(continued from SCARF4 mktyap@copyright)
I wish mother was a red crown crane
The grus japonensis (tancho 丹頂) a large East Asian crane is among the rarest in the world. Domiciled in North East Asia, they are also called Manchurian or Japanese crane and migrate between these countries seasonably. Mating for life they rarely have more than one offspring at a time and authorities feared for their falling population. This is a story about a crane named Akiko and her son Shunji. Its a son’s touching recollection of how his mother had brought him up and set him ready for the world, something that some of us wish for ourselves.
Akiko and her mate flew in from north east Russia two winters ago. The flock landed in snowy Hokkaido’s Kushiro marsh to breed. They described their joy of union wings flapping and skipping to a dance, crowing with heads pointed skyward and cheeks colliding. Akiko was the stronger one as she had to support her mate during the ritual, wings flapping in balance. That spring following, Shunji arrived. He grew quickly. Because both parents were constantly feeding him. Mother Akiko would bring a grub and dropped it nearby and Shunji would skip to it. Never once would Akiko insist – Shunji was raised to take whatever he liked and reject what he didn’t fancy. He would however follow their red crowns wherever they lead him, bleating like sheep, his brown neck marked him as the junior.
So for the past winters the trio would land gracefully among the diamond dusts and obedient groups of japanese at the nearby observation platform would view the incoming flocks with quiet approving nods and camera clicks. Akiko would strike elegantly with her ward following not far behind. But sometimes she would let Shunji wander a bit off, not over-fretting as some mothers do. However when she and her partner flap their wings, Shunji would come running without a word. He knew well that that was a sign of flying off to their next destination. She was a quiet mother. Her distanced nonchalance exudes a confidence in her son and he would take on a confidence of his own as he strode out to the world. Even in times of potential distress Akiko would stand calmly by watching. Once a red fox spotted the young crane from a dozen meters. They are harmless to adult cranes but are known to attack chicks that are slower to take flight. Shunji had never met a fox before and was more curious than prone to flight. Akiko instinctively sensed that Shunji needed to learn a lesson then and watched from the corner as the fox made a stealthy detour away from the adults. Shunji sized up the newcomer as the fox approached. He needed to learn the gravity of danger facing him. Then before the fox could get within striking distance Akiko flapped her wings once, without uttering a sound. That was enough for Shunji to take flight towards his parents.
Akiko knew that being a single child Shunji needed to learn to be generous. Once she caught a small dace, dropping it wriggling for Shunji to run to. But before he reached it the father came by with a much bigger catch. She knew that it was too big for her chick and likely to choke on it. When she came to break it up, Shunji like all children, wanted it all. So she gave him a sharp look and walked away. After a while the chick gave up swallowing the oversized fish. Mother’s grub was more sensible. Yet the biggest lesson Akiko was to instill in her child remained – confidence. It came one day when an almost insurmountable obstacle faced the trio.
It was the spring of the chick’s first year return flight to Siberia. They were making their way above the Rausu volcano when the smoky top suddenly erupted. Fortunately they were not directly above the blast. Even though several hundred meters away the ash and fumes were asphyxiating. All of a sudden their feathers were swamped with soot. Flight was tardy and they were losing altitude. Akiko cried with the strength of a mother. Higher! Higher! They needed all their strength to escape the rising plume of dust rushing to engulf them. Shunji was almost choked of air but parents came alongside to enhance his lift and lower the drag. Never give up! Go higher! Akiko knew it wasn’t enough. They had to catch the slipstream in the prevailing wind in order to shake off the uplifting dust. With careful tilting and wheeling of her wings the trio escaped the oncoming blast of hot pumice and debris. Only a few anxious moments later when the trio felt the cold windstream returned that danger had passed.
A year passed and Shunji began to wean off the parents. His yellow natal down started to turn jet black at the nape and a shock of red crest getting prominently male. With his bill turning olive green and legs greyish his bleats changed to a throaty fluting call. His hunting skills extended from loaches, his favorite, to toads, shrimps and lizards. Like his mother he would freeze his long neck like the leaning tower of Pisa, looked sideways down the water with one eye and strike with swift precision. Most of all he displayed the elegance of the national bird of China, thanks to his mother’s lessons of independence and self-worth. Akiko had of late, started to distance from him, perhaps getting ready for her next offspring. After all she has at least another 20 years of life. Go get a life! And get a nice girl while you’re at it, she seemed to say. But the trio had become strong in the arduous wintering flight to the South in the Kushiro marsh.
As Shunji stepped into adulthood his memories of mother etched on his mind: Mother’s life was always about others than herself in the family. She’s wont to always fade into the background, never for once demand any return, or any attention for her kindness or sacrifice. Despite the harsh challenges in deep Siberia and daunting dangers life proceeded quietly – the unfailing never-say-die outlook. I had never heard a discouraging word from her, in fact she’s not capable of lecture. She needn’t to. One look and ’twas enough, we’ll all accede. Most of all, she’s always flying higher whenever she could, never mind slower. The world awaits the untiring traveller.
The real hero – many parents would consider giving up on an inconvenient child but there was a Yasuko Kanazawa who single-handedly brought up her Down syndrome daughter Shoko to her full potential.
Once upon a nick of time
Dinosaurs invariably evoke a sense of awe and curiosity that transcends time. Ancestrally bipedal, the diverse species of the dinosauria reptile first appeared in the Triassic period, more than 240 million years ago. Much of modern knowledge about them is still evolving, paleontologists often rely on the rear-view mirrors of archaeology to build our knowledge of how these lifeforms eat, live or be eaten. Let me introduce our subject Trilla – she’s a member of the triceratops, a quadrupedal herbivore that appeared in the Cretaceous period, more than 68 million years ago. She is distinctly recognized by the three large facial horns, a formidable defensive weapon, with a frill that looks like a priest’s ceremonial cowl. But Trilla had a peaceful disposition – she would rather stay hidden in the bushes feeding on her favorite mushrooms.
With her stout legs she would lumber in the shrubs and dig for vegetable delights, or make a comfortable nest for her eggs. Not long after her brood of young would clamber about, learning what constitute edible shrubs. But they lived in dangerous terrains of much volcanic activity. Just off the shores of their habitat subterranean activity had been raging undersea as the tectonic plates readjust constantly. But before the big one comes Trilla had other daily challenges to her existence – predators. The fearsome raptors hunted in groups while at the top of the food-chain sits the T-rex, all carnivores. Trilla had to flee to crevices or rock caves until the hunters loose patience and depart but sometimes when caught in the open she only had her horns for defense. She was once digging at the base of a gnarled tree, engrossed in a bunch of truffle mushrooms between its roots. Her little ones were gobbling up as soon as a morsel broke free from her foraging horn. Suddenly as if from the treetop a velociraptor landed in front of them. Instinctively her brood quickly retreated under her haunches – there was nothing nearby for which to hide. Normally raptors were no match for triceratops – Trilla’s sharp horns can dispense the relatively lighter raptor easily. Shrieking, the raptor was chased off by Trilla’s fierce response. But the commotion was enough to attract a tribe of 5 other raptors nearby.
They cautiously encircled the distraught mother, tails rising and falling, heads bopping and screaming like feathered daredevils. Trilla was at a loss, turning this way and that, wondering which raptor would strike first. Then just in the nick of time when one began to thrust forward a fierce roar pierced the air behind the attacker. The raptors sprung back as the T-rex rose behind the tree. Sensing the chance, Trilla ran as quick as she could with her young towards the safety of a cave. Then the hunter became hunted. The scattering raptors were not as fast as the T-rex closed in on one of them, plucking it from the ground in its hot, smelly jaws, as if it was a spring chicken.
Phew! Trilla panted in the shadow of the cave from the close shave. That was lucky! But the next time she would have to face that monstrosity herself. One hot summer’s day she was with her mate and love was in the air. Her last brood of young had grown, weaned and left. They were among the bushes and there was no cave nor cavern. So engrossed were they in the mating ritual that they failed to notice the abrupt flight of a group of pterodactyls nearby. Suddenly the ground shook, follow by the hideous roar of the T-rex. The stench of rotten meat from its breath filled the air. There was no escape for Trilla and her mate – the T-rex had jaws that could kill them in one swift bite to the throat. They stood back to back, horns brandishing in defense but the odds of both escaping are poor. Then it happen again – in another nick of time. The ground shook but this time with a ferocity many times more severe than the thump of T-rex’s feet. The tyrannosaur reared its head surprised, but this time Trilla had no cave to escape to. The ground continued its violent lift – the earthquake was of the level 8 severity on the Richter scale. But Trilla and mate was still in danger of the deadly jaws. What if T-rex decides to finish them off? But Fate had other plans. A different roar now filled the air – the distant roar of a tsunami wave. Not only was the T-rex distracted from its lunch by the violent sway of groundbreaking, a strong blizzard-type wind was about to blow it off its feet. Then followed the rush of water. The 20 meter wave threw the T-rex like a toy above the trees. What about Trilla? Just before the wave reached them Trilla had the presence of mind to tell her mate – “Quick, lock your horns with mine against these trunk of trees”. So the two head-locked themselves between two large trunks and braced against the onslaught of waves. Twigs, branches, rocks, fronds all brushed against them but luckily, nothing was large enough to dislodge their stout frames. Then the family of velociraptors that attacked them before also floated by, tails trashing in the brackish, muddy water. Trilla could hear their daredevil screams above the roar of the waves. She almost chuckled to herself but realized she must continue to prevail against the elements, as the water level rose. That was the real fear. When water almost reach their nostrils another miracle happened. Just then the water stopped rising and slowly started to flow backwards towards the sea. Now the debris started to hit them in the opposite direction. Rocks, branches and tree trunks rolled back, and also a couple of raptors, now almost completely drowned. Then Trilla looked up and couldn’t believe what she saw floating pass them. The grotesque body of the tyrannosaur that almost ate them not long ago slide by, its long tongue hanging down from the open jaw. After more than an hour, the water completely subsided and Trilla and her mate had to dig themselves out of the pile of debris that almost buried them. Phew! Trilla shuddered. That was unbelievably close. As Trilla shook off the cold, the sun emerged from the clouds. A flock of pterodactyls landed noisily but gracefully on the nearby tree, uprooted lying on its side. A rainbow peeped out past the clouds. It was a time of all times and a nick of times.
Do you sengi?
It is not a rat. Nor is it a rabbit, vole or some hybrid rodent. The sengi is a shrew – an elephant shrew to be exact. But with its trunk it is only the size of a kiwi fruit. The sengi (macroscelidae) inhabits the low savanna grasslands of southern Africa. Insectivore, it can exceed 28 km/hr and bolt off even faster for a good reason – outrun predators. Its trunk-like snout, with its tiny nostrils are superb olfactory tools to detect enemies or insects and often used to mark territory. But its daily activity is to maintain an uncluttered abode on a patch of grass. A great housekeeper or gardener, it knows its byways and highways as if its life depends. And this is what Pico does each day, kicking off grass bits and pebbles or mud with his hind feet to ensure a clear path in his patch of grass. But in his territory he knows exactly how many paths are there in his maze and exactly where each path ends. His life depends on it. But there is something else. Pico loves to build grass shelters – they protect him from enemies from the sky and he has many. Many a times some mammal like a deer, fowl or turtle would barge through his well-tended roads, leaving a mass of grass or mud too large for his tiny legs to sweep. So Pico would come along and with his hind legs lift the obstruction up so that it becomes a tunnel. Then he would consider even sleeping inside it for the security. But not for long – although he doesn’t have a nest or cave to hide safely he is a light sleeper – any disturbance would make him bolt like lightning. One time he was sniffing the surrounding grass for food. His delicate trunk could smell out an insect quite deep in the bush. He was literally tasting the air but unknown to him another creature was tasting the air around him with its forked tongue. A monitor lizard was about a meter away. As soon as it lunged forward Pico was already off with the lizard in hot pursuit. But everything is an advantage on home ground – Pico knew exactly where to run. The relatively heavier lizard could never catch up nor even see where Pico will turn. So sure enough the lizard ended up in a blind alley where the plucky shrew had made a sharp right turn earlier. Then as Pico rested from his flight another danger – a shrill cry came from a buzzard above. At the same time the lizard finally sighted him and the chase resumed. Pico had to run inside tunneled covers to hide from the swifter predator from above. So this time the road was not entirely straight and the lizard gained on him. But just as the reptile got to him Pico heard a loud crunch from behind. The buzzard got the lizard. So it behooves Pico to remain the smaller of preys – one can never be sure who is the predator or prey in this wild world. As you would suspect this is not the end of the story. One good turn deserves another. Pico owed the buzzard a favor and that day would come sooner than expected.
He was doing housework near the pond when the familiar shriek of the buzzard rang out. It was devouring a snake that it had just caught off the pond’s edge. Nearby a herd of elephants were drinking. Pico normally minds his own business. But this time it was different. Hidden from the buzzard among the rushes was a hunter with a crossbow. The arrow was aimed at the buzzard – sport hunting. Pico knew he had to do something. But what can a small creature like him do? Then being small and fast he thought he could return the favor to the bird. He spurt off towards the herd of elephants. Then he sprang at one of them at the water’s edge. Now despite the stories one might have heard – elephants do not fear mice nor sengi. But Pico’s sudden appearance caused a riot – elephants are trigger happy. That sudden commotion and the resulting bellow of the pachyderms was enough to cause the arrow to miss the buzzard. As Pico rushed back to the safety of his grass tunnel the words echoed in in his mind – “quid pro quo“.
Jumabhoy’s last race
The glamor and flair occurring at Royal Ascot races are renown. And so is Jumabhoy. He’s the thoroughbred of thoroughbreds. As far back as his owner can remember Jumabhoy’s lineage have been winners. Each time his jockey leads him out bouquet of flowers and medallions followed. At every derby he would expect to be number one or two, and often with close finishes. Horse-racing industry brings in a betting capital exceeding 100 billion US dollars annually and 1.5 of every 1000 US horses die from racing accidents. Some injured thoroughbreds were said to be even slaughtered for basushi in Japan. However Jumabhoy stretches himself to the utmost at every event. Until his body started to wane. But he’s never been a quitter, unlike his fellow stable-mate. Fresno is also a thoroughbred, except she’s never won a race. But Fresno is always cheerful – their owner always enter the pair in every race and Fresno, though invariably coming in last or second last, always cheer Jumabhoy on. After every race Juma will console Fres in the stable. Don’t cry – you ran well and pushed me to win, next time you’ll be third last and better than before. Trying as she might the result was always the same for her. You’re better than the last horse, Juma would console her and she’ll cheerfully run again. Sadly Jumabhoy cannot win forever. And happily Fresno can’t always be second-last. It happened at the Japan Cup.
Juma’s closest rival in that race was Jumadi, a pure Darley Arabian. Though not a strict thoroughbred like Juma, Jumadi’s reputation preceded him, having consequently won all 10 races so far in the season. As they burst forth from the gate, he had already started building a horse-length lead over the rest of the bunch, while Juma usually breaks forth in his famous middle rally. Some moments later Jumabhoy made his move. His rival was already four horses ahead and Fresno was still bunched behind. Amidst the dust, sweat, wind roaring with the crowd and frantic breathing Jumabhoy burst forth, overtaking three horses in seconds in midfield. With only his top rival meters in front, Juma knew that he would at least win by a snout as the finishing grandstands loom forth. Then in a tremendous burst of energy he did what he usually do. But this time it was different – he felt something was about to give way. There was a subdued pop sound and a whip fell in his path from the jockey in front – a definite no-no. Jumabhoy’s front right hoof slipped on the slippery leather and he tumbled twice sideways, throwing his rider 50 feet towards the grandstand. From the back Fresno screamed. Was it too late to win? Juma was never to lie down in the finishing stretch. With superb effort he kicked himself up and lunged forth, rider-less. But it was only worth a few trots. His front leg gave way, looking monstrously twisted. Go! Screamed Fresno as she burst forth from the bunch. This time she’s amazingly fast, completing the final lap in record time. Jumabhoy could only look forlornly at Fresno as she sped past, with the retinue of racers kicking dust into his diamond mark face. Then he let out a hideous cry of pain, one he’s never experienced before with his broken leg. Later his owner whispered into his ears as he was lifted into the medical trailer. Don’t worry, you’ll not become basushi, nor see the glue factory. He’d better – Jumabhoy had won him fortunes enough to buy dozens of thoroughbred winners. But Fres came in from second-last to second. And that day she’ll retire with Juma – the owner couldn’t bear to part them, even for furlough.
So the 4-year stallion Juma began his remaining days laid to stud in a country ranch. He was not alone, but although Fres remained a constant companion, he had never thought to mate with her. His shiny brown coat and the one white star on his forehead matches her white spotted eyes over her bronze tinged body. There’re other mares on the ranch that produced several yearlings for him but Fresno remained a very special friend. As the days passed they would run into the hills as fast as in a race and at the cedar tree of the hill-top they’d rear into each other, neighing playfully. Then the day came when Juma would suffer the full effect of his last race when he felt something popped in his head.
On a warm summer day Juma and Fres were strolling towards the juiciest patch of pasture, far away from the stable. Then all of a sudden he started walking in circles, snorting uncomfortably. Then he fell, lying on his side and turning his head back and forth restlessly. Fres could only look on and stayed by his side, till dark. The next morning the keepers came looking, having missed them from the stable. Once they were found a vet was summoned. It was hard to figure the cause and Juma was transferred to the veterinary center. Several days of examination led to a stark discovery. The X-ray of his skull showed that his optic nerves had snapped. Jumabhoy would become blind. Somehow in the last race the push had finally weakened his nerves to breaking. With sadness the owners hesitated whether he should be put down. After all he’s only 6 years old, with the potential to produce thoroughbreds. A top notch race horse thoroughbred is valued much more for his offspring than a human genius. So Jumabhoy lived on. But Fres had become his eyes. Together they would still roam the hills, he led by the jingle that Fres wears on her neck.
Months passed and turned to years. One day Fres whispered to Juma – let’s play at the beach. Its a long gallop but the ranch had no fence – the owners had no reason to lose them. Besides Fres had always led Juma home safely. And he had since developed a keen ear for her whereabouts. So one cool spring day they trotted far over the hills. How far is it? Juma asked Fres. Well, you will hear the waves, Fres replied. So after sometime Juma would hear the roar of breakers. Gradually he heard less and less of Fresno’s jingle. The fresh breeze and smell of salt was a refreshing change. They lost touch of how long they’ve been on the pristine sand and Juma realized from the cold that the sun had probably set. But where’s the sound of the jingle? Juma turn and trotted backwards, trying hard here and there to hear his seeing horse. But it was in vain – he had moved from the breakers but still no sound of Fresno. Little did he realized that Fres had collapsed from old age just after they arrived at the beach. His soulmate gone and the jingle silent – Juma will need to sniff his way home, old and quite alone.
Then on the third day the searchers found him wandering by the stream. A jogger had called in after spotting Fresno. After they led him back to the ranch Jumabhoy wouldn’t move out of his stall, apparently heartbroken by the death of his companion. For days he would stay off food. Until they introduced Chappie, the retired seeing dog. The golden retriever took to Juma instantly, wearing a cowbell to sound him out. But actually Chappie’s spirited barks was enough for Juma. Slowly he came out of depression. Slowly Juma would learn to trot with Chappie towards the hilltop. Then at the cedar tree Juma would fall strangely silent for awhile. And there began the happy story of a seeing dog for a blind champion.
Can you do the duck wag?
I will not eat duck. Simply because they are so well designed. On water their boat-shaped bodies make for good progress with their webbed feet. On land their balance allows for a good waddle, commonly known as duck-walk, together with a well equipped bill and flexible neck for fishing or feeding. And they go fastest when they fly low, especially over water. Duck species, including geese and swans have been listed as between 170-180, but there are probably far more, some yet unclassified. Common ducks that are domesticated and farmed are consumed world-wide in the range of 150,000 tons in 2012. Taking an average weight of 10kg, that’s 15 million slaughtered a year. Relatively low compared to chicken, eaten roast, waxed or grilled the duck was once regarded as an aristocrat’s diet in ancient China and is considered gourmet by some today. Here is a story of a duck colony that has helped farmers improve their yield and husbandry.
In the Lopburi province of Thailand rice farmer Somnuek Chosri bought 3000 ducks in 2018. He transports them in a seven level truck and releases them into rice fields to prepare for planting. With long beeps of his whistle the feathered army would descend happily on the watered furrowed fields, eagerly gobbling up apple snails, crabs, maggots and weeds of spilled rice. Some quack vociferously while others just scamper about doing what the flock does. Many could not find their way out or into the cages but others fly low to their quarry come feeding time. Besides eating pests their droppings fertilize without the poisoning effects of agricultural chemicals. And then there’s eggs – up to 2500 free range a day that command a premium price in the markets. How do they organize themselves? Meet their leader Chomchak.
She’s the loudest of the flock, being the first to dismount and standing at the side shouting orders while the rest pushed each other towards the fields. Then when the last stragglers disembark, she’ll wag her tail vigorously and fly low to the head of the column to lead the flock. So when the flock has done their plot, Chomchak would quack loudly, wag her tail vigorously and lead the flock to the next plot. At the end of the day, on hearing Somnuek ‘s shrill whistle the entire column would waddle back to the truck, Chomchak leading in front.
Somnuek loves his birds. They are like saviours to his fields – it is humanly impossible to manually remove the eggs of the apple snails and other maggots of rice worms. Besides the farmers are free from pesticide poisoning and producing safe staple rice. And there’s something else – Somnuek found out something marvelous about ducks two harvests ago.
The Thai meteorological had predicted a monsoon descending in his district but it was only when the incessant rains and the rancor of his ducks’ quacking that he realized a disaster was impending. The ensuing flood wrecked most of his crop. But the worst was to come in the following days. There was an epidemic of snails. So he did what was necessary – call out his duck army. After a week of feeding the ducks saved his fields for re-cropping. Even the neighboring farmers turned to Somnuek for help. They used to mock him the crazy duck master to not rely on the modern pesticides. Now the ducks were fed plumb. But happy. But the ducks have to learn to eat something else – as we’ll see in the next pestilence.
It happened at the least likely time of harvest. It was a bumper crop – the largest in years. The farmers were beaming with joy when the combines rolled in the golden grains. Then Somnuek’s face turned dark as he looked up the faraway skies. In the distance a tail of what looked like a dark stream of something appeared to be flying towards them. Locusts! A huge swarm. Somnuek yelled to his helpers as he raced to his empty truck. Call in the duck cavalry, he thought, although he wasn’t sure at that moment if that’s it. He raced back to the farm to load the birds, now well trained to get ready to roll within 15 minutes. Soon the ducks started to scamper out to the ripened fields. But there was nothing to eat. The locusts were still minutes away. Piles of harvested rice grains were still lying here and there. It was now Somnuek’s men’s turn to scamper. They were hardly able to collect the last piles when the sky darkened and it started to rain locusts. Like hailstones they fell everywhere – on trees, bushes, grass, heads and noses. The grasshoppers’ legs were spiky and insidious and Somnuek again wondered whether his army can handle it. And there was this smell, kind of sweet sourness in the air, along with the constant thuds of landing locusts.
Chomchak was the first to lead the charge. With swift bites of her bill she deftly separated the spiky legs from the locust body and continued the attack, quacking loudly to encourage the troops. Fortunately the ducks were hungry – there was nothing previous to feed on when the machines were turning. Chomp, chomp chomp! Quacking as they went, the eating was fast but not furious enough. Chomchak and her lieutenants were moving helter skelter as the locusts landed randomly. She was directing her charge with agitated wiggling and wagging of her tail. It wasn’t long when the assault ended, as the swarms took off to the next district. But the damage was apparent. Hardly any trees had any leaves left. And there were not even weeds around on the furrowed fields. As the skies cleared the ducks returned, not worse off with the experience of their new diet. But the farmers in Lopburi district were saved from utter destruction that day, thanks to their quacky friends.
The story of Jiro
He’s of a mixed breed – American Eskimo and Samoyed. Like any other pet he grew up normal in a family in Itate, Tohoku of Japan’s northeast. Until the great earthquake-tsunami struck. His human family perished, saved for the daughter, Reiko who was in school then. Jiro escaped through sheer uncanny instinct. When the earth shook he jumped on the family altar, which soon floated away. Then when the waves started to roar higher he jumped onto a water tower, which survived the onslaught.
Days later when most humans had gathered their senses, but not yet their lost families, people started to look for their livestock and pets. Someone found the white fur Jiro loitering around the chicken coop, along with other several dozen lost dogs. There were cats, chicken and cattle too, but somehow they were able to find food better than dogs. Jiro was famished and woofed down whatever the kennel staff at the shelter offered. Many of the other skinny dogs and cats were scheduled for the gas chamber, because the staff was overwhelmed when owners were not identified. Jiro was quivering in his cage – he’ll quiver normally but this time he quivered even more. That morning he was about to be put down, the distraught daughter of the family came to identify. Jiro was ecstatic. He was jumping his tails off licking the happy girl. But joy was short-lived. Reiko had no home to go and Jiro had to be given for adoption, at least for a while. In his cage Jiro was baffled why his mistress wouldn’t take him home. Days came and went. Jiro was restless. One day while the staff was leading out a dozen dogs for toilet and exercise he bolted off. The others were soon rounded up but Jiro found a small hole in the fence large enough for him to wiggle through. He was never found again by the shelter. Hence Jiro began his life as a fugitive stray.
Jiro found an abandoned house at the evacuation zone – there were many but this one was unlocked. Each day he started to hone his hunting instincts – long suppressed for domesticated dogs. Sometimes he would catch for a meal a mouse or a slow bird. At night he settled on an old hammock at the backyard. Occasionally he found sport by barking and chasing wild boars that break into and invade the vacant houses. He drank from a stream flowing from the hills behind and if he got lucky, he might even snare a sweet fish occasionally. One day someone appeared at the house. The owner, an elderly man was surprised on seeing Jiro but he had other things on his mind, such as locking up the house and leaving quickly after collecting items he needed. Jiro kept his distance, but as time went on the owner started to approach him and feed him scraps of biscuits. Then after some more visits he realized that Jiro had been keeping wild animals away from his house and spoke kindly to him. But he did nothing to adopt or take Jiro away. The other house behind was a different story. When the owners arrive the young men would throw stones, or swing a long stick at him. Jiro was confused but made up his mind not to trust humans. This even more so as the kindly older owner did not show up for the longest time.
Jiro felt instinctively that he had lost another friend. But life must go on, in spite of being struck by stones from the cruel neighbor. In winter Jiro hid under the house for warmth. If he fail to find prey in the snow he would try eating some of the leftover carrots in the backyard. His will to survive hardened, Jiro sometimes whimpered to himself during the hot summer. He missed his loving family that much. But then he had a job – that of guarding the vacant house that he invited himself to live in, for the sake of the forgotten old owner, now presumed dead. Once in a while he would bark at unwelcome visitors such as a gang of wild macaques, a herd of deer, and once, a brown bear. He would stand his ground until the intruders leave. Then he would run back around the house to survey that all is well, before settling down to the hammock. One day a uniformed person appeared at the gate. As usual Jiro stoutly defended the property, baring his teeth for a while at the formidable policeman. The police took a few photos and talked into a mobile mike before riding away. Not a few days later a van appeared and several men with nets descended onto Jiro. He put up a fierce struggle, but was darted into submission.
At the koban station a vet examined the two year Jiro and found an ID chip along with his name on the red collar. When Jiro revived in the cage he was scared, angry and confused. Scrawny and skinny – infested with ticks he was not even in the mood for a sausage thrown at him. Then later in the day, Reiko showed up. She at first could not recognize Jiro, his snow white fur now rusty brown in a bony frame. Then she burst into uncontrollable tears. But as she approached the cage, Jiro knew her right away, crying out loudly in long, pathetic whining. She asked the temporary housing for permission to take him home, scrubbed him down to the white fur and treated his insect bites. Meanwhile Jiro could not stop hugging and licking her. But the decision remained unknown – where now can Jiro live? Reiko got on her mobile and called a few relatives but public housing had strict pet rules. She thought of the shelter but the thot of Jiro escaping was painful. Then as she was calling the shelter in desperation, an elderly in a wheelchair rolled by. Seeing Jiro she reached out and petted in enthusiasm. Jiro never had human interaction for months and that warm hand of love was electric. He purred like a cat. That got Reiko wondering – what about hospital care? Her next phone call got Jiro in a dog therapy program.
So from that day on Jiro found a new calling. At first Jiro couldn’t accept someone walking with a cane, as memories of being hit with a stick terrified him. After much love, he became earnest in training and tried to please everyone he met. Jiro graduated top of the class and was soon assigned to hospital rounds. His soft white fur and quiet disposition was a hit with young and old showering him attention. Jiro lapped it all up. It had always been in him to love human companionship – just that the chance came only then. Soon he became top therapist choice for dogs. And Jiro won many awards from grateful patients. But after the seventh annual award Jiro fell gravely ill. The autopsy tests showed that his liver failed probably from the months of radiation exposure while he was a stray.
Just mere meerkats
Somewhere in a grass patch in the Kalahari desert a mouse-like head slowly rises from the plain. Then another – and another. The meerkats stand upright to survey around while around them are long spindly tails that sway like garden eels in the ocean bed. A family of about 40 members dig around for insects or larvae while the upright ones stand guard. A member of the mongoose family (herpestidae), they do not succumb to the toxins of scorpions or cape cobras which they rarely encounter as food. However besides food the family devote themselves to propagating their species and raising their young. Meerkats have a strict matriarchal rule – only the top dog can be allowed to mate while the other females wean the pups. The surrounding females behave like slaves, even if they were actual siblings to the off-springs. And the matriarchal rule dictates that any pregnant slaves be immediately ostracized from the family – often a death sentence because non-siblings are hardly accepted into another family. What about the males? Well there are the jobs of security guards, ground diggers and rabble-rousers, but leaders of a family are unquestionably female. It is not clear whether the matriarch is polyamorous but with only the matriarch to mate with, males in a family may have to leave to start one of their own. That’s where the tension of the next story begins – meet Chuko one of the helper females. She’s a darling of helping around. She’s often the first to discover grub or a nest of insect larvae for the hungry pups surrounding her. In times of emergency, such as a straying pup she’ll be the one racing out to save it from predators. And she’s also quick and strong. When facing a fierce prey such as the cape cobra, she’s the first to lead the charge. Her courage extends even to confronting the giant anteater, three times their size, in competing for termite larvae. The matriarch depends much on Chuko to round up the pups into the burrows at the end of the day or lead them out for feeding.
The meerkat is fiercely territorial. The moment a straggler arrives it would not be long when it gets spotted. What follows then is a mob of rabble-rousers led by the males, their upright tails like calvary flags, rushing toward the intruder. The cacophony of hideous screams is enough to frighten any marauder. One fateful day a male intruded from another meerkat colony. He must be in an amorous mood – out looking for a mate outside the family ken. And who would have spotted in first? Chuko of course, and she was in heat. But instead of arousing the rabble-rousers, she slipped out alone quietly. First date at the beach. They were frolicking in the sand when the matriarch stood upright. Somehow the entire family got the warning call instantly. Then the alarm brigade started, charging toward the beach, tails flicking as furiously as their screams. That night Chuko didn’t get home. Not only that, she’ll be denied entry to the family henceforth. One night Chuko tried to reenter the family den. It drew a sharp response from the matriarch – a quick bite to her hind. The mother-daughter bond had taken a sharp turn.
The following weeks matriarch had to work harder, her star lieutenant now gone. Not only that, she was pregnant again. Meanwhile Chuko and her new mate started a litter of three. Even being a top provider to her previous family there was always insufficient to stay alive, having to scour for food and being sentry as well. And so the inevitable happened – two of her pups died of malnutrition while the third was carried away by a buzzard. So Chuko was left alone as her mate went back to his family. She was skinny and her fur disheveled from lack of rest. But then, when everything was downhill for Chuko something changed for the matriarch.
One day, after having weaned off her new litter the matriarch softened towards Chuko. She didn’t chase her off from the vicinity of the den nor alert the alarm brigade. Gradually Chuko returned to the fold and resumed her role as chief lieutenant. Further, the matriarch started to let Chuko take the lead – Chuko would now on her own lead out the family in the morning and collect the pups at sunset. Stranger even, the matriarch took on the role that Chuko had before – mother became the subordinate daughter, looking for grub. And the most bizarre – some of the matriarch’s former suitors started to make passes at Chuko, without a challenge from the abdicated matriarch. Mother and daughter changed roles, much like what would happen with humans. Slowly it became clear who was in charge. Months passed and one day the dethroned aging matriarch did not return to the den at sunset while out doing slave duty. The next morning one family member found her mother’s body at the foot of a tree, next to a termite mound. As for Chuko, she was then heavily pregnant. Duty of a matriarch. This time she will have success as there are helpers around.
To sing or swim – that’s the question
If you manage to hike beyond the upper reaches of the Margaret river you’ll chance upon several clumps of enchanting tree forests. You’ll first encounter charming rows of pines with the breeze blowing lazily over its thread-like tops. Then beyond a shimmering stream you’ll be met by some junipers, peering out from the Australian bushes as if holding out a welcome. Then lastly, if you have the permit to venture beyond the protected enclave of the National Forest Reserve, you’ll wander upon the sandalwood tree forest. You cannot miss it for the welcoming scent. But there’s more. Amidst an occasional sound of water you’ll hear him – laughing like that mystic world belongs to him. You’ll have to look carefully among the branches to find the azure kingfisher kookaburra, even though you can swear that he’s just nearby. There he sits on a branch overlooking the stream and it is easy to see why he chooses nowhere else. There’s the beauty of the fauna and flora, in every shape and colors that line both edges of the pristine waterway. Watch carefully and you can actually see trouts jumping and many other smaller species that become easy meal for our merry watcher. But this kingfisher is different. You see, Jarro loves to sing, and almost nothing else. Through the most of the day, he will just perch there, either watching the waters rush by or burst into his kookaburra lilt. Kree-kree! And then kree-kree-kookoo-kree. Never mind food – Jarro will entertain anyone within earshot, whole day if he likes.
Now one could ask the time immemorial question: Why birds sing? Or flowers bloom? Researchers will tell you that birds mark their territory by sound, or tell their intentions in mating calls, an answer no less reasonable than flowers bloom to propagate their species by pollination. But Jarro? Well he sings to invite a mate, or mark his presence perhaps. But Jarro will sing whether or not its the season to mate. Its just his DNA. However there’s one interesting observation. Whenever he’s hungry Jarro would dive into the stream and catch fish. But before he sings there would be little to catch. Thus his singing brings along the fishes in the stream. Therein lies the symbiotic relationship between Jarro and the group of otters who reside upstream.
“Jarro please sing! Bring on the fishes to fill our hungry stomachs! “, the otters would shout at him. And Jarro would oblige. Yet there’s something interesting in this enchanted forest. Wait for dusk and you’ll see. As night falls, the crickets begin their chirp. Or at least night time is when they’re loudest. The voles take the crickets call to emerge from their holes. Besides fruits and young shoots they sometimes eat insects. Quietly in the dark shadows of the tree boughs the great horn owl watches them in turn. Then a swift glide and a vole vanishes from the grass, followed by a muted coot. Each night these sequences of sound repeat like clockwork, but it only starts when Jarro stops his laughter to retire for the night.
One day an unusual thing happened. Jarro was singing robustly when out of nowhere a female flew in and perched next to him. You can tell its a girl, as Jarro doesn’t wear lipstick. Jarro was surprised too, because he didn’t think he was calling for a mate. But there she was and Jarro never had a girlfriend before. So they hung on together, although she didn’t quite have his baritone voice. And then she’d have to teach him how to start a family. Together they made a little nest above the water line camouflaged along the stream. Subsequently, because of father’s duty Jarro hardly had time for auditions and correspondingly there were fewer fish and more disgruntled otters. Spring came around.
Guess what? The singer returned full-time. And he had two fledglings to sing along. But somehow for some reason his wife left him. That’s okay. Jarro was back to his merry ways. And the forest was happy again. Until…
That hot summer’s day Jarro was teaching his little apprentices new songs. After a while, hunger from his wards caused him to dive in the stream where he spotted a spotted trout. He struggled to lift it from the water and landed it flipping around on the grass. As he was about to tear into bite size morsels for his kids, out of the bush a furry marten snatched the life out of him. Jarro was so engrossed with the trout in his care for others to not notice he was being stalked.
So from that moment life in that part of the forest began to die. Without his voice the stream was devoid of fish. The otters decided to migrate to another estuary. At night, the crickets became strangely silent and the voles stayed home in their holes. The owls? Well, they watched like statutes from the shadows of the trees. But nothing moved and they remained statutes. Jarro’s babies had to fend for themselves and took off to the juniper trees. The cycle of life ended for their father and they would have to start their own elsewhere.
Sisi loves Tutu
The humpback whale have few predators to worry about, except man. But there are numerous stories how it sometimes care for other mammals and that includes men, or women. Recently a research diver was nudged and pushed by a humpback, even lifting her on its back. The terrified woman, in all her life’s work on whales couldn’t figure why it was so interested in her and eventually had to call out to her boat for help. Only when she was safely on-board did she realized why. There was a tiger shark stalking her in the water and the humpback saved her life. Growing up to 30 tons with lengths up to 30 meters the killer whales, which are only half in size, are no match for a defiant humpback, although young calves have often fallen prey to a pod of orcas . This is a story of a humpback called Tutu that befriended a seal named Sisi.
Sisi first met Tutu on a life-threatening occasion. She was catching krill with the rest of his colony when a pod of killer whales set up an attack. Facing certain death, Sisi swam as fast and obliquely as seals do but the orcas were well placed to trap her. Then as the killers closed in from nowhere out of the deep Tutu intercepted the attack. With a flick of his powerful tail Tutu swept Sisi onto his back and kept her from harm’s way. At first Sisi thought she was about to be eaten anyway, by a much larger predator. But after transporting her to a safe distance from the orcas, Tutu gently slid her off his back. Sisi could only squeak in gratitude and Tutu replied in his own whale language. From that day the pair shared a friendship that defies researchers. Sisi would hunt krill alongside with Tutu and even their respective families do not fear to work together. Tutu somehow feels destined to protect Sisi. When sharks or orcas come near to the colony, he would push Sisi along, warning him and his pups to move somewhere else. Sisi and Tutu may be pals, but recently they became part of a project terribly important to the world of all living beings – that of pollution that imperil our oceans.
The sea turtle is the harbinger of the health of our oceans. Any pollution that hits the seas where they roam will have a visible effect on them. Plastic waste in particular amounts to 8 million tons a year when by 2050 it is estimated there would be more floating plastic than fish in the ocean. They threaten a million seabirds and 100 000 sea mammals by entanglement, or choking. The bulk, if sunken, become biodegraded plastic fibers or fragments and when ingested kills by indigestion. There seems to be enough discarded plastic straws to encircle the earth twice over when lined end to end. Rescuers once dug out a dozen straws from the nostrils of a giant loggerhead sea turtle, enough to cause suffocation. Yet the US petrochemical industries, now even more prolific from new fracking technologies continue to meet consumer demands increasing its plastics byproducts 40%, which form 80% of ocean plastic spewed as land-based sources. And there’s more. The 12-24 thousand tons of plastic eaten by north pacific fish enters the food-chain, ending up partly on the dining tables of humans. Somewhere in the north pacific there is a growing gyre of rubbish one-third the size of the USA, slowly dispersing its waste into the ocean environment. A whale died in the Philippines because the 40 kg of rice bags and other plastics caused starvation. The piles of rubbish that lined some countries’ beaches are no laughing matter. In fact it is a shameful testimony to the country that seems not to be sensitive when compared to nations who are proud of their pristine beaches and clear, green rivers.
Late in 2018 an international effort was made to track and clean the oceans of harmful threats to its occupants. But humans cannot fully do it alone – they need the help of sea creatures who know the environment better than people who operated from boats and vessels. So Sisi and Tutu had to learn how to guide divers to where the pollutants were amassed under the ocean. And so whale and seal would follow the dredger vessel out of shores where Sisi would signal the garbage floating and Tutu dives below. Together with Salu, a trained albatross the marine partners would navigate above, floating and under water for gyres of rubbish to be rounded up by the vessel nets. Often creatures afflicted by trash would be caught by the nets. Many a turtle, pilot whales and dolphins have been saved and restored. And many a sailor would witness the trio working in the high seas as trash-collectors and giving them high-fives to such an important occupation.
The mermaid’s choice
Dave Tucker loves to dive. He has done so many scuba trips that he could not keep track of where the beautiful creatures he’d seen in the marine world. His seminars on the stunning photographs in the undersea world are well known and even grace the glossy covers of the travel magazines. Dave would declare that the creatures he saw there surpass all the beauties he could see above water. Until the last scuba trip he made.
He didn’t even know where was this place he would be making a dive, as he’d left it to his buddies for the arrangements – all he did was to grab his underwater camera, geared up and flipped overboard to his next underwater adventure. What he was about to experience that day would change his life forever. Sure the fauna and flora would still stun any landlubber, but for Dave it was standard fare that his camera had already snapped, and he was just about getting bored for once. Then what appeared behind some underwater boulders shocked him. There playing with seahorses, seals and lustrous shells was a mermaid that looked like an angel.
Instinctively Dave moved quickly behind the boulder and held his breath as much as he could, knowing that any diver would easily scare away whatever he saw. His breath was reduced to small bubbles as he beheld the beauty and grace of the mermaid playing so joyfully with the creatures around. Her lustrous hair floating around gleamed in the sun’s filtered rays, her small firm breasts just like any woman’s, and her lower torso like any fish’s, scales and all, bluish and shiny. Her beauty certainly surpasses all the sea creatures Dave have ever seen in his life. He was so enthralled for what seem like eternity that he completely forgot what he was holding in his hand. When he realized that he must use the camera, suddenly a burst of air bubbles floated upwards from his mask. In a flash she was gone. Dave swam as fast as he could, looking up and down the underwater crevices. There was no sign of her, only the lazy bouncing of sea horses circulating with the current.
When Dave finally surfaced to his boat he was talking gibberish in between gasps of air – and his pals were almost hysterically angry for his delayed return. After he calmed down he didn’t even bothered to explain what he saw – he immediately turned to the GPS panel to record their exact position – some remote island in Polynesia. Nobody would believe him then and he had determined as a marine biologist, that he must seek out the creature again and determine its genus. Little did he knew that it would utterly engulf him personally. But months passed into years as he returned to the spot repeatedly and failing to find the mermaid. His friends thought he was crazy to keep returning to Polynesia but the more he tried and failed the more he was besotted with the enchanted creature. After 5 years he gave up and started his dive trips elsewhere, but not after buying a property in the islands equipped with a swimming pool. He still had plans. Then after ten years he returned to Polynesia and made a dive, alone, as his friends had abandoned him, concluding him crazy.
It was a risky dive that day as he was alone and the weather rough. But as soon as he returned underwater to the spot, all was calm and serene. He still admired the diversity of marine creatures and abundant sea vegetation around. But this time instead of spotting his mermaid, it spotted him first. It was eating seaweeds and anemone as he turned but it didn’t swim off, continuing nibbling a scallop. Slowly Dave removed his mask and mouthpiece, in an attempt to show he was human and not to be feared. As he approached he had a better view – the hair was long, dark and flowing to its slim waist which became partly fish. Its ears were small, the lobes flipped open and close, like the gills of a fish. It had nostrils like that of a turtle but small and cute, much like a girl’s. And its small mouth was prettier, showing a little of fine, sharp teeth. Its arms were smooth like that of an octopus tentacle, but it ended with sharp finger nails that were long and pearl-like. Its breasts were even more human, to say nothing of its lower fish torso, curvaceous and alluring. Dave was excited momentarily as it looked really angelic rather than a monstrous wild mammal. He was cautious because it could easily lash out with those sharp nails, as it slowly looked up from its food. Finally their eyes met and Dave saw the largest anime-like eyeballs with lustrous eye-lashes and fully round brown pupils. Dave, his lungs almost bursting now slowly waved his arms and pointed upwards for his need of air. Then as if it understood him, it rose slowly with Dave to surface for air. When they burst towards sunlight it looked even more human, like a nubile young girl. Dave again tried sign language, indicating to wait and pointing to his boat so he could put away his gear and camera which remained useless. It waited. When Dave returned with a simple face-mask and a free-diver’s dolphin fin that he prepared ready, it followed him to dive into the shallows. So that day both played in the water like a dolphin would with a human. Dave began to understand how powerful its beautiful tail was, propelling it in the water just like a dolphin. But even though Dave had to surface repeatedly for air, it remained in the water for him to resume play. When the sun began to set Dave decided to make a move. In sign language he asked it to follow him. And Dave headed to his boat, showing that he wanted it to board the boat with him. After a while it understood and Dave helped it onto his boat, all alone. Avoiding use of the camera he tried to stroke its hair and then the skin, showing tenderness and kindness. Then he calmly started his boat and headed to his home. Fearful that some humans might spot them, he covered its tail with a large towel and carefully carried it to his pool, then filled with seawater. Then they spend the rest of the day and most of the night together, playing and communicating in sign language. That night, Dave slept at the poolside.
The next day, Dave signaled to it that he was going out to sea, planning to collect seaweed and crustacean for food. When he returned it ate and seem more receptive, even staying still while Dave took photographs. And this went on for some weeks, Dave making copious notes and photographs of its anatomy like any biologist would. He even felt its heartbeat, a slow 45 beats per minute. Sometime in those weeks it somehow became a human to Dave. Naming her Orta, he observed her well, noting that her metabolic system as half fish, half human. He collected specimens of Orta’s skin and waste material, storing it away for detailed microscopic examination. And then it talked! Not in any intelligible language, but somewhere between the squeaks and chatter of dolphins and the grunts of a parrot fish. Dave started a lexicon of Orta’s vocabulary. With time it slowly dawned on him that he had an inexplicable attraction – man and fish started to feel romantic to each other. The times spent in the pool became more intimate, even passionate – so much so that Dave started to feel like a fish! One morning he woke up to a brutal fact – that the secret mermaid cannot remain secret forever. Surely he’ll be famous one day with all the bio-data and photos to show that mermaids are not just the stuff made up in Disney Land. He had to make the most painful choice in his bachelor life. Carefully he put the question to Orta – would she stay forever in the pool or return to the sea? Orta’s reply was slow and painful. She wanted to return home. Dave was crushed. Can a mermaid feel love, he asked rhetorically.
So one gloomy overcast day Dave covered Orta with a large towel and set out to sea. When they reached her usual habitat Dave kissed her. His was a fully human emotion. Then as he was lowering Orta into the water, Dave felt teardrops on his arm. With a heavy heart, he bade goodbye, saying to himself – “she sure is beautiful”. With a trashing in the water, she disappeared. Dave would never see her again, despite numerous re-visits in and out of the water. Somehow in the back of his mind, Dave knew – she was a wild mammal after all. And he would not be famous for her. The photos and biology of one who once was his secret lover would have to remain secret.
To be continued in SCARF6
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