemma of becoming a caregiver as well.
2. If there were enough foster/adoptive homes to handle and care for all these no-longer-convenient pets, it would be a wash. Problem is the numbers are anything but even. So goodhearted people pour money, time and their hearts into cleaning up your mess. And you have the gall to title your post "Chien à donner - snif". Cry me a river, buddy.
(310)
Thursday, May 29, 2008
I wrote a long expanse of text today
...on paper, and I'm not entirely sure I want to publish it to the world. At least, not yet.
It's about my plans for completing the tattoo on my back, and for another one after that. I'm not completely paranoid; it's simply that the topic is so intimate, I really want to take the time to get it down right. They're predicting rain this weekend; maybe I'll get a chance to work on it some more.
Today in seven: Find the words, find your wings. Imperfect.
And on to the dog watch update: no sightings today either, so I think she may have gone on to greener pastures. And I double-checked those signs: the missing springer spaniel is a male, so unless my colleague mistook a well-hung dog for a lactating bitch, we're not talking about the same pooch. Not that that settles my mind much about it.
(148)
It's about my plans for completing the tattoo on my back, and for another one after that. I'm not completely paranoid; it's simply that the topic is so intimate, I really want to take the time to get it down right. They're predicting rain this weekend; maybe I'll get a chance to work on it some more.
Today in seven: Find the words, find your wings. Imperfect.
And on to the dog watch update: no sightings today either, so I think she may have gone on to greener pastures. And I double-checked those signs: the missing springer spaniel is a male, so unless my colleague mistook a well-hung dog for a lactating bitch, we're not talking about the same pooch. Not that that settles my mind much about it.
(148)
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
wanderer
Right after lunch yesterday, a couple of colleagues of mine came to get me, saying there was a sorry-looking stray dog in the yard, would I come see? My reputation precedes me, I guess. A bunch of people saw this dog, but no two descriptions matched. Not quite the blind men describing the elephant, but close. All I got was fairly large, white with either black or dark brown, and droopy ears. After that, the picture disintegrates, with people tossing around words like Collie, Labernese, or Spaniel. By the time I found a window, she (I was also told she had dangling teats) was nowhere to be seen; she had disappeared into the wooded lot next door. I headed out after her. Up in a tree, a crow squawked excitedly; at the base of the tree, I saw a flash of white fur, semi-long coat, with a dash of black! As soon as I spotted it, it was gone again. I called in that direction, I whistled, to no avail.
Later in the afternoon, I went into the unoccupied executive conference room that looks out onto the yard. No luck. And I got caught by the company president. D'oh! He's really a nice gentleman, and I'm sure he doesn't think ill of me for standing there, but I have such a knack for silly things like that...see next post for confirmation.
Now I can't stop thinking about her, especially since someone mentioned a spaniel. There are posters on every hydro pole in town - a lost springer spaniel. Could it be her? The prospect of finding a lost dog and returning it to its family stirs something deep inside me. I guess I long to play the hero, the part no one stepped in to fill in my time of need. (Not that Pat didn't try.) Still, all I can do is glance out now and then to see whether she returns. Time will tell if she wants my help. (Update: no one saw her at lunch today.)
(330)
Later in the afternoon, I went into the unoccupied executive conference room that looks out onto the yard. No luck. And I got caught by the company president. D'oh! He's really a nice gentleman, and I'm sure he doesn't think ill of me for standing there, but I have such a knack for silly things like that...see next post for confirmation.
Now I can't stop thinking about her, especially since someone mentioned a spaniel. There are posters on every hydro pole in town - a lost springer spaniel. Could it be her? The prospect of finding a lost dog and returning it to its family stirs something deep inside me. I guess I long to play the hero, the part no one stepped in to fill in my time of need. (Not that Pat didn't try.) Still, all I can do is glance out now and then to see whether she returns. Time will tell if she wants my help. (Update: no one saw her at lunch today.)
(330)
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
the toughest call
This time, I can't identify my teacher or the migraine I had this weekend as the cause of my silence. This time, it's grief. A friend of mine asked last week when it was time to have a dog put down. Her eleven year old German Shepherd mix had been having greater and greater difficulty navigating the stairs. It was fast becoming apparent that arthritis, that bane of large dogs everywhere, was winning the war. All kinds of things had been tried to ease her pain, and until recently, she fought valiantly, yelping only when her stiffened limbs missed a step, sending her tumbling awkwardly downstairs, or planting her muzzle into the stairs going up. But she would recover bravely, hoping no one had noticed. This past week, however, had seen her whimpering before even attempting the stairs, coaxing her owners back to her level. Just rising from a nap was laboured. And so the hardest call stood before them, silent, unavoidable.
I well up at the thought of making such a decision, before even putting a face to the subject. Life has been good to me, in that I have never been confronted with the prospect. My first cat ran away while we were away on vacation; there was no miracle reunion for us. The cat I received for my seventh birthday lived a good sixteen years, but I was at work when the time came, and it was my father who bore that burden. The rodents and reptiles and birds who left us over the years did so on their own terms, usually silently in the night. Everyone else, save for Lita, is still with us.
So, today was going to be the day. Then she bounded into the SUV, just like in the good old days, and instantly won a reprieve. So they sit, enjoying each other's company, for another evening, acutely aware of the ticking clock and of the toughest call, still sitting, waiting. I salute the courage of those who, when the time comes, for the right reasons, can stand beside their loved ones one last time, and make the call. I hope I have that strength when the day comes for me.
In six, then: Learning to let go - cruel fate.
(377)
I well up at the thought of making such a decision, before even putting a face to the subject. Life has been good to me, in that I have never been confronted with the prospect. My first cat ran away while we were away on vacation; there was no miracle reunion for us. The cat I received for my seventh birthday lived a good sixteen years, but I was at work when the time came, and it was my father who bore that burden. The rodents and reptiles and birds who left us over the years did so on their own terms, usually silently in the night. Everyone else, save for Lita, is still with us.
So, today was going to be the day. Then she bounded into the SUV, just like in the good old days, and instantly won a reprieve. So they sit, enjoying each other's company, for another evening, acutely aware of the ticking clock and of the toughest call, still sitting, waiting. I salute the courage of those who, when the time comes, for the right reasons, can stand beside their loved ones one last time, and make the call. I hope I have that strength when the day comes for me.
In six, then: Learning to let go - cruel fate.
(377)
Friday, May 16, 2008
what does $35.08 buy you?
I never did get around to writing that post I alluded to earlier.
A man convicted of running a puppy mill was sentenced to a $2,000 fine. He is barred from owning a pet for two years, and owning animals for business purposes for three years (see article.)
If memory serves me correctly, 97 dogs, mostly fox terriers, were seized. Reported numbers vary as to what happened next: 18 were put in foster care, between 20 and 40 had to be euthanized, and the rest were rehabbed and adopted out by the SPCA. The highest count I saw reported for this last category was 57.
$2,000/57=$35.08 per dog. How does that compare to the costs of treating these poor animals. Heck, does it even cover the actual cost of the vaccines and flea/tick treatments, never mind the time, food and shelter?
Quebec has long held the title of puppy mill capital, due to a nasty combination of lax laws and virtually no enforcement. Tougher laws are definitely needed, and I believe that part of that reform is a minimum automatic sentence/fine upon conviction. I remember reading that Michael Vick was fined a six-figure amount specifically earmarked for the care and rehabilitation of his victims. That sounds fair to me. Yup, here it is: $18,275 per dog, 22 dogs. While this case was spectacular, in that the accused was a multi-millionaire, the principle is sound – pay for the damage you inflict.
Let’s say an “average” “pure-bred” (but paperless) puppy goes for $500 in pet shops; in fact, that’s really on the low end, but I’m feeling generous. That means that each puppy is sold for approximately $250 (yup, it’s 100% markup on puppies). Assuming that each dog in a breeding facility should produce at least one viable puppy, then the man stood to make 97x$250=$24,250. Let’s say that the profit from any “spare” puppies can pay for the costs of running the puppy mill. So, by my count at least, the fine should represent his "lost" profits, and it was off by a factor of ten. At a minimum.
Otherwise, you could just bill him for all incurred costs - at retail price - no bulk rate for him, and calculate the salaries volunteers would make.
But for the time being, $35.08 buys you the right to abuse a dog.
Also in the news, three young men, aged 19, 21 and 24, were arrested for allegedly beating four cats to death with a hammer. I would like to suggest we give the kids $35.08 worth of hammers, and entrust them with the puppy mill owner. Let's leave the cats and dogs out of this gruesome picture, and let karma work its magic.
With the much-needed overhaul of the Montreal SPCA on the horizon (wave bye-bye, Herr Barnotti), could it be the stars are aligning to help clean up this shameful mess? Cross your fingers, or your paws.
(487)
A man convicted of running a puppy mill was sentenced to a $2,000 fine. He is barred from owning a pet for two years, and owning animals for business purposes for three years (see article.)
If memory serves me correctly, 97 dogs, mostly fox terriers, were seized. Reported numbers vary as to what happened next: 18 were put in foster care, between 20 and 40 had to be euthanized, and the rest were rehabbed and adopted out by the SPCA. The highest count I saw reported for this last category was 57.
$2,000/57=$35.08 per dog. How does that compare to the costs of treating these poor animals. Heck, does it even cover the actual cost of the vaccines and flea/tick treatments, never mind the time, food and shelter?
Quebec has long held the title of puppy mill capital, due to a nasty combination of lax laws and virtually no enforcement. Tougher laws are definitely needed, and I believe that part of that reform is a minimum automatic sentence/fine upon conviction. I remember reading that Michael Vick was fined a six-figure amount specifically earmarked for the care and rehabilitation of his victims. That sounds fair to me. Yup, here it is: $18,275 per dog, 22 dogs. While this case was spectacular, in that the accused was a multi-millionaire, the principle is sound – pay for the damage you inflict.
Let’s say an “average” “pure-bred” (but paperless) puppy goes for $500 in pet shops; in fact, that’s really on the low end, but I’m feeling generous. That means that each puppy is sold for approximately $250 (yup, it’s 100% markup on puppies). Assuming that each dog in a breeding facility should produce at least one viable puppy, then the man stood to make 97x$250=$24,250. Let’s say that the profit from any “spare” puppies can pay for the costs of running the puppy mill. So, by my count at least, the fine should represent his "lost" profits, and it was off by a factor of ten. At a minimum.
Otherwise, you could just bill him for all incurred costs - at retail price - no bulk rate for him, and calculate the salaries volunteers would make.
But for the time being, $35.08 buys you the right to abuse a dog.
Also in the news, three young men, aged 19, 21 and 24, were arrested for allegedly beating four cats to death with a hammer. I would like to suggest we give the kids $35.08 worth of hammers, and entrust them with the puppy mill owner. Let's leave the cats and dogs out of this gruesome picture, and let karma work its magic.
With the much-needed overhaul of the Montreal SPCA on the horizon (wave bye-bye, Herr Barnotti), could it be the stars are aligning to help clean up this shameful mess? Cross your fingers, or your paws.
(487)
Thursday, May 15, 2008
an inconvenient frog
I recently read something that boggled my mind. (I say that as though it was an unusual occurrence!)
Richard Martineau, a rogue journalist whose no-nonsense approach I find refreshing, posted this on his blog earlier this week. The one topic on which we consistently fail to see eye to eye: the environment. He says that most environmentalists are hysterical tree-huggers who cry wolf at every turn. He often refers to them as eco-terrorists, even the mild, mainstream ones like Al Gore et al.
To him, the equation is simple:
Comfort(Homo sapiens) > Health(Universe - Homo sapiens).
In his post, he states that stopping construction of bungalows and shopping malls is preposterous, following an article in La Presse about one of the Quebec wetlands' most rapidly declining inhabitants, the Western Chorus Frog (Pseudacris triseriata.) I can only call his approach nearsighted.
He mentions that his stance might be different if the argument was made that building these bungalows and shopping malls encourages urban sprawl and the unsustainable consumption that follows. Newsflash: the two are not mutually exclusive. He just can't seem to bear the thought of being perceived as one of the tree-huggers he consistently vilifies.
It was also said, "What's next? Worms? Bugs?" What exactly is the criteria for the worthiness of preserving wildlife, anyway? Kermit isn't cute enough? Demetan doesn't do it for you?
Please note that frogs, other than filling their ecological niche (which is indirectly useful to humans), are used as a simple indicator of the health of the ecosystem as a whole, as they tend to be among the first groups to show signs of environmental stress. So in that sense, they are a pre-alarm system - useful for humans.
Besides, I hate to break it to you, but nature is a package deal. Just because you can't immediately grasp the role/impact of a particular species does not make it useless. Let's say you lose a bolt on your car. Just because you don't know what it does doesn't mean you won't replace it, because you just don't know how often that can happen before the entire vehicle falls apart and kills you. Since we can't replace the cog/part/thingamabob once it's gone, we have to take steps to make sure it stays put and healthy. It really is that simple.
On a societal level, reducing your ecological footprint is an attempt to minimize the temporal version of the butterfly effect, because we just don't know how Mother Nature will re-establish balance once we throw it too far off. It may not include Homo sapiens at all.
How's this for an equation:
Health(Homo sapiens)/Health(Earth)=B(alance) (a dynamic constant)
(443)
Richard Martineau, a rogue journalist whose no-nonsense approach I find refreshing, posted this on his blog earlier this week. The one topic on which we consistently fail to see eye to eye: the environment. He says that most environmentalists are hysterical tree-huggers who cry wolf at every turn. He often refers to them as eco-terrorists, even the mild, mainstream ones like Al Gore et al.
To him, the equation is simple:
Comfort(Homo sapiens) > Health(Universe - Homo sapiens).
In his post, he states that stopping construction of bungalows and shopping malls is preposterous, following an article in La Presse about one of the Quebec wetlands' most rapidly declining inhabitants, the Western Chorus Frog (Pseudacris triseriata.) I can only call his approach nearsighted.
He mentions that his stance might be different if the argument was made that building these bungalows and shopping malls encourages urban sprawl and the unsustainable consumption that follows. Newsflash: the two are not mutually exclusive. He just can't seem to bear the thought of being perceived as one of the tree-huggers he consistently vilifies.
It was also said, "What's next? Worms? Bugs?" What exactly is the criteria for the worthiness of preserving wildlife, anyway? Kermit isn't cute enough? Demetan doesn't do it for you?
Please note that frogs, other than filling their ecological niche (which is indirectly useful to humans), are used as a simple indicator of the health of the ecosystem as a whole, as they tend to be among the first groups to show signs of environmental stress. So in that sense, they are a pre-alarm system - useful for humans.
Besides, I hate to break it to you, but nature is a package deal. Just because you can't immediately grasp the role/impact of a particular species does not make it useless. Let's say you lose a bolt on your car. Just because you don't know what it does doesn't mean you won't replace it, because you just don't know how often that can happen before the entire vehicle falls apart and kills you. Since we can't replace the cog/part/thingamabob once it's gone, we have to take steps to make sure it stays put and healthy. It really is that simple.
On a societal level, reducing your ecological footprint is an attempt to minimize the temporal version of the butterfly effect, because we just don't know how Mother Nature will re-establish balance once we throw it too far off. It may not include Homo sapiens at all.
How's this for an equation:
Health(Homo sapiens)/Health(Earth)=B(alance) (a dynamic constant)
(443)
Friday, May 9, 2008
gaggle gaggle gaggle
Haven’t seen any geese fly by in the past week or so, even though I’ve been walking more often. Tuesday morning, I must have seen close to three hundred, by my count. Some low-flying, others high in the sky, some silent, some honking steadily, perhaps to encourage their followers to flap in sync…some in such perfect formation, they looked like a dotted line across the morning sky…some in multi-branching structures, like scruffy bushes. Or most bureaucracies, lacking the overall vision to streamline effectively. But I digress.
I thought that was probably the last bunch I'd see, but no, a couple more flew by this morning. But not enough to constitute a gaggle. I don't know how many geese constitute a gaggle, but in my mind a gaggle is more than I saw this morning. That was an extended family, at best.
I like the word "gaggle."
(146)
I thought that was probably the last bunch I'd see, but no, a couple more flew by this morning. But not enough to constitute a gaggle. I don't know how many geese constitute a gaggle, but in my mind a gaggle is more than I saw this morning. That was an extended family, at best.
I like the word "gaggle."
(146)
Sunday, May 4, 2008
the cats
I said I would start doodling again, and here are the results of last night's The Ultimate Fighter and TNA Impact, so about 3 hours of highly interrupted work:
They are all portraits of the same cat (Rey Rey, or Timmy) sleeping on my lap, except the one on the bottom left, which is of another cat (Big Red, or Orange) sleeping flat on top of the sofa.
(68)
Sunday, April 13, 2008
animal bonding
There was a book review in Saturday's Gazette for "Dog Man: An Uncommon Life on a Faraway Mountain", by Martha Sherrill, which relates the story of Morie Sawataishi, who reestablished the Akita breed after WWII (at which point there were no more than 16 dogs left.)
What blew my mind was this bit:
Wow. If only all animal breeders felt that way, maybe shelters wouldn't be overflowing, the expression "puppy mill" would cease to exist...and pigs would fly, I know. Still, it's an incredibly noble sentiment, one that people need to hear.
Friday in six: Paid to prepare words for others.
Saturday: Carrefour Laval, more for him again.
Sunday: Snowflakes like styrofoam mean further hibernation.
(115)
What blew my mind was this bit:
When his dogs die, he preserves their pelts as totems - a primal, primitive
connection to an object of love.
"I touch he pelts," he says, 'and I remember everything."
His commitment is such that he has never sold a dog, not once. He gives
puppies away as gifts, or barters one for services, but to take money for a dog
strikes him as a violation of the proper, mutually selfless relationship between
man an dog, where you feel "honoured to even possess such an incredible animal,
much less be loved by him."
Wow. If only all animal breeders felt that way, maybe shelters wouldn't be overflowing, the expression "puppy mill" would cease to exist...and pigs would fly, I know. Still, it's an incredibly noble sentiment, one that people need to hear.
Friday in six: Paid to prepare words for others.
Saturday: Carrefour Laval, more for him again.
Sunday: Snowflakes like styrofoam mean further hibernation.
(115)
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