Mandrillus caledoniae

BBC NEWS
Mandrill-snatched Scots’ bones to be returned to descendants

By Mirley Rellecco
Science reporter, BBC News

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A deputation on behalf of the Clan Macdunliffie will receive a collection of human remains at Edinburgh and transport them to ancestral burial grounds for proper interment.

The assortment of thighbones, ribs, a shin and several skulls are currently housed at Edinburgh City College.

“We’ve completed the necessary research with these articles,” said Dr. Fergus Podgreath, director of Anthropological Research at the school, “so we’re happy to ensure that they end up where they belong.

“What matters now is to continue study of the mandrill fossils and related artifacts found with the bones,” he added.

The Carrick mandrill (Mandrillus caledoniae), now believed extinct, once made the hills of southwestern Scotland its home.

It was often called “Crankie Auld Four-Hands” and “Marten’s Bane” for its startling habit of tearing a Pine Marten limb from limb to establish territory.

Most remarkable was its role in the funerary customs of the Groithelunic peoples (later almost exclusively absorbed into the Macdunliffie Clan).

The Groithelunes did not bury their dead straightaway, but first left the bodies exposed on a nearby heath.

Carrick mandrills would tear the corpses apart, selecting certain body parts for use during mating.

Male Carrick mandrills would communicate with potential mates by waving about fresh extremities of aggressor species.

Apparently, females were more likely to respond to suitors who could flag them down with pieces of human.

“The Groithelunes didn’t see it as desecration at all, since the mandrills were so selective in what they took,” explains Dr. Podgreath.

“They would record the state of the body for augural purposes before burial.”

The singular behavior of the Groithelunes was noted by early British historians, including Sir Thomas Browne in his Hydriotaphia (1658).

Speculative reconstructions of Carrick mandrills vary in appearance, but most experts suspect that its colourful rear end influenced the vibrant Kynnkleandonquodon tartan.

Published: 2008/07/07 14:38:44 GMT

Petaurus pseudoparalichthyida

The juvenile fluke glider (Petaurus pseudoparalichthyida) is purely arboreal, and darts from branch to branch like many neighboring creatures of its build. But with maturity will come changes in habit as it acquires the standard characteristics of the flatpossum order.

The adult fluke glider spends all of its idle time either belly-down against the earth — hidden under leaves, twigs and loose topsoil near the roots of its favorite tree — or flush against the trunk of that tree, waiting to execute a perfect back-flip and claim an unsuspecting cricket from the forest floor. When it does sail to another tree, it does so with the assurance that whatever adversary it may encounter in midair will almost certainly target it from above.

All of these factors inform its metamorphosis: The body widens but does not increase in thickness, resulting in what has been mistaken for the mere pelt of a meatier animal. The skull becomes wedge-shaped, like a hatchet blade but rounded at the snout — and the eyes migrate to the top of the head and settle so close together that they appear to touch.

The Korombatku peoples use the fluke glider’s hide exclusively to fashion a small drum reputed for its fine timbre. Its ceremonial purpose — to imbue a departing spirit with stealth and speed, the better to avoid soul-eating demons in the flight to the hereafter — means that it is only played at funerals. To use it otherwise is a gross obscenity. Moreover, to tap out the ritual dirge on a common pigskin drum is considered inadequate metaphysical protection.

From: E. W. Lurgent, Fullcraw’s Nature Atlas of New Guinea. Maplewood: Fullcraw & Fullcraw, 1952: p. 163.

Ardea pseudocypraea

When they were close to the precipitous banks of the Sarine, the Professor halted and leaned on his alpenstock while the party gathered beside him. “And now,” he announced, “I invite you to join me in scrutinizing the long-necked birds that do not perch on, but adhere to, the steep rock-faces of this gorge. See how they slither up and down the vast surfaces without fear of falling, yet without the need, nor the gift, of flight. Though their markings vary, they all belong to one species: the Cowry egret (Ardea pseudocypraea), which travels where it pleases by means of its ventral ‘foot,’ which operates like that of a snail, but in much larger dimensions than any gastropod.”

“It it a close relation of the Moaning slug-bird?” inquired Dick.

“No, as that is a gastropod with bird-like attributes, while this is just the opposite. You will observe that it appears to lack claws or legs at all — but look closer: where one expects spindly, prehensile limbs are a pair of sinewy stumps that provide essential aid in the bird’s locomotion. There is even a featherless, ridged area, with horny tissue like that found on a talon: this is the vestigial, proper foot, which grinds against rock and gravel without bringing harm to the leg or the animal.”

“Could it be said to possess five limbs, then, instead of the usual four?” asked Beatrice.

“No. For that fifth part, which we casually refer to as a ‘foot,’ is a muscular organ, extending from the stomach, which is ambulatory in function but not classified as a limb when possessed by avians. It will hold our interest however we label it, for the slime it secretes is unlike any snail’s, and an industry unto itself.

“The basic duty of a Cowry egret farmer — of which there are countless in this area — is to keep a well-fed male of the species positioned over a circular band which forms the topmost ring of a tiered structure that to us resembles a certain kind of cake-stand, or perhaps a bottle-rack, but is actually a unique and highly specialized device. For each tier holds a different sieve or filter, designed to strain the mucus in stages, so that the pan at the base collects a purified substance, suitable to be combined with pulverized grapefruit seeds and quicklime, then baked…”

“To make rohumbabisque!” exclaimed Dick, delighted at his quick deduction.

“Exactly. And it is only here, in this canton of the Swiss Confederation, that rohumbabisque is produced.”

“Because only here the Cowry egret flourishes,” said Beatrice, reflecting. “The people must be prosperous; I hope they are thankful. I never wondered where rohumbabisque came from.”

“Many never do. Like ambergris, or glue, or khneblunk — or even candle-wax, rohumbabisque is a substance we take for granted, though it is in fact a joint product of Nature and Man’s ingenuity. It is easy to ignore these things, yet we are wiser when we consider how our lives are enriched.”

“And to think,” said Dick, “without rohumbabisque, I should not be able to enjoy a single round of 'blonts and priggoads'. How dull life would be were it not for this humble Swiss bird.”

From: T. Altidrean Jingross, A Zoological Jaunt through Central Europe. New York: Whispitt & Co., 1891: p. 188.

Drosera singultantem

Should a JADE DWARF MONITOR (ibid.) make the not-uncommon error of nibbling on a poisonous TRICK HELMET MOREL (ibid.), mistaking it for a harmless and succulent GALAHAD’S MOREL (ibid.), it will at first feel deprived of oxygen and gasp ineffectually — then, as though struck by lightning, it will suffer the second blow: an all-encompassing paralysis, which without fail will leave it with motionless jaws wide-open. The soft flesh of the inside of a moribund Jade Dwarf Monitor’s mouth is the favorite repast of the CARRION SYLPH CHAFER (ibid.), an insect that might easily, in another circumstance, become a healthy Monitor’s supper.

But in its haste to conquer the much larger adversary, a Carrion Sylph Chafer risks a similar blunder. For among the morels grows the THROATWHEEL GARNET (Drosera singultantem animam), which boasts a rosette of bright leaves (often confused with its blossom) that simulates the fixed yawn of a dying Dwarf Monitor, right down to the sickly magenta hue that the reptile’s mouth will assume once poisoned. A Sylph Chafer that pounces hungrily on this rosette will find itself snared by mucus-laced fibers, smothered by closing leaves — and soundly digested.

From: P. Hambunck Constanelle, Constanelle’s Global Flora, 4rd Ed. Mandaroeb & Sons, 1873: p. 517.

Dynastes fibula

Beetle brooches battle bug bots for hearts of Mexicans
Fri June 13, 2008 6:41pm EDT

By Raquela Villarreal

TÉJUXPAN (Reuters) – Juan Medrillo, 27, lounges with a flavored coffee in the city square. On the lapel of his silk Gaultier dinner jacket crawls a large beetle with a jeweled carapace, secured to the garment by a small gold chain and pin. Since his late teens, Medrillo has always accessorized himself with a beetle brooch, or maquech.

He will replace his maquech once it dies, as he has before (a beetle can live up to a year). He claims the next one will be “more splendid even than this, meaning the most fabulous in all of Mexico.” He has not yet worked out the design for the successor’s decor, but he is already certain of one thing: “It will be a living bug. I’m never going to wear some imported gadget. That’s not a maquech.”

Medrillo has taken his side in a growing cultural schism. Over the past few years, some Mexicans have chosen miniature Japanese robots (or functional Taiwanese knockoffs) to become their maqueches. The conversion process is simple and the result is seen as less squashable than the classic variety.

The tradition of living insect jewelry is rich along the Yucatán Peninsula, and never more so than the town of Téjuxpan, where the Buffalo clasp beetle (Dynastes fibula) is prevalent. The buffalo clasp is the ideal bug for a brooch, due to its size, extremely resilient elytra (casing), long life span and overall hardiness.

The imported Isukiraba or ASBU (Autonomous Scarab BUddy) devices both look like beetles and are close in size to buffalo clasps. They utilize similar software platforms that run on tiny detachable memory sticks, which allow them to respond to speech, play simple games and other functions. In other words, they can do things as brooches that real beetles can’t.

But the mecha-maqueches may not be quite as durable as reputed. Unverified rumors abound of them consistently losing to buffalo clasps in illicit beetle blood sports (apparently neither model has fight programming). More evident is their allure to unyoked male beetles, who mistake the luminescent robot eyes for those of a female of their species in heat — and attempt to mate with them, with destructive results.

“A beetle mounted my ASBU maquech yesterday,” weeps a visibly upset Lupita Jambrina, 12. “It got blattapappazonza [local slang for insect semen] all over her and now she won’t work. She had an audio diary function and I used to tell her everything.”

But if Lupita’s robot friend can’t be fixed, she might consider taking it to the toy sales and repair shop El Balero, run by Pablo Navarrete, 62. Business has surged for Navarrete since he began offering to convert broken electronic pets into traditional (and rugged) wind-up toys. The addition of classic clockwork innards, with their distinct whirring and retro-appeal, might for some owners alleviate the loss of cutting-edge AI interface.

“Why would you want to talk to your maquech anyway, or ask it the time?” ponders Navarrete. “Better to just wind it up and let it crawl around a little. That’s all a piece of jewelry should do.”

Reuters/Nielsen

L. lanzarotensis

The most spectacular subspecies of the Lepus is the celebrated SEASIDE HARE (L. lanzarotensis) of the Canary Archipelago.

By far the most seaworthy of the extended family, the diminutive female of this breed might not wait for a low tide to plunder the reef for shells. She hunts expressly for marine casings large enough to accommodate her body the way a snail wears its home-made housing — this almost always means specimens of RIBBED TRITON or JUMBO TURRITELLA (ibid.), which interlock well with her curiously developed spine. She dons her shell when she becomes gravid, and thenceforth is never seen without it. That she bolts about in this state with the same rigid posture she exhibited unshelled makes her seem to us proud or ostentatious, like a lady of fashion sporting a peaked headdress.

However, it is not vanity but Nature’s wisdom that guides the mother-to-be. For when parturition is imminent, off comes the shell — but not before the hare has located a suitable place for her family. There, she rolls onto her back and turns (always clockwise) into the soil, until only the mouth of the shell is above ground. She then upends herself, leaving the husk embedded in the earth: into this fortified depression she will deposit her young. The consequent safety afforded to a drove of Seaside leverets leads at times to an overabundance of the animal — a problem counteracted during tourist season by the increase in seashell demand.

From: P. Hambunck Constanelle, Constanelle’s Global Fauna, 3rd Ed. Mandaroeb & Sons, 1872: p. 406.

Fraudator tripartitus

The “life-long imposter” I mentioned earlier now wriggles onto center stage — ready, in its very infancy, to carry out its first swindle. The triple-ruse hawk moth worm (Fraudator tripartitus) possesses all the qualities it needs to deposit itself unnoticed among strangers: a trick essential to its survival. Truly it is the changeling of the animal world, as worthy of the title as the fairy babies who pass for mortals in the old folktales. For once this larva has invaded a litter of infant shrews, it comports itself like a regular member of that copious household. Its pudgy but tiny shape, pink flesh and downy fur (actually tubercles) mimic the attributes of the suckling mammal well enough that the shrew mother, more often than not, will accept the counterfeit, and allow it to feed with the others.

The milk of the shrew will sustain the worm (it is the only victual that can) until it senses the approach of metamorphosis. Before that hour comes, the larva must escape the brood, then find a cranny among the stones and fallen leaves where it may pupate. This brings us to its second ruse, for our chrysalid should become dull in texture and assume an earthen colour. If all has gone well, it should now be scarcely distinguishable from a pebble — a tiny hard morsel of stone, a source of neither meat nor interest to hungry parties that pass it by.

But our subject is thrice-deceptive, hence its name. The third subterfuge is plain to anyone who sees our triple-ruse hawk moth, now full-grown, land on its favorite resting place — the trunk of an elm — and immediately vanish, its cryptic brown wings a perfect forgery of the bark.

From: A. Burnleath Harthawick, Arthropods and Vermes of the Upper Plundtra. Cassell & Co., Limited, 1821: p. 117.

M. c. conviciator

Nutria prank sadism outrages community despite nuisance
Sun May 18, 2008 12:47pm EDT

VIRGINIA BEACH, Va. (AP) – The Police Department has joined the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries in investigating a series of incidents involving nutria in Hampton Roads this past week.

Several of the rodents, a species considered a nuisance animal by authorities, have been found in public places bleeding to death, their genital areas crudely mutilated.

In each case, the wounded nutria was also dressed like a clown in a miniature satin costume tailored to fit its body.

“Everyone agrees there’s a nutria problem and that culls are in order,” says Drale Jacksett, spokesman for Game and Inland Fisheries.

“But there’s absolutely no justification for this type of cruelty. This is someone’s very bad idea of a joke, but no one’s laughing.”

Nutria (Myocastor coypus) are large rodents resembling beavers. They are voracious, prolific and reproduce virtually unchecked by predators or disease, thus posing a threat to natural areas such as local marshlands.

“It’s essentially open season on nutria in these parts,” says Virginia Beach Police Sergeant Mark Buthawn. “But that doesn’t entail drawing out their suffering in this vile and inhumane way, or dressing them as clowns, which is simply not funny.”

The incidents have all been called in from fairly populous areas. “There are several charges that I can and will detain the perpetrators for,” says Sgt. Buthawn.

“Often kids or senior citizens are finding these animals, and it’s not until they get much closer that they see what’s been done to them… The fact that it’s always hecklers receiving this treatment makes the crimes more revolting.”

The “hecklepest” or heckler nutria (M. c. conviciator) is the least common of the five recognized subspecies of nutria. It is known for emitting a high-pitched chatter — similar to taunting or teasing made by a very young child — when it is in danger or injured.

“We do need a humane and large-scale program to handle the nutria threat,” says Jae Vincoff, 63, owner of V&F Wildlife & Farm Pest Control in Suffolk. “But we don’t need nasty stunts like this. Who the heck thinks it’s funny doing that? It’s not funny.”

Most of the pranks have been reported as occurring within Virginia Beach city limits. On Saturday, acting Chief Assistant Deputy Sheriff Jacques Underberry issued a public statement, warning: “to mangle a nutria, genitally or otherwise, and dress it up as a clown is sick, illegal and no laughing matter,” and that responsible parties will be subject to the full extent of the law.

Astacopsis madagascarensis secundus

The Madagascan spindly crawfish (Astacopsis madagascarensis secundus) must be kept aligned by the tongs (thwarting the hind-parts’ natural tendency to curl), and held vertically over the pot’s mouth. Amateurs commonly sever only the tail-fan: a mistake that leads to agony and inevitable death. Instead one must shear — cleanly and with the utmost haste — the entire sixth pleon, including the telson, and plunge the reduced creature directly into the ready soil. After binding it to the post, the gardener must resist any urge to molest it further, other than replenish the soil with the special solution every four hours for the next fortnight. The aforementioned dampness and temperature must also, of course, remain consistent.

Properly tended, the potted Madagascan exhibits notable changes in the first month of its second life: it shoots up like a bamboo cane, increasing little in girth but near-quadrupling in height. Its carapace loses color and attains the ashen complexion of unpolished pearl. Its eyes fade to an amber cast, grow large on their stalks like ripening fruit, become egg-shaped and develop heavy lids. The six hindmost walking-legs atrophy into stubs, while the fourth pair locks into a single attitude: each limb outstretched, the initial joint perpendicular to the torso, with the propodus bent upward at another right angle and the dactylus bent yet again: a gesture of rejoicing often assumed by ancient statuary.

As for the chelipeds, or forelimbs, their pincers, though grown larger, appear proportionally diminished — but it is their movement that has altered the most. They prod and grasp with the facility of a creature that lives wholly out of water, as our specimen has become. Replacing the brute flailing of the aqueous incarnation are precise signals to its minders (pincer to mouth) that it desires to eat. When we attempt to provide it with the usual vegetal scraps, it surprises us again by receiving them manually, making clear that it wants not to be fed from one’s hand, but handed its feed. We hear from a prosperous tobacco merchant in Nueva Gerona who claims to have taught his crawfish-plant the joys of a good cigar — which, as a matter of course, he now shares with it after supper.

From: V. M. Burmile, “Proper Cultivation of Hothouse Crustacea,” Salisburg’s Magazine, vol. XV, no. 3 (Spring 1894): pp. 200-202.

Acipenser interglacies

Crafty tunneling fish stymie anglers
Thu May 8, 2008 12:46pm EDT

NUUK (Reuters) - As an ominously warm late spring begins to thaw the northern Greenlandic fjords of Thule—breaking up the ice, reducing the permafrost and exposing a multitude of hardy life forms—stoic fishermen, mostly Danish and Inuit, arrive in small boatloads in search of that most elusive of sturgeons: the Acipenser interglacies, in high demand for its flesh, bones, swim bladder and eggs.

But while the money is good, it isn’t easy. Catching the Arctic tunneling sturgeon is a notoriously toilsome business, since this fish—basically a freshwater animal with a versatile physiology—is not generally found in the water surrounding the icebergs. Instead, the Arctic tunneling sturgeon spends most of its time inside the iceberg, crawling on its powerfully developed, jointed pectoral fins through the network of passages that make up its home. It bores these tunnels with an extremely durable and bony snout—which, with its “bayonet tip” of perpendicular ridges, differs greatly from the blunt, shovel-like bills of other sturgeons. For centuries, Inuits in the region have utilized the Arctic tunneler’s skull as a harpoon head, a hook for catching Greenland sharks (after whittling the snout and stuffing the cranium with cod or smelt guts), and an ice pick.

This sturgeon’s body is equipped and streamlined for tunneling. The scutes, or protective horny plates, are not arranged in straight rows but spiral along the carapace. This facilitates the hollowing-out of icy corridors, complimenting the snout’s rough chiseling. The Arctic tunneler moves in a constant winding fashion through the passages, thus maintaining their tidiness. The trunk of the body is more elongated than others of its family, with minimal tapering. An adult can reach lengths of 10 feet and a 12 foot-long specimen has been reported.

For its size, the Arctic tunneling sturgeon’s gills are rather small and underdeveloped, but this reflects their limited role in the fish’s breathing process. Like mudskippers, Arctic tunnelers spend large periods of time out of water, where they breathe by drawing oxygen from fresh water (stored in a chamber between the mouth and gills) until it is deoxygenated, at which time the sturgeon obtains a new supply of water—which is usually accomplished by wriggling against the icy walls and lapping up the resultant loose shavings.

Many connoisseurs consider the Arctic tunneler’s meat the most succulent of all, and it’s the choice of several top chefs in Copenhagen and Nuuk. The caviar from the fish’s roes, while just as exclusive, is a more acquired taste, being by far the saltiest of all caviars. Even served fresh (malossal), a mature tunneler’s eggs deliver a burst of briny gusto too hardy for some novices. “It sells steadily, but not big,” says Geoffrey Washburn of FinnDansk Import/Export. “We have the same small demand for it every year. It’s more of a cult thing than, say, osetrova.”

Fishing for Arctic tunneling sturgeon usually consists of a tedious lull broken by a rousing standoff with a burly full-grown specimen (younger sturgeon invariably stay deep inside the iceberg). A sturgeon-infested iceberg is often betrayed by a groove running along its outside at water level: this is where the adult tunneler occasionally ventures out of its home to glide against the ice wall to feed on invertebrates and other living flotsam found on the water’s surface. The presence of a groove means that nearby are above-water exit holes, which the fishers can place a baited hook inside or net beneath—and then hide quietly lest the fish detect their presence.

On very rare and much-celebrated occasions, an iceberg may collapse from too much tunneling, providing a mother lode of suddenly vulnerable Arctic tunnelers to anyone nearby. This is called a “piñata party” and it’s an Arctic fisherman’s wet dream.

(Reporting by Hans Mingford; Editing by Biff Eltrex)

Hemisalamandras Ululata

The Striped Nile Newt (Hemisalamandras Ululata)—or Newt of Hermes, as it is sometimes called—matures more rapidly and breeds more bountifully than most of its order, facilitating its curious role in the annual farmer’s celebrations on the very northern stretch of the Egyptian Nile. In spring, in an action almost synonymous with the harvest, the fertile newts emerge in great numbers and are easily caught. For reasons still unclear, they are driven instinctually to climb and leap upward before procreating, despite their natural aversion to sunlight. Consequently, these randy creatures are found in great numbers at the tops of the papyrus reeds growing along the marshy riverbanks, where they are traditionally captured by children and collected in baskets.

The children take the baskets into town and huddle by an appropriately shady wall—where they affix little wings, made the day before from colored paper, to the backs of all the newts (an exhaustive task, but apparently one much enjoyed). The wall is smeared with thick gobs of honey, and then the animals are freed. Invariably, they will choose to leap onto the wall, where they will stick fast. After some struggling, they will open their mouths wide.

The scream of the Striped Nile Newt is silent to human ears. But oxen cease parading on the threshing floor and raise their heads as if to listen, momentarily oblivious of their masters. Cranes and ibises become calm and twist their necks into odd positions. Even the beetles and winged insects stop rustling for a short spell. It is believed that the newts are securing the attention of the other creatures by lamenting the temporary death of the crops (hence that of Osiris). Pliny the Elder states that as it is mourning and in heat at the same time, the newt’s cries assume special properties which ensure the success of a harvest that would otherwise fail. This is, of course, apocryphal.

The ritual leaves behind an unpleasant mess. Many of the newts die while stuck to the wall—more if they are left too long and the sun gets to them. They will often try to crawl towards each other out of the urge to copulate, and in so doing may tear off their limbs or pieces of their tails.

Striped Nile Newts can make interesting and attractive pets. Keep newly-hatched young in terraria with plenty of water. Provide large rocks for them to hide under. Feed them mealworms and other insect larvae. They can reach several times their original size when fully grown: do not overstock. Adults generally adopt a duller color and develop a broad swimming tail, in which case their diet should change to small bits of liver or other organ meats. Avoid excessive handling and keep away from direct sunlight.

From: Purgell Runtlidge, Rare Amphibious Pets: Their Appeal and Proper Care. Crown Publishers, 1926: p. 41-2.

Iciligorgia subgondolus

Always in search of new methods, [anatomical sculptor Clemente] Susini was encouraged by the nobleman Giuseppe Foncelli (an amateur biologist) to investigate the plastic applications of “vene del doge” or Venetian vein coral (Iciligorgia subgondolus), a species named for its striking resemblance to the human vascular system. The coral also proved easy to induce into desired general shapes, and its deep red, naturally smooth surface required no polishing.

But to be groomed and set to properly mimic an arterial network, a coral tree had to be rooted in soil and its polyps teased and fed underwater — alongside the waxen components they were meant to interlock with. The ductile masticcimo wax, preferred by Susini, flaked and corrupted easily when submerged. Furthermore, the vein coral reportedly could not, for all its malleability, meet the scrupulous standard of exact duplication required for the cadaveri sezionati. Susini, having meanwhile improved his “warm wire” method, soon ended the experiment.

Three coral sculptures — of the carotid arteries and their main ramifications — remained as souvenirs. The eccentric Count Ottavio Reguinelli, known as one of Bologna’s most prominent Rosicrucians, purchased them in 1804. He had one installed inside a made-to-scale glass bust, with a complementary brain coral (Diploria extracerebroformus) in the cranial region. This he placed in his “hermetic grotto” (since destroyed), where it would rise, by mechanical means, from a watery basin, then interact with other automata. Reguinelli titled the whole piece “Trimegister Reconstituted in the Lunar Cove.” One guest who observed the contraption dismissed it in his diary as “in the most abysmal taste and not even terrific in its discord.”

From: Nelma Blightoon, Italian Ceroplastic Craft in Science and Art. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972: p. 257.

Calopteryx caducii

Of these, deserving further mention is the Conjoined Demoiselle, which, though duller in colour than most Zygoptera, is remarkable to view in its element, for throughout adulthood it keeps close, and relies upon, the carcass of a sibling. They hatch as yoke-fellows, fused at the tail, and develop so united. But at the very instant the final juvenile carapace falls away, a fierce urge drives the pair to part, with great ensuing strain. As with a wish-bone, the inevitable break is uneven, and the twin with the shorter end perishes, deprived of an essential mass of nerves. This corpse becomes the survivor’s instrument in securing its meat, much as a carved waterfowl aids a hunter of living birds. The Demoiselle lurks hidden in tall grass with its dead relation nearby but in plainer view (Plate F, fig. 8b shows this scene with male subjects), until the corpse is molested by the desired visitor — who then suffers a surprise attack. This singular method perhaps does not seem so curious in the eyes of an insect whose quarry is exclusively the Ridged Micrathena, which could easily make a meal of its hunter.

From: W.J. Good (Rev.), Common Objects of the Country. Routledge & Co., 1858: p. 126.

Ancistrodon cochlearis mortifera

Beaked Snake Species Hope for Plague Rodent Cull

Marthel Ivgrin at Eldorado Springs, Colorado
for National Geographic News
April 8, 2008

This is the fourth story in a continuing series on the Limbless Predators Project.

“The Platypus of the Prairies” is the joking moniker given by US Fish and Wildlife officials to this pitviper, one of the planet’s few beaked Ophidians. The joke is that the spoonbilled copperhead (Ancistrodon cochlearis mortifera) is naturally a desert dweller—although many desire its presence in the grassier parts of America’s heartland.

With its appetite limited to rodents, the spoonbilled copperhead has an advantage over other snakes when raiding the burrows and warrens of its prey: its seven to nine inch-long, tong-like bill, impervious to claws and teeth, can grasp the fiercest quarry with little or no hazard to the assailant. Once the victim is adequately clamped in the broad front sections of the mandibles (the “spoons”) so that it can no longer struggle, the snake’s thick, strong tongue lashes out, snaring the rodent like a lasso and dragging it toward the mouth. Only then do the waiting fangs envenom the prey.

The venom is the weakest of any copperhead’s, but it can still cause hemorrhaging, swelling, nausea, gangrene, and possibly, if untreated, death.

Many experts see the spoonbilled copperhead as the ultimate solution to the recurring problem of bubonic plague-infected prairie dogs in Colorado, Kansas and other Midwestern states. The US Fish and Wildlife Service has already approved a plan to relocate several spoonbilled copperhead families to the next confirmed prairie dog plague zone. “They’re so specialized in their feeding habits,” says Shelly Ditmars, an environmental specialist for the Boulder County Health Department. “That’s what’s so great about them. If we put a batch of spoonbilled copperhead in the direct vicinity of the prairie dog burrows, they’ll go right to work.” What’s more, these snakes are immune to the bubonic plague and will not spread it to other animals. Nor will their presence cause a perilous drop in the prairie dog population, which renews itself quickly.

Needless to say, residents, hikers and tourists visiting these designated areas will be cautioned not to allow their pets to run free, and very small pets will be prohibited altogether.

Person April 8, 2008

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Malaclemys inelegans

Asleep at the Shell: At one point in the exhaustive Ramakavaca (an Indonesian Ramayana variant), the monkey-god Hanuman, while on an important journey to the city of Longka, is briefly separated from his simian retinue at night. Wishing to sleep rather than locate his troop, he hitches a ride on the back of a river-borne Siamese basking terrapin (Malaclemys inelegans) and breathes into its nostrils a dream instructing the turtle to swim on until it finds the missing monkey soldiers. Once populous throughout Southeast Asia, basking terrapins were indeed indolent enough to ferry monkeys down rivers, as mid-19th century photographs bear witness. But such passivity also made them easy prey to hunters and led to their extinction. The Penyu Kecak dance, well-known in Balinese musical theater, dramatizes Hanuman’s memorable aquatic doze.

From: Michelin NEOS Guide Indonesia, 2001: English edition, p.26.

Miniopterus brouvaughndrii

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3/27/2008 03:30 PM

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Choosy Berlin Bats Pilfer Mustard, no Relish

By Parker Wildring in Berlin, Germany

As spring approaches, Berlin’s open-air food vendors can expect to repeat an ordeal from last year’s warmer months: the return (from hibernation) of the bat known as the Senffledermaus, or, in English, Brouvaughndre's lesser bent-winged mustard gleaner (Miniopterus brouvaughndrii).

Though recently its numbers in the city have seen a mysterious increase, the species remains protected by a UNEP (UN Environment Programme) conservation agreement. Sellers of wurst and other snacks must therefore resort to non-lethal measures when safeguarding a certain condiment—the only substance that these stealthy, swooping bandits ever care to filch.

The core diet of a Brouvaughndre's gleaner is primarily moths and houseflies, but some evolutionary quirk drives its craving for the added piquancy of human-prepared mustard. What actual nutrition this provides is unclear. Using its flat, spade-shaped tongue, the gleaner skims a teaspoon-sized blob from an available source, then stores it in a sublingual cavity until the meal is caught. The source in question is often not an open container, but a large plastic bottle with a pump nozzle: no obstacle for these plucky creatures, who have learned to pounce on the spout with just enough impact to extract a jet of tangy taste into their strategically positioned maws, then shoot back out of harm’s reach. This wingflap-quick process usually transpires as efficiently as if the bottle were a feeder designed for the bat. “When people see this, they like to watch it and take photos, but at the same time are discouraged from buying my sausages,” complains Helmut Fürnst, who vends from his stall on Schönhauser Allee. “This is very upsetting, especially because I also have mustard packets on hand and keep all of my equipment scrupulously clean.”

Plans are underway to curtail chiropteran mustard parasitism this summer. Trade groups have mentioned protective netting and specialists have been rigging custom-made dispensers high up in selected trees. “They must be placed in spots that are substantially easier to access than the food stands,” says Rudolf Spotzner, an expert on bats at a local arm of UNEP. “Otherwise [the bats] won’t understand where they should go to for their seasoning.”

Stloppus crapula

Certain German-speaking areas of Hungary esteemed the consumption of one unsafe but reportedly luscious dish for centuries (until the tradition was phased out after the Second World War): Following a bath in buttery paprika sauce, an ockerfreundliche Kröte or brown Hungarian toad (Stloppus crapula) was steamed alive, pinioned, and slit down the belly, but not gutted. The diner wore a steel tiara with twin prongs (perpendicular to the forehead), from which hung the toad, lashed by the ankles. The waiter would use a special fork to nestle the amphibian’s kidneys securely in the diner’s nostrils so that he could savor the aroma while consuming its intestine—the only part of the animal that was not deadly poisonous. An enthusiast generally shunned regular utensils in favor of a pair of silver picks, or Zücholsstangen (from tűzőszigonypár), to navigate the tasty innards onto his tongue. Several field recordings exist of drinking songs (all intoned in basso-profundo) that celebrate this hazardous delicacy and the joys of attendant tippling.

From: Phalprin W. Bosnett, “An Ödenburgish Cellar-Book,” Horizon, vol. VI, no. 4 (Autumn 1965): pp. 35-57.

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