Snapperfest: The World is Watching

 Today, Saturday, August 20, at Campshore Campground in Ohio County, Indiana (812-438-2135), the 15th Annual "Snapperfest" will take place. Here's Timothy Sizemore, the proprietor of Campshore Campground, holding the unfortunate focal point of the "festival." The highlight of the event is when contestants reach into a horse trough of murky water, pull out a snapping turtle by its tail, slam it on a mat, pound on its shell to further terrify it, then brutally yank its head out without losing a finger. But they're not done yet. A successful contestant wraps the turtle's neck around his wrist and holds it up over his head, asserting his dominance over the terrified and by now perhaps mortally injured turtle. The crowd, composed of families with lots of children, sends up a roar of approval for a successful contestant. What message does that send to the children? Fifteen years of this...how many rural Indiana, Ohio and Kentucky kids have grown up thinking that's an awesome thing to do?

If you can stand to watch, here's the video. http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/81767472/

Ohio County, Indiana, whose only incorporated town is Rising Sun, is right over the line from Cincinnati. You'd think that this kind of thing would have already gone the way of cockfighting, bull-baiting and Vick-style pitbull fights. But no. Who loves a snapping turtle? Who empathizes with a vicious, dangerous, cold-blooded monster of the deep that eats the fish we like to haul out on our lines? I'm figuring you do. I sure do. People like us move them off the road when they're in peril.

When we first moved to Marietta, Ohio, I went to the Washington county fair. And there was an event called a Turtle Race. Wild-caught box turtles were placed in the middle of a circle drawn in the dirt, and the owner of the first turtle to leave the circle "won." When I saw more than a dozen of these animals, abducted from their woodland habitat and plunked down in the blazing sun for a frivolous competition, Bill had to physically restrain me and carry me from ringside. I couldn't stop it that year, but I damn sure stopped it the next year. I wrote letters, I made calls; I was shouted at, hung up on and accused of spoiling harmless children's fun; of harassing members of the Fair Board. Tough. I kept my eye on the prize, because I knew I had truth and compassion on my side. The box turtle a native wildlife species that is rapidly declining and threatened by habitat loss and human exploitation. It isn't a toy. And the Fair Board had no good rejoinder to that.

 A few years later, when Washington County Fair carnival concessions were offering hatchling red-eared slider turtles and (horror of horrors) baby green iguanas as prizes, I went back into action. This time, my first call was to the Washington County Health Department, which quickly responded to my assertion that both water turtles and iguanas are known salmonella vectors, and hardly suitable as children's prizes at a fair. Shut them down that time, too. A few well-placed, polite calls shored up with factual information go a long way.

Indiana law states that a person who knowingly, intentionally beats a vertebrate animal commits a Class A misdemeanor. 

I note that Campshore Campground's proprietor Timothy Sizemore's favorite saying on his public Facebook profile is "What goes around comes around, do unto others......"  He also describes himself as "honest, straightforward, compassionate, emotional, sincere."

A snapping turtle is not a toy. It is a sentient vertebrate being, capable of feeling fear and pain. This "festival" needs to go the way of bull-baiting, cockfighting and pitbull fighting. We've apparently learned nothing from Michael Vick's example.  

Call the Ohio County Sheriff at 812-438-3636. 

Call the Campshore Campground at 812-438-2135.

Even if you get an answering machine or a busy signal, keep calling. Make it more trouble for them than it's worth to hold this brutal event. Tell them the world is watching.

Here's my letter: 

Dear (insert public official here) 

I am a writer, naturalist, and wildlife rehabilitator who works with turtles in southeast Ohio. I have just become aware of "Snapperfest," and I've viewed video of live snapping turtles being very roughly handled by people in a contest. As one who spends years and quite a bit of my own funds healing turtles that have been hit by cars and mowers, or kept in captivity by people, the notion of using living animals in a contest to subdue them literally sickens me. This is a barbaric thing, which must go the way of bull baiting, cockfighting and pit bull fights. Have we learned nothing from Michael Vick's example? Turtles are not toys, and the regrettable fact that most people hate snapping turtles doesn't make this any less cruel and barbaric. Snapping turtles are native wildlife, and must be treated with respect. This event reflects very badly on Indiana, on Ohio County, and on officials who turn a blind eye to an illegal and extremely inhumane activity.

Looking into Indiana law, we find:

Information Maintained by the Office of Code Revision Indiana Legislative Services Agency
IC 35-46-3
Chapter 3. Offenses Relating to Animals…
IC 35-46-3-8
…Purchase or possession of animals for contests
Sec. 8. A person who knowingly or intentionally purchases or possesses an animal for the purpose of using the animal in an animal contest commits a Class D felony.
As added by P.L.193-1987, SEC.11. Amended by P.L.171-2007,
IC 35-46-3-0.5
Definitions
(2) "Beat" means to unnecessarily or cruelly strike an animal, or to throw the animal against an object causing the animal to suffer severe pain or injury. The term does not include reasonable training or disciplinary techniques.
(3) "Mutilate" means to wound, injure, maim, or disfigure an animal by irreparably damaging the animal's body parts or to render any part of the animal's body useless.

I would be surprised if any of the snapping turtles used in violation of Indiana law in this contest are viable or releasable after such severe abuse. Please stop this event, or be prepared to receive the outrage of many thousands of people who respect native wildlife and will not suffer its torture for fun or profit.

Sincerely,

Julie Zickefoose 

 Compose your own letter and fire it off to:

The Honorable Connie J. Brown
Ohio County Commissioner
yvonnewalton@hotmail.com

The Honorable Todd Walton
Ohio County Commissioner
twalton@cinergy.com

The Honorable Connie Smith
Ohio County Auditor
ohioctyauditor1@earthlink.net

Campshore Campground
812-438-2135 (office)
812-290-5939 (cell)
info@campshorecampground.com

Councilman Pro-Tem Mike Padgett
mpadgett@orvcomm.com
(812) 438-3340

Councilman Steve Slack
sslack@orvcomm.com
(812) 438-3340

Councilman Lynn Graves
lgraves@orvcomm.com
(812) 438-3340

Councilman Bud Radcliff
bradcliff@orvcomm.com
(812) 438-3340

Councilman Roy Powell
rpowell@orvcomm.com
(812) 438-3340


AND: Sign the petition, "Stop Snapperfest" at change.org.

Thank you. Together, we can change the world for the better, one cruelty at a time.

 

  

Charlie's Secret

 

He was born in an Arizona incubator, came rolling out of an egg that had been taken from his parents. Which, right off the bat, doesn’t seem right. He was bred of captive parents for captivity, but he was never domesticated, and his kind never can be.

He was shipped at a tender age to a bird broker in Connecticut who put an ad in the paper, which was spotted by a 31-year-old woman who had recently lost Edie, her best-ever white budgie.

Who wanted a new baby bird who would live a long, long time. Who probably should have been planning for a human baby about then, but that’s moot now, beside the point.

She got what she wanted, and a whole lot more. She put Charlie in a big cage that took up almost her whole tiny living room in a cabin in the woods in Connecticut. Charlie learned to call her boyfriend’s name: “ROB?!” and he called Rob for the next two decades, even after the young woman left and 

 moved to Maryland, and then to Ohio.

  

Charlie bit Julie's new boyfriend Bill until the bird figured out that he wouldn’t get any more beer if he kept doing that.

 

Bill and Julie got married and built Charlie his own room with glass doors and a sunny window and a big countertop to play on. Charlie could keep Julie company in the studio, and he did, very well indeed.

Along came a little girl, Phoebe, in 1996, and Charlie was fascinated and fell in love with the little girl. 

They played for hours all around the house, in closets and halls, hiding and chuckling and sharing secrets together. 

 

Phoebe could do anything with Charlie. She could wrap him in her blue blankie and carry him like a baby.

 When Liam was born in 1999, Charlie fell in love all over again, and suggested to Phoebe that she should probably learn to fly off and find her own territory. That never happened, so they all learned to get along.

 Liam loved Charlie, too, and that made Julie very happy. She felt lucky to have a bird that everyone in the family could handle and enjoy.

Charlie was 17 when a little black and white puppy came to live on Indigo Hill. He bit the pup once on the nose and was the Boss forever after. Chet and Charlie played lots of games, but Charlie wasn’t much for sharing toys or seats or beds. He just took them and bossed Chet around.

 All along, Charlie kept his best friend Julie company as she worked on her writing and painting. He loved to watch a bird take shape under her hand. He liked to check to see if their shiny eyes might come off the paper.

 

For her part, Julie loved his warm doeskin-soft cheeks, his kisses, his crazy sense of humor, and the sweet familiar weight of Charlie on her shoulder as she worked and thought.

 

She did not love the endless messes he made, but she took the good with the bad. She often said that there is no dirtier animal than a macaw, and she sounded like she meant it. “A hundred times more work than a dog! A hundred times!”

 

Phone bill? What phone bill?

Sometimes papers went missing. Bills, things like that. Books were notched, stationery was confettified, and cabinets were emptied, especially when Julie was otherwise occupied. 

 

Really, the safest place for Charlie was on Julie's shoulder, supervising the bird painting.

There were warm summer evenings and lawn games;

there were chases and screams and Sungold tomatoes.

 

 There was mashed sweet potato from a spoon. And cheesy eggy grits. Everything good.

 Julie loved to draw Charlie when he was snoozy.

And then in late summer 2011 Charlie started to act strangely. He fell silent and began looking for a corner where he could build a nest. He wanted to tear up the wall of his own special room, but Julie gave him newspapers and thick art catalogues instead. He could reduce them to confetti in a single day. He chewed and chewed. 

July 15, 2011

Charlie began pulling his tail forward and making odd roaring squawks. He rushed at anyone who entered his room. He hardly paused to eat. And then there was a rattle in Charlie’s breath, and Julie became very alarmed. She called his best veterinarian, Bob from Connecticut. Bob listened to Julie’s story, and the first question he asked was, “Are you sure Charlie is a male?”

 

 

The bird dealer had assured Julie that Charlie had been surgically sexed and was a male. Charlie had been mating with Julie’s sock foot for years (whether she liked it or not). Julie thought Charlie was a boy…but maybe someone had lied, someone who was trying to sell a macaw quickly. If only the dealer could have known what that lie would do. It would have been good to know Charlie's sex for certain. It would have explained a lot.

Summer 1990. Photo by Michael Stern

On a Monday night in August, Charlie’s biggest secret became clear. She was trying to lay an egg, an enormous egg, and it would not come out. The egg was so big it had collapsed Charlie's air sacs, causing the rattle in her breath. Julie held her little hen macaw in her arms past midnight, then got up at 4 AM to rush her to Columbus on Tuesday morning. All the way, Julie cradled Charlie’s cheek in her hand, stroking her sweet sea-blue head. But the egg wouldn’t come, and no amount of work by a bird veterinarian could remove it all. Charlie was terribly sick and fading fast. When the doctor let Julie in to see her, Charlie was in an incubator once again. Which didn’t seem right at all.

And when Charlie heard Julie’s voice, her eyes flew open and she struggled to the front of the plastic cube to be closer to her best-ever friend.

Winter 1989. Photo by Michael Stern.

And that was the last they ever saw of each other. Which still doesn’t seem right. 

But there’s nothing to be done about it but to go on, in a studio that is now much too quiet.

Charlie

August 19, 1988

August 9, 2011

Mantisfly and Wolf Spider-A Terrible Tango

Mantisfly - Dicromantispa sayi

Another treasure of the garden--a mantisfly. These little gems are not terribly common, and I'm glad to find one every few years. I found this one floundering in my little water garden and saved it by putting it on some petunias to dry out. Predatory, as its spined and grasping front legs would suggest, the mantisfly is a neuropteran, related to the predatory lacewings, and like them it flies reluctantly and weakly. Actually, it prefers to wait around on flowers for something to blunder by to be grabbed and eaten. Me too. But usually I wind up cooking instead.

Such a charming bug--tiny but outfitted with everything it needs to grab smaller insects, process and consume them. I'm amazed at the convergent evolution that gives this insect the same bug-eyed countenance and miraculous forelimbs of the big praying mantis. Just a real good preying apparatus, and it works for both mantids and the unrelated mantisflies.

 

There, the similarities end. And the story gets weirder, as it usually does with insects.   Larval mantisflies, which are speedy and flattened and look something like beetle larvae, parasitize spiders and their eggs. They hitch a ride on a female spider, like a wolf spider, and get into the egg sac while it's under construction. They suck the eggs dry with tubular mouthparts, then pupate in the nice strong silk egg sac. When they pupate, the adult emerges by chewing its way out of the egg sac. Wow.

Dicromantispa sayi, one of six North American species in its subfamily Mantispinae, has a wide range, from southern Ontario west to SD, Utah, NE and AZ, and south to FL, Mexico and Panama, the Bahamas and Cuba.Worldwide, there are about 400 species of mantisfly. Think about that for a moment. It's a little crazy when you think about it, and compare insect diversity to, say, mammalian or avian diversity. That's like saying there are 400 species of oh, say, gnatcatcher worldwide.

So when you see a big scary spider, know that there's something much scarier haunting it, and cut it a break. This, according to Eric Eaton of BugEric on Blogspot, is a fishing spider, genus Dolomedes, family Pisauridae. What it's doing on a dry ridge with two nearly-dry, fishless streams on either side is anybody's guess. Headed for my goldfish pond, hoping to snag a half-pound snack?

                             
I posted the photo above thinking I had a wolf spider. Below is a real wolf spider. And this is the one I hope you'll cut some slack. Because if the wolf spider had been able to hatch all its eggs in its carefully tended silken sac, which the female spider hauls around beneath her abdomen, you'd have seen something like this:

which we at first thought was a very fluffy wolf spider but which, upon closer inspection, resolved into THIS

 which I'm sure many people consider a Fear Factor moment, being covered in your own squirmy seething chillun'. I found it charming. So as much as I love finding mantisflies around, I'm thankful on the wolf spiders' behalf that there aren't a lot more of them.

Thanks to my friend Eric Eaton and the folks at Bugguide.net for helping me narrow down the choices of mantisfly. And for helping me tell a fishing spider from a wolf spider!

"Клуб 100 Футбольных Полей" B Magshop

I recently did an interview for the Russian and Ukrainian football fanzine Mag Shop Report. The magazine is dedicated to football fans from this region, with photos of stadiums and match day reports from fans in this part of the world. The fanzine also includes interviews with older supporters, younger generation ultras and features a good section on alcoholic beverages titled ‘Beer School’



Groundhopping isn’t so popular in the former USSR as it is in Britain and mainland Europe, but the first fanzine of its kind in Russia is trying to promote the hobby, with plans afoot to release an English edition of the magazine.

Mag Shop is written and edited by Yuri Paretski from Zelenograd, who supports his local club and CSKA Moscow. After our interview which is featured in Issue #6, Yuri became the first and only member of the 100FgC from Russia - Squad#196. In recognition of Yuri joining the Roll of Honour the latest edition features the 100FgC badge on the cover of issue #7.

Further details can be found on the website www.magshop.appee.ru or you can email Yuri at this address.

Tiny Golden Jumping Spider, Who Are You?

Let's find out.

 I just flippin' love living in the Information Age. It is the perfect place and time for a Science Chimp to flourish and thrive. Even five years ago, if I had put my hand on the garden gate and seen a tiny iridescent golden jumping spider leap to the next post, I would have bent down, studied it, run inside to my woefully inadequate shelf of invertebrate field guides (well, they're great for big flashy butterflies, and the Kaufman Insect Guide has delighted me again and again, but I didn't have that five years ago), and I would have sadly concluded that it was a really neat little golden jumping spider and wished hard that I knew its true name.                                                     

  This thing was tiny and very shy and I had a devil of a time getting pictures of it.  They don't begin to capture its mystery and elegance. It looked like it was made of molten gold with a pinkish-lilac sheen that changed depending on how the light hit it.

I kept herding it around with my fingers and sticking the Canon G-11 right down on top of it and finally got some acceptable pictures before it disappeared into the marjoram, thoroughly disgusted at my presumption.

 

I stored the photos away until a golden Tuesday evening with the scissorgrinder cicadas competing lustily with lawnmowers and children laughing in the town green. An evening after a week of houseguests and cooking and wild wonderful music and pure fun. An evening when I could finally think about tiny gold jumping spiders and wonder what they might be.

I went to bugguide.net.  I typed "golden jumping spider" in the search box. And up popped matching photos of the gold jumping spider Tutelina elegans.  And I marveled that this could work. And marveled that I, an armchair Linnaeus, had already named it the same thing, minus the Latin. But the Latin is the key; the Latin is what will give me more. I have found out that they eat carpenter ants, but not a lot more. But that, at least, is a start.

My Webby peregrinations led me to a wonderful site tended by an old friend named Dick Walton.  Well, imagine that. I haven't seen him since the late '80's, at an Association of Field Ornithologists meeting where I was showing some very early paintings. He's making amazing videos of all manner of small creatures on his web site, Natural History Services. Here's his video of Tutelina elegans doing its thing. Watching it, you can appreciate the wonder of finding a tiny, shining golden-purple spider on a garden gate. Watching it, you can feel the enormity of knowing there's this huge, huge web of people pumping information out into the universe for no other reason than the love of knowing. Thank you, Dick. Thank you, Bugguide biologists. Thank you, Web. Thank you, Universe.



                                                                                                                                    

My Unseen Friends

My unseen friends leave me messages, often in the little cemetery on my running route. 

The red-shouldered hawk I sometimes see left me a beautiful tail feather not long ago. I stuck it in a crevice in the trunk of a dying red cedar as a hello to anyone who might see it.

One day when I was lying on the grass under this tree, the red-shoulder landed on a dead branch very close by. She didn't know I was there. The branch broke under her weight and that hawk sprang straight up in the air flapping like mad. I laughed 'til my stomach hurt. It's fun to see such commandeering, graceful, powerful creatures look silly sometimes.

I would love to see the owl who left this whitewash on an old stone. I can only imagine the creatures who people the cemetery at night.

I saw the first tiny fawn prints, along with its mother's tracks, in early July. The pockmarks are raindrops. This photo doesn't look like much, until you see how tiny they are next to my hand.

Yes. That's a fawn the size of Chet Baker, maybe smaller. I imagined it tottering through the mud behind its mama.

One morning I found the most perfect pile of bobcat droppings in the middle of the road, past the cemetery. I was so excited that I ran straight home to get my camera. The droppings were full of turkey feathers--poult feathers, to be exact, and I wanted to document that. 

All the way home I dreamt of the photo I would take of the turkey-stuffed bobcat poo. I climbed in the car with my camera and by the time I got back someone had run over my poo pile. 

RATS!

I moped for a little while and then decided to get up before light the next morning in hopes the bobcat had come back and pooped there again.

I ran with my camera in my hand the whole way, more than two miles. And when I got there, the angels smiled and there was another perfect turkey-feather-stuffed bobcat ca ca, put right atop the old pile.

And I got my photo.

 So don't go around saying you don't know anyone who gets up early to photograph bobcat crap, because you do. One of the good things about living this far out is you don't really have to worry about anyone seeing you crouching next to a pile of poop, getting the perfect shot.

I wouldn't care if they saw me anyhow. It's probably more interesting than what they're up to, which would be smoking and driving a car. You can see the feather quill in the squashed poo, and then the fresh stuff, put right atop the smashed pile. How kind of the cat. Must've smelt my disappointment when the first pile was run over.

These photos conjure up an image of a beautiful bobcat leaping high into the air to snag a football-sized wild turkey poult. Good eatin'!

Just because I found it online, here is a photo of a melanistic bobcat taken in Scioto County, Ohio, several years ago by a trail camera. I've seen three Ohio bobcats, but none of them have been midnight black. What an unutterably cool animal. I might not recover if I saw something like this.

No, mostly what I get to see is what my unseen friends leave behind. That's where the imagination kicks in.