Magnificent obsession

One of the main reasons why I love the internet is that it's a great arena for monomaniacs: people who are obsessed with one thing and one thing only. The rest of us then get to enjoy the fruits of their obsession without having to do the work. Take this guy, for example: He has a collection of vintage cameras. He puts the cameras out in his yard and waits for the local squirrels to investigate them. Then he uses a digital camera to take pictures of the squirrels with the vintage cameras. Check it out.

This guy's squirrels are fox squirrels, an American species. I'm looking forward to showing pvcdiva our colony of DC black squirrels. We have ordinary greys too-- the black's a colour mutation. Apparently DC's black squirrels are mostly descended from a group introduced by nature-loving President Theodore Roosevelt (he of the Teddy bear.)

Best sentence in that linked article: Flyger devoted himself to studying squirrels... He used to smear a tree behind his Silver Spring home with a mixture of peanut butter and Valium and then tattoo the squirrels that he found passed out below.

Oh yes. Our squirrels are not only wearing black, they're ODing on drugs and getting tattoos. You can imagine their thoughts on waking up. "Aw, shit, my head feels weird... and my ear's all sore... A TATTOO??? How'd that happen? Where the fuck was I last night?? Oh man, the wife's gonna kill me! I am never touching peanut butter again, so help me God"

(speedlime will not thank me for the squirrel discussion, since she had squirrels living in the walls of her house for months and they kept her up all night having loud squirrel parties. When she thumped on the walls they sent her insulting text messages. DC squirrels have attitude.)

Special bonus link: little baby red squirrel, asleep

Magnificent obsession

One of the main reasons why I love the internet is that it's a great arena for monomaniacs: people who are obsessed with one thing and one thing only. The rest of us then get to enjoy the fruits of their obsession without having to do the work. Take this guy, for example: He has a collection of vintage cameras. He puts the cameras out in his yard and waits for the local squirrels to investigate them. Then he uses a digital camera to take pictures of the squirrels with the vintage cameras. Check it out.

This guy's squirrels are fox squirrels, an American species. I'm looking forward to showing pvcdiva our colony of DC black squirrels. We have ordinary greys too-- the black's a colour mutation. Apparently DC's black squirrels are mostly descended from a group introduced by nature-loving President Theodore Roosevelt (he of the Teddy bear.)

Best sentence in that linked article: Flyger devoted himself to studying squirrels... He used to smear a tree behind his Silver Spring home with a mixture of peanut butter and Valium and then tattoo the squirrels that he found passed out below.

Oh yes. Our squirrels are not only wearing black, they're ODing on drugs and getting tattoos. You can imagine their thoughts on waking up. "Aw, shit, my head feels weird... and my ear's all sore... A TATTOO??? How'd that happen? Where the fuck was I last night?? Oh man, the wife's gonna kill me! I am never touching peanut butter again, so help me God"

(speedlime will not thank me for the squirrel discussion, since she had squirrels living in the walls of her house for months and they kept her up all night having loud squirrel parties. When she thumped on the walls they sent her insulting text messages. DC squirrels have attitude.)

Special bonus link: little baby red squirrel, asleep

(no subject)

I have no pets at the moment. If I got one, though, I'd adopt an ex-racing greyhound.

I came to this conclusion some years ago, when speedlime and I went to Bath, and the Greyhound Rescue West of England were out on the streets with their dogs. I talked to the people and the dogs, and at some point on that day, a fireplace with a couple of greyhounds in front of it became part of my vision for the future.

Shortly after that, I walked into my favourite London bar, Garlic and Shots in Soho, to meet mothninja and her husband Ben. Curled up on a dog-bed on the floor was a magnificent brindled creature with long legs and brown eyes. "A greyhound!" I more-or-less shouted. "Her name is Lucy," said Ben. Lucy got up and made a greyhound's bow, her head down by her white forepaws, eyes looking up hopefully. "Are you being submissive?" I asked, crouching down. "That's not necessary. I'll be your friend anyway." She sat with us all evening in the bar, and later Mothninja, Ben and I walked home with her.

She flourished under their care. They'd adopted her from a shelter in Kent who had already rehomed her once-- to someone who went out to work all day, leaving her alone in the house with a Labrador who ate all her food. When the shelter got her back she was rail-thin, all ribs and knobbly vertebrae. She was recovering her strength when Ben and Mothninja walked into her life. Soon she was the picture of a healthy hound.

She was to live with them in a London mews, in the Swedish countryside, and in the cobbled streets of Florence. More widely travelled than most dogs, she sniffed everything with interest. I became very attached to that red tiger-striped dog with her dainty white paws, her deep eyes and her quiet demeanour. She gave her owners the same unconditional love that they gave her, but all others had to win her trust. When I visited, I felt absurdly honoured when she'd come to me to get her head petted, and whine when I stopped. Greyhounds "smile" much as humans do to express pleasure, and Lucy's smile was always sweet to see.

This weekend, her faltering kidneys gave out at last. She was twelve, a ripe old age for a greyhound. I didn't know her as well as her owners did, but I'll miss her soft coat and her silky ears, her white chest and her warm smile. My thoughts are with Mothninja and Ben at this time, and with anyone who's ever loved and lost an animal friend.

(no subject)

I have no pets at the moment. If I got one, though, I'd adopt an ex-racing greyhound.

I came to this conclusion some years ago, when speedlime and I went to Bath, and the Greyhound Rescue West of England were out on the streets with their dogs. I talked to the people and the dogs, and at some point on that day, a fireplace with a couple of greyhounds in front of it became part of my vision for the future.

Shortly after that, I walked into my favourite London bar, Garlic and Shots in Soho, to meet mothninja and her husband Ben. Curled up on a dog-bed on the floor was a magnificent brindled creature with long legs and brown eyes. "A greyhound!" I more-or-less shouted. "Her name is Lucy," said Ben. Lucy got up and made a greyhound's bow, her head down by her white forepaws, eyes looking up hopefully. "Are you being submissive?" I asked, crouching down. "That's not necessary. I'll be your friend anyway." She sat with us all evening in the bar, and later Mothninja, Ben and I walked home with her.

She flourished under their care. They'd adopted her from a shelter in Kent who had already rehomed her once-- to someone who went out to work all day, leaving her alone in the house with a Labrador who ate all her food. When the shelter got her back she was rail-thin, all ribs and knobbly vertebrae. She was recovering her strength when Ben and Mothninja walked into her life. Soon she was the picture of a healthy hound.

She was to live with them in a London mews, in the Swedish countryside, and in the cobbled streets of Florence. More widely travelled than most dogs, she sniffed everything with interest. I became very attached to that red tiger-striped dog with her dainty white paws, her deep eyes and her quiet demeanour. She gave her owners the same unconditional love that they gave her, but all others had to win her trust. When I visited, I felt absurdly honoured when she'd come to me to get her head petted, and whine when I stopped. Greyhounds "smile" much as humans do to express pleasure, and Lucy's smile was always sweet to see.

This weekend, her faltering kidneys gave out at last. She was twelve, a ripe old age for a greyhound. I didn't know her as well as her owners did, but I'll miss her soft coat and her silky ears, her white chest and her warm smile. My thoughts are with Mothninja and Ben at this time, and with anyone who's ever loved and lost an animal friend.