Ligers and Other Animal Factoids

Ligers and tigons are easy to keep straight, once you understand that the male always gets first billing.  A liger is a cross between a male lion and a female tiger.  A tigon is a cross between a male tiger and a female lion.  Got it?  Good.  Prepare to become confused.  A liger or a tigon can be either male or female.

Male ligers and tigons are sterile, but female ligers and tigons are not.  So therefore, female ligers and tigons must mate with a lion or a tiger in order to reproduce, since they can’t mate with a male liger or tigon.  Once again, the males get top billing.  The offspring of a female liger and a male lion is called a li-liger.  The offspring of a female liger and a male tiger is called a ti-liger.  I’ve been unable to find what the offspring of a female tigon with either a lion or tiger is called, which is a good thing, because I’m pretty sure it would cause my head to explode. 

So now, let’s switch to mules.  A mule is the offspring of a male donkey and a female horse.  Mostly, all crosses between horses and donkeys are called “mules”, but technically, the offspring of a male horse and a female donkey is called a “hinny”.  Except for anecdotal cases, it appears that mules are sterile, whereas hinnies sometimes are fertile, in which case she’s called a “molly”.  Following me so far?  Fine, I didn’t think so.  I’m not even following me. 

But these two examples prove what we all knew already:  In the evolutionary scheme of things, girls rule. 

I leave you with a picture to ponder.  Meet Hercules, the largest living cat at 1,100 pounds.  Ligers are all the largest living cats.  But Holy House Cats! I have enough trouble managing a 13 pound house cat.  Her food, which is by no means a designer label, costs $7.50 for a 3.5 pound bag.  Think about the food bill here, not to mention the veterinary bills.  The vet probably charges a million dollar hazardous pay fee just to be in the same room with Hercules.  But you have to admit he’s cute, especially with the cuddly liger toy perched on his back.  He sort of reminds me of Sarah Palin. 

Robert B. Parker Marathon

This holiday weekend, I’ve been on a marathon of reading Robert B. Parker novels, which just beats all to hell watching marathons of The Twilight Zone and/or Law and Order on TV.

First, I finished up Appaloosa, the first book in what will be a trilogy.  The second book, which I reviewed on this blog, is called Resolution.   By visiting the writer’s website, I learned that Appaloosa has been turned into a movie starring Ed Harris (who also directed), Viggo Mortensen (pardon me while I pause to swoon), Jeremy Irons, and Rene Zellwegger.    It will be interesting to see who plays who, male-wise, but Rene can only be playing the character of Allie.  Notable quote from Resolution:  “Allie thinks with her twat.”  Can’t wait to see the movie now, you say?

After Appaloosa, I moved on and through the latest Spenser novel, called Now & Then.  It was great, but the issue that caught my attention was that in the beginning of the book, it notes that Parker was born in 1932.  Holy jumping six-guns!  That makes him older than…John McCain, who is himself older than Cheese Whiz.  The book Now & Then was published in 2007.  Let’s assume he wrote it the year before.  That would mean he was 74 years old when he wrote it, and the wit and intelligence in the book would be admirable in a 30-year old.  Wow.  He obviously isn’t drinking enough. 

For all of us political junkies, here’s RBP’s presidential endorsement:  “Except for John McCain, whom I admire but disagree with, I hope they all lose.”

The Silence of the Lambs

Or in this case, the silence of the Cardinals.  But more about that later…

I’m guessing that many people forget why this book and movie is so titled.  The answer is this:  The FBI is trying to catch a killer, and believes that infamous psychiatrist and serial killer Hannibal Lecter (aka “Hannibal the Cannibal”) may be able to provide some helpful insights.    So they send newbie (in fact, not quite graduated) FBI agent Clarice Starling to interview him.   But Hannibal refuses to cooperate unless Clarice will give him some personal information about herself.  He doesn’t want an anecdote, he wants a feeling.  Hannibal feeds off the emotions of others, much as he feeds actually on their bodies when able.  At first Clarice tries to play it straight and professional, but sees she will get nowhere, and so she tells him about growing up on a farm.  When it’s lamb-killing season, at first you can hear a flurry of activity and squealing, and then…nothing.  She grew to dread the absence of sound, which was more terrifying than anything else–thus, the silence of the lambs. 

Well, it’s kind of like that at my house.  I live in a very wooded area near a lake, and it’s teeming with birds.  Matter of fact, if you don’t have some white noise thing going on, like a fan, you would never get a wink of sleep past dawn for all the tweeting and chirping and cooing and cawing going on.

But every morning, and sometimes during the day as well, a deadly silence will suddenly descend on the woods.  Like all the birds suddenly turned to one another, put a foot up to their beak, and said “Ssshhh!”  And then, if you haven’t already, you will hear the screech of a Cooper’s hawk on the hunt.  At least I assume it’s a Cooper’s hawk.  They’re the only ones who seem to get close enough for me to hear them.  The Red-shouldered hawks and the Bald eagles seem to fly very high, and dive from impossible altitudes once they zero in on something, rather than landing in a tree and announcing their prescence.  Which, by the way, what is up with that?  Every morning I want to say, Dumbass!  If you would keep your mouth shut, you might actually catch something.   The only birds it’s likely to catch are the deaf ones.  Or the ones with Alzheimer’s who forget they’re supposed to be quiet.

The screech of the hawk, and the silence of the birds, is thrilling in a way.  Like having your own nature documentary played out in the back yard every morning.  And watching nature documentaries goes like this: First hour, the life of an antelope herd.  Suddenly the herd is threatened by a hungry lion.  Run!, you call out to the TV screen.  Go Antelope Herd!  Run fast!  Get away from the evil lion! 

Second hour, the life of a pride of lions, which inevitably comes upon a herd of antelope.  Go Lions!, you holler.  Get that antelope!  Yeah, that one!  The one that’s separated from the herd!  You can do this!  Hey, you got it!  Good job!

So there you have it, the nature lover’s dilemma.  I don’t want the Cooper’s hawk to starve, but I don’t want it to eat any of the little birds either.  Why can’t it go pick on some squirrel?  However, on those mornings when I’ve forgotten to turn on the fan the night before, I feel a lot differently about the little birdies.  I’d be willing to peck them to death myself.