Two beauties …
Two beauties …
Moving is a stressful time–whether you have two or four legs. With so many details to manage, from coordinating arrangements with movers to finding and settling in a new home, it’s…
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This is a post I never imagined I’d have to write. Some of you may have already seen my update on Instagram yesterday. For the rest of you, here it is.
On Tuesday morning of this week, Emmett’s 7 month birthday, he was diagnosed with a rare, serious form of Epilepsy. The only symptom was an occasional random head nod he’d had on and off for a few days that we decided to have checked out by his pediatrician, just to be safe. Long story short, after an immediate trip to a pediatric neurologist and an EEG, we were given a diagnosis, and spent the rest of the week in the pediatric unit of Northwestern/CDH hospital.
The prognosis for this specific type of epilepsy is very poor for the vast majority of the cases – but most of the tests we’ve had done, along with the facts that Emmett is developmentally where he should be for his age and we caught it very early, are positive signs. They have also found no cause for this with Emmett (which is actually a good thing with this specific disease). His time in utero and life up to this point have been perfectly healthy.
We are now giving him twice daily injections at home of a powerful medicine that, while not without extreme side effects, will hopefully help end his seizures soon and thus give him a chance. How he reacts to the medication over the next couple of days is crucial in determining what the outcome will be.
Whatever your beliefs, please channel good energy, pray, manifest, meditate, focus on healing vibes for our little boy. I believe in the power of positive collective energy – I have seen it work. The more people sending love and light his way, the more people praying, and the more people envisioning a positive outcome, the better I believe his chances are. We are so grateful for the support and love of our friends (internet friends included) and family right now. We feel lucky to know so many kind, compassionate people who care about our family and our son. I am terrified. This is hell. But I believe. Just like I had a strong maternal instinct that told me something was wrong when it looked like absolutely nothing, I have a strong instinct telling me that Emmett is going to pull through this and be one of the exceptions.
For right now, Bubby and Bean will remain silent of regular posts while we make sense of this. My number one priority right now is to focus on Emmett and his sister. I also ask you to forgive me for not being the best communicator right now, and not in the head space to answer questions or to be able to handle much more than just good vibes. I will update as I can.
Thank you in advance for sending any love you can our way. Emmett is a fighter, and I believe in him with all my heart.
As athletes from around the globe go for the gold in the 2016 Olympic Summer Games in Rio, homeless dogs in shelters across America are hoping to win the love of a forever pet parent with a heart of…
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The sun sets on a muggy July day in northern West Virginia. As darkness envelops the land, the stidulations of crickets and other buzzing insects replace the last of the birdsong. The last rays of the sun cast shadows on an old hayfield, leaving a hazy glow among the grass just now growing back green from the first cutting.
White-tailed deer wander into the hayfield with caution. Months before, the bullets flew through the air at them, and though those days are long way off, the deer do not forget the lesson of November. In the open, man and his bullets can drop the deer at many yards. In the forest, there is security, but sweet clover grows in the rowen. And for that repast, they will risk exposure.
But they will not enter with out their noses and ears and eyes trained into the distance. Every once in a while, a deer jerks its head up and rotates its ears at some sound. It might only be the scurrying of a mouse or vole, but it might be a spotlighting deer poacher pushing the safety forward on his rifle.
It takes only one mistake, so each sound is taken seriously.
But as the darkness draws, the deer begin to relax a bit. The clover is good and fresh and cool.
As the deer graze the clover, a gray form materializes on the opposite side of they hayfield. It is cat-like in its movements, but it sniffs the ground with purpose, like a beagle tracking a cottontail through the edge of a brier patch.
It is the form of a little gray fox, a creature that lies somewhere between the foxes we all know so well and the primitive raccoon-like dogs from which all dogs descend. The gray fox’s kind first appeared during the Pliocene and evolved to live in humid forests much like the one that surrounds the hayfield on all sides.
During the day, the fox seeks the same shelter in the forest that the deer seek. For generations, the hunters have shot the foxes for their fur and to protect their stupid chickens, which foolishly roost in trees where a fox can easily climb up and catch them.
This fox is not a chicken poacher. She never even seen one. Her whole life’s work is the pursuit of the vole and the mouse and the dashing run at the cottontail. In the spring, she robbed a few turkey nests and climbed into the trees to rob the nests of robins and thrushes and warblers.
Tonight she has come to check out some vole trails that ravel along an old access road and end in a hedgerow of autumn olive where she came across a rabbit nest a few weeks earlier.
A fox in her second year should have a growing litter of kits to feed, but this fox’s litter all died when her mate was killed running across a road where he was certain there would be no traffic. With no mate to bring her fresh meat during the nesting season, her milk dried up and hunger forced her to abandon the den.
She has been a lone fox all these months and only now is she coming back into her fine form. Her summer pelt is thick and platinum silver trimmed in an elegant tawny red behind her ears and on her legs and under belly. Down her tail runs a strip of black hair, which she an raise as a hackle whenever she is enraged or nervous.
But there is none of that now. Her nose is quivering at the scent of meadow voles. One has just run down this little trial. The fox lifts her nose to see if she can catch its scent in the air.
A tiny bit of vole scent wafts into her right nostril. She turns to the right, cautiously stepping into stalk. The vole becomes nervous and scurries a bit. The fox’s ears catch the sound, and she stops. She cocks her head to catch the sound a little more clearly. The vole scurries again, and, in its confusion moves, into a copse of grass just two yards from the fox.
The fox inches closer to the copse. The vole remains still. The fox cocks her head again. Her black nose quivers to catch the vole scent again. She knows that in that copse of orchard grass there is a nice fat vole, and now she must prepare to make her leap.
She digs into the ground, and one can almost hear her counting off before she bounds forward into the vole’s poorly-chosen refuge. Her jaws hit the grass with just precision that vole almost explodes into them as she draws down upon her quarry.
She raises her head from the grass as a squeaking vole screams out in its death throes in her mouth.
One vole down. One more bit of protein to hold over starvation.
The deer raise their heads and stamp and blow warning bark-wheezes at the sound. They know the sound of successful predation. In the spring, the coyotes and bears had lifted some their fawns in much the same manner, and the bawling fawns were unable to be saved as the forest monsters carried them off to their deaths.
A squeaking mouse unnerves them in much the same way.
The fox becomes unnerved by the agitated deer, but she soon dispatches the vole and chokes him down. All that noise might be attracting a deer, but they could just as a easily drawn in a coyote or another fox.
And she is more than content to have this hayfield to herself. Last week, she’d run out a young dog red fox who thought he could chase rabbits here all night long. She set the record straight with a few well-timed bites on the backside.
But this little gray fox is not the empress of the hayfield. At any moment, a coyote could show up and run her off. An enterprising predator hunter could take a few shots at her. Dogs could come running after her for nothing more than a good chase. A great horned owl could come sailing silently from the sky and carry her off.
Her life is harrowing yet perfect. Fields of voles and mice and rabbits will feed her well. Feral apples and pears will give her a little desert.
And though her kind must face danger in order to survive, there has been no time in the gray fox’s evolutionary history when times were so good. The death of the agrarian economy in West Virginia has meant more old fields and more reforestation. The gray fox is a creature of the forest, and when this land was heavily forested before, it was forced to share it with any number of larger predators, including cougars and wolves.
And with fur prices not being worth the trouble for all but the most devout predator hunter and trappers, there really aren’t that many people out to get her.
She may not be the empress, but in this moment is she is certainly regal. She is a predator that has just successfully caught her prey. The ancient call of predators to seek their prey has driven evolution in truly profound ways, yet its successful sequence is both brutal and spectacular. It’s not quite the same as watching a pride of lions take down a Cape buffalo.
But it is essence, it is the same thing.
With the vole now thoroughly swallowed, the fox stops to drink from the muddy ditch that runs alongside the access road. A northern green frog leaps out as the fox approaches. She offers to give chase but gives up as soon as the frog buries itself in the mud at the bottom of the ditch.
The fox drinks the water and then caster her nose into the wind. She quivers her nose to catch the scent of any quarry or predators or competitors that might be nearby. Her nose registers nothing.
She trots down the access road then dives down into the treeline. She crosses an unnoticeable trail that goes through a patch of multiflora roase and then turns to take it deep into the woods where dogs and man never go.
And thus the meadow fox leaves the hayfield and whatever drama she brought to it.
The deer continue their clover supper, and the crickets carry on with their night song.
August 15th is the day all pet families are encouraged to check their microchips to make sure all information is up to date.A microchip can mean the difference between reuniting with your lost or stolen pet and never seeing them again. Startlingly enough, only 58% of pets’ microchips are linked to the correct owner information. […]
Canis cedazoensis was an early species of the wolf-coyote-jackal tribe. It lived what is now the American Southwest and Northern Mexico until 300,000 years ago. It probably scavenged kills of bigger predators and lifted off the fawns of the various species of pronghorn.
Conventionally, we believed that the lineage from which this jackal-like canid gave rise to the wolf, the coyote, and the golden jackal. We based these assessments on comparative morphology from fossil and subfossil remains, and it all made sense.
These jackal-like forms entered Eurasia and Africa. They gave rise to the Xenocyon, the first wolf-like canid to evolve of this lineage. The Xenocyon gave rise to the dhole and the African wild dog. Then the actual wolves evolved in Eurasia, and they walked back into North America to found the Armbruster’s wolf and the Dire wolf. They spread to South America, and endemic North American wolves, Canis edwardii and the putative red wolf evolved out of an unrelated jackal-like line.
The coyote descended from some sort of jackal-like canid in North America and a least a million years of evolution separates the coyote from the modern gray wolf.
The most recent study that examined full genomes of various wolves, dogs, and coyotes revealed that the separation between coyotes and gray wolves happened only 50,000 years ago. This finding pretty much destroys all this thinking.
We’ve conventionally thought of the lineage starting out with jackal-like forms that evolve into wolf-like forms, but the truth is we have a lineage that started out with jackal-like forms. Wolf-like forms evolved at least twice from this lineage, and jackal-like forms have evolved from wolf-like forms as well.
What we’ve missed that just as the Xenocyon and the dhole and African wild dog have evolved into wolf-like forms in parallel to actual wolves, the real story of Canis is that there has been a constant tension between selection for wolf-like traits and jackal-like traits. The coyote is a wolf that has re-adapted itself to the jackal-like form. To become a jackal is to become a generalist again. To evolve towards the wolf is become an apex predator and be forced to hunt for large game to survive.
What we know from the fossil record is the story of wolves and dogs and coyotes and their kin is that it began with “jackals.” Paleontology says that North America is where this story got started, but the oldest species in this lineage of dogs lives in Africa.
I would love to know the full story.
Canis cedazoensis is a creature lost to time. If we could see one, maybe we know some answers. Maybe we would see something very much like a black-backed jackal. Maybe it would answer some questions.
And it would probably raise more.
Yet more of the mystery to which we should humble ourselves.
It began with jackals, and in the Anthropocene, it may end with them as well. The coyote and Eurasian jackal have continued to spread their range. The coyote is from from Alaska and Newfoundland to Panama– on its way to Colombia. The Eurasian jackal (the “golden jackal,” as it is normally called) spreads north and west through Europe. Both are generalists of the jackal type.
Phenotypic plasticity and convergent evolution have played quite a game with this part of the dog family.
Science is always provisional, and often takes just one profound discovery to turn over the apple cart.
And oh, has it been turned!