I know, like, the joke is “you put sabreteeth on something, make it bigger, and BAM you’ve got a pleistocene animal” but honestly then I remember that the sabretooth salmon is a thing and I’m like yeah okay. This was just, like, nature’s style at the time. Real big into large creatures with sabreteeth. It’s like when I got real into drawing things with long, birdlike necks for a while.
One of my favourite treats to use for the dogs when muzzled is pouches of baby food. It fits super easy between the muzzle, it doesn’t matter if they chomp it up because it is cheap and disposable. They’ve never managed to chomp it though and you can buy eco-friendly refillable ones. You can get different flavours and these guys see it as super high value human food. You can buy gluten/lactose/corn free ones but you do need to check the ingredients to make sure they’re safe. Kelda likes fish pie, Pod prefers lamb hotpot 🙂
It really helps reactivity because Pods usual tactic is take treat, chew at super-dog pace, swallow/choke it down and begin to react. Whereas with this he doesn’t finish, he keeps licking like and by the time i remove it the dog has gone.
This is pretty much what I just got (a refillable one!) Thankfully I don’t have to worry about flavors bc my boys love applesauce. Gonna make mango puree next! Also planning on using it in new York and refilling it with smoothies. Or nice cream.
Also trying to figure out how to get the canned zignature to squeeze out of it.
Oh, going to give this a go. I tried with a syringe but I just made a mess.
This is a really great technique.
A warning, though – don’t try it outside of the muzzle unless you have a very good idea of the intensity with which your dog takes high value treats. I misjudged that once and lost a chunk of skin to a wayward tooth as the dog attempted to engulf the entire packet at once.
A new species of enormous ocean sunfish was discovered after an intensive search, making it the first species of this type of fish to be identified in 130 years.
Despite being the largest bony fish in the world and weighing more
than two tons, sunfish are quite elusive, which made the four-year
search difficult.
A team of researchers led by Marianne Nyegaard, a PhD student at
Murdoch University in Australia, analyzed more than 150 sunfish DNA
samples and recognized four distinct species—but only three of the
species had been previously identified.
The research team decided to call the
species the hoodwinker sunfish, Mola tecta, which comes from the
Latin word tectus, meaning hidden.It wasn’t until a year after this
breakthrough that Nyegaard was able to see a hoodwinker sunfish up
close. In 2014, she got a tip from a New Zealand fishery that four
sunfish had washed up on a beach in Christchurch, and she flew down to
see the evidence for herself.
An SR-71 Blackbird once flew from LA to Washington DC in 64 minutes. Average speed of the flight: 2145mph.
“There were a lot of things we couldn’t do in an SR-71, but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane. Intense, maybe. Even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet.
I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat. There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn’t match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury.
Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him. The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace.
We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot asked Center for a readout of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I’m showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers, was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna, or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional, tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the “ Houston Center voice.” I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country’s space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that, and that they basically did. And it didn’t matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios.
Just moments after the Cessna’s inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.” Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check”. Before Center could reply, I’m thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a readout? Then I got it, ol’ Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He’s the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done – in mere seconds we’ll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn.
Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it. The click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we’re showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.”
For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen, Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day’s work.
We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast.”
-Brian Schul, Sled Driver: Flying The World’s Fastest Jet
When I was nine, I tried to learn how to ride a bike.
It did not go well- I couldn’t get the hang of balancing without training wheels, and was too easily distracted to brake in time or would fail to notice cars. One evening in July, I was making some progress in that I’d traveled to the neighbor’s cul-de-sac to practice without traffic, and was making some balance progress in that i realized going faster made it easier to balance. It was going great until the crappy brakes on my bike failed and plowed into the curb and went flying, head-first into Mrs. Chin’s yard, and directly onto the hoe she’d forgotten to take in.
My helmet did do it’s job in that I did not immediately die from impact, though it did split in two and I had to be taken to the hospital for the large gash in my scalp. The Doctors couldn’t see signs of severe trauma, but agreed i definitely had a bad concussion and that I was lucky to be alive.
That’s about when I started seeing flickering shapes in my peripheral vision whenever I had to take pain or allergy meds, or if I got too tired or dehydrated. This wasn’t particularly upsetting, becuase at the time I also had two very strange cats.
When my mother was two months from my mother’s due date with me, her neighbor’s prize-winning purebred Angora Cat got out and had a night on the town with every inbred tom in East Palo Alto, and possibly some space aliens. Two weeks after my due date when I was still stubbornly refusing to vacate, the neighbor came back with two kittens and asked my mother if she wanted these thigns before he threw them in the river. becuase threatening a heavily pregnant woman with dead kittens is a great way to make friends. Mom grabbed the kittens, not even weaned yet, and menaced him with the kitchen knife until he left.
Mom tried to socialize them really, but there was a new baby in the house and so the task largely fell to Mazel, The wolf-hybrid who barely qualified as a dog. She adored them, and did her best to raise them, grooming and cuddling and carrying them to the play blanket with me so she could watch all three of us, but there is only so much one can do in the face of severe genetic and nutritional impairment, and the cats grew up Strange. The orange male was Boris, the Black Female was Natasha.
Boris grew into a rangy degenerate that never groomed himself, Sharp-faced and snaggle-toothed, and with the object permanence and coordination of a todder on jagermiester. He’d often wander the house, either half-shaved or covered in mats despite Mazel and Natasha’s best efforts, screaming becuase he’d forgotten where his food or litter box was. We couldn’t brush him without being clawed half to death, and he’d hide, shaking and crying afterwards. Curiously, he was the more affectionate of the two, occasionally being possessed by a mood where he’d want to sit on the back of your neck or on your feet, and you could pet him as long as you didn’t actually look at him. These moods usually happened in the dead of night.
Natasha was solid black and unfathomably soft, softer than any cat I’ve met since. She was also clever, managing to catch songbirds through the plastic mesh of the “cat enclosure” my parents built on the side of the house so they could go outdoors without endangering themselves. I’m not sure HOW she managed to catch robins through a 1-inch heavy duty construction net but we’d find the bodies, picked clean save for the head and wings. She’d come sit in the room with you, but only if she had adequate cover, like hiding under the dresser or behind the couch. The only way to pet her was to lay on your stomach, reach an arm into her space without looking at her, and then she might allow you to scratch her ears or touch her back.
After living with them for all my life, shadowy living presences I couldn’t really see properly was the norm.
I didn’t even realize that this was abnormal until I was 19 and trying to describe a migraine to my Violently Catholic roommate, telling her I needed to take my meds now becuase I was starting to see shadow people on the edge of my vision. Turns out hallucinating shadowy entities isn’t a normal migraine symptom, also having your well-meaning roommate say the Rosary over you in case of demons is weirdly soothing.
Since then I’ve kept track of when they appear, and a particularly significant change in sinus/skull/barometric pressure is a good indicator, which is why the doctors and I think it’s the result of that impact injury. Anti-inflammatory meds, allergies, allergy meds, thunderstorms or migraines can all summon them. Or driving up the side of a mountain too fast. I once had a very nice hike up in the alpine Rockies with them. They appreciated the delicately tiny wildflowers up there.
They’re not frightening, and they occupy the same category of “real” as some of the recurring dreams I have. Not really, but an integral part of my expiriences as human.
Go snorkeling on a coral reef, and you’ll have a hard time not being
impressed by the abundance and variety of the fish there. But the fish
most divers see make up less than half of the number (and less than half
the species) of fish on the reef.
Cryptobenthic reef fishes comprise
the other half. These fish are small, usually less than 2 inches in
length, and hide in coral habitats, either by appearance or by their
behavior. Even scientists have been slow to start searching for them,
but cryptobenthics are turning up in about every reef habitat where
scientists have bothered to look!
In the June 5 issue of Current Biology, SERC Scientist Simon Brandl and colleague Christopher Goatley of the University of New England published a quick guide
to cryptobenthic reef fishes. Brandl thinks that these little fishes
deserve more recognition, and we agree! Therefore, we’re happy to
present these honorees with the following awards…
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