A PROFUSION OF BUTTERFLIES

The wildlife was in abundance this weekend as we hacked our way around Hampton Cove, the Huntsville, Alabama outpost of the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail.

Some scene-setting is in order. Alabama, home of the aforementioned Trail, offers excellent golf on challenging layouts, all at reasonable prices... and so, once a year, I join a small army of Golf-Playing Idiots on a westward trek to the Heart of Dixie.


Small army of Golf-Playing Idiots. (I’m in the back.)

This year’s trip was was a step-out improvement over those of previous years. First, we had good luck with the weather. A nasty, wet forecast for Friday never materialized - we had a few sprinkles to deal with, but nothing serious. Also, temperatures remained moderate, a rare pleasure for an Alabamian June. But most important was our wise decision to limit our play to eighteen holes a day. In past years, we would cram ninety holes into three days in what could best be described as a sort of Golfy Demolition Derby that would cover the entire spectrum from fun to work to torture. This time, sanity prevailed.

Friday, we played the Links course at Grand National in Opelika. We always say, “what happens in Opelika stays in Opelika,” which means I don’t have to mention the complete absence of my short game skills that day.

Oops.

That evening, a scenic drive on the back roads took us to Huntsville, way up in the northeastern corner of the state. Huntsville is famous for being the home of the Redstone Arsenal and the United States Space and Rocket Center, as well as the landing area for scores of Nazi rocket scientists after WWII under Operation Paperclip. With all that German brainpower around, U.S. efforts to develop ICBM technology during the early years of the Cold War naturally were centered in what became popularly known as “Rocket City, U.S.A.”

We had no time to screw around with rockets on this trip, however.

Hampton Cove boasts two full-size layouts: the Highlands and the River courses. The River was especially fearsome. Despite a complete absence of sand bunkers, water came into play on sixteen of the eighteen holes. It’s not a course for the faint of heart... and yet, it is one of those completely unexplainable Mysteries of Nature that I shot my best-ever RTJ Trail round there. Who’da thunkit?


Where the hell did my ball go? The river knows...

Aside from seeing thirty-six golf holes over the weekend, we saw an exceptional abundance of wildlife.

There were geese:



There were ducks:



There was the occasional heron:



But perhaps most surprising was the presence of a profusion of papillons. Butterflies! They were everywhere, often congregating in groups. Tiger swallowtails, black swallowtails, admirals, painted ladies, you name ’em.

I saw this group of black swallowtails clustered together and grabbed a photo:



As I snapped the shutter, I could see that these beautiful insects were roosting upon a chunk of Animal Spoor. Shit! And that’s when I realized that the gossamer-winged butterfly will sometimes eschew his usual delicate sips of flower-nectar in favor of a more earthy dinner. In that wise, he is very like us humans: So often do we decline to reach for the stars, preferring to grub in the dirt.

Call it a moral lesson, one of the world’s Essential Truths. Butterflies, however beautiful, are still flies.

ONE TINY-ASS DAWG

This past weekend, the Mistress of Sarcasm and I enjoyed the hospitality of Elder Daughter and her two housemates.

It was our first chance to check out Elder Daughter’s new digs. Formerly living solo in an Adams Morgan apartment, E.D. moved to a large, rambling house in the rapidly gentrifying H corridor where she is part of a sort of Roomie-Family. It’s a huge improvement over her former situation.


Miss Kitty, one of the Animal Denizens of Elder Daughter’s house.

In addition to Elder Daughter and her housemates, there are several animal denizens of the residence as well. A parade of Foster-Dogs, one of whom (Craig) bears an astonishing resemblance to Laurence Fishburne, runs through at regular intervals. There’s a cat - Miss Kitty - who has adapted well to home life after having been rescued from the streets. And then there’s the appropriately-named Minnie...


Minnie - one Tiny-Ass Dawg.

...the tiniest frickin’ dog I’ve ever laid eyes on.

That Minnie is small is not too surprising when you consider her Chihuahua ancestry. But she is not just small, she is minuscule. Teeny-tiny. Small enough to be carried up Richard Gere’s ass with room left over for a whole family of gerbils.


Small enough to fit in one hand.

And she’s got a big, feisty heart, all out of proportion to her size. She takes no crap from the horde of big dogs as they traipse through the living room: She growls and barks at them like she’s ready to tear ’em a new one. Amazing.

Yet she is cuddly, in her own tiny-ass way.


Chris and Minnie: Tiny-Ass Love.

Best yet: Minnie is Ren Hoëk personified. She even speaks with a bizarre, Peter Lorre-esque accent! Gotta love it.

Update: Friday Ark #297 is up at (where else?) the Modulator... and this week, CatSynth hosts an exceptionally well-done Carnival of the Cats #324.

A MYSTERY, SOLVED

Two beds of pansies flank the front door of Chez Elisson, and this time of year those flowers are in full bloom. Or at least, they oughta be.

On one side, the plants are in full flower. On the other, nary a bloom is to be seen. It almost looks as though something was eating the plants... but there was no evidence of the usual insectoid culprits. It was a mystery.

No longer. This evening as I was pulling out of the driveway, I saw a rabbit crouched down on the front lawn. “Cute little bunny,” I thought.

Then I watched as the nefarious little trickster hopped over to the flower bed and started glomming on those pansies. “Sonofabitch!” I thought.

I stopped the car and called She Who Must Be Obeyed, who was still in the house. “Take a look out the front door. Now we know who’s been eating the flowers.

“Try to get a picture of the little shit, willya?”

And, whipping out her trusty iPhone, she did:


The lapine perpetrator - an Eastern cottontail.

So now you know what I’ll be doing in the evenings...

“Shhhh... be vewwy vewwy quiet... I’m hunting wabbits!”

PUGLY

Meet Honey Bunny.



Ain’t she cute? (Even if she does look like she’s giving me the Stink-Eye.)

Hakuna, meanwhile, insists on equal time...



Here, she’s catching a few afternoon rays. Sleep all day; prowl all night. Oh, for the life of a cat!

Update: Friday Ark #384 is afloat at the Modulator, with Honey Bunny and Hakuna in pole position. Not enough kitties for ya? Sunday evening, drop by When Cats Attack! for Carnival of the Cats #310.

Update 2: CotC #310 is up.

HAVE A HAVANESE

Have two, in fact. They’re small.



Meet Luna, who is currently living with her “grandparents” Barry and Malka before (eventually) taking up residence in New York with her “mom” Adi.

Luna is a Havanese, a sort of Cuban Bichon Frisé. She may resemble a mop-head, but she’s all dog... and a playful puppy at that.

Listen. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I prefer cats to dogs, if for no other reason than that they crap in a box. But damn, is this little ball of fur cute!

Update: Friday Ark #278 is afloat at the Modulator.

BUZZ

For some reason, people who stayed in the guest room slept exceptionally well, lulled to sleep by a gentle buzzing that was so soft, it seemed to be a product of the imagination.

After a while, though, it became clear that the buzzing was not imaginary at all. It was all too real, as evidenced by the numerous honeybees that seemed to appear out of nowhere.

The homeowner, not surprisingly, grew suspicious. Upon removing a section of wallboard, this is what he found:



Great jumping snakes! It’s a whole honkin’ beehive! Jeebus!

One could imagine that that is what the Devil’s nutsack looks like.

In the upper left corner of the photo, you can see a hand prying away chunks of honeycomb. I don’t know what became of the hive; I know only that it was removed.

“Was I the homeowner in question?” you ask. No: That distinction belongs to one Jerry Foster, an occasional commenter here but better known to me as the lifelong friend of The Other Elisson.

Jerry, as it turns out, is a dab hand with a camera. Inspired by my recent Buggy Post, he sent me a few of his shots. Here are a couple:


A hummingbird on the wing.


Even more impressive: a macro shot of a honeybee in flight.

According to Jerry, “The bee photo was a royal bitch. I was shooting micro and had a set up near a bunch of flowers.” I can only imagine how many bad shots it took before the Perfect Bee came along at just the right distance from the lens...

Update: Friday Ark #272 is afloat over at the Modulator. Fuzzy, buzzy fun!

BAD-ASS BUGS

Our friend Donnie Joe takes the occasional photograph of the local fauna. Here are a few of his latest:



This little guy reminds me of Boris, who built an enormous web in the ivy alongside our driveway a few years ago.



Manny the Mantis.



A chipmunk. I can’t see one of these little guys without thinking of the Austin Blown-Star Blodgemeet.



A fire ant.

Those fire ants are tiny, but they pack a wallop in their sting. Imagine, then, what it would be like to run across one of these:


Red Velvet Ant, AKA “Cow Killer.” Image courtesy Adventures in Furryland.

You’re looking at a Red Velvet Ant, which is actually not an ant at all, but a flightless wasp.

The first time I ever saw one of these in the wild, it was in Texas. Of course: Everything’s bigger in Texas, including the bugs. Roaches, wasps, you name it - they’re all humongous.

It looked like an ant, all right - the biggest honkin’ ant you could ever imagine, almost an inch long and covered in bright red velvety hair. I almost shit myself. Ants grow this big? Was it a Queen Ant of some kind? Gaaaaahhh!

A little research established that I had happened upon a Red Velvet Ant. Normal size, nothing special. The females can deliver a mighty sting, thus giving rise to the nickname “Cow Killer” - although it’s a matter of speculation whether they ever actually manage to sting, much less kill, any cows.

As scary as these critters are, though, they don’t fly. Unlike, say, the Cicada Killer Hornet. Yeah, I’ve seen those motherfuckers in Texas, too. Think of your average hornet... then multiply its size by about a factor of five. Yep: a hornet the size of your thumb, with the females bearing a nasty-looking stinger. Checkit:


Cicada Killer, qu’est-ce que c’est?


Photo courtesy Salt the Sandbox.

They’re really not as horrible as they look - despite their humongousness, these wasps are (supposedly) not especially aggressive toward humans. But if you’re a cicada, watch out. These hornets will sting you into paralytic submission, after which they will lay their eggs in you, following which you will be devoured from within by the growing wasp larvae. Yeef, whatta way to go.


Get this frickin’ thing offa me! (Photo courtesy PlantAnswers.com)

Cockroaches, as huge as they grow ’em in warm, moist climes like coastal Texas, Louisiana, and south Florida, may be disgusting, but at least they’re not scary. Cicada Killer Hornets? Red Velvet Ants? That’s another story.

Oh, and here’s one of my own pics:



Hoppity Hopper, here shown next to a quarter for scale. Alas, he wasn’t particularly lively when he posed for this shot. I suspect he was dead.

SOMETHING FISHY

Found Art at Harry’s Farmers Market.


Fan mail from some flounder?

Here’s looking at you, kid!

MANNY THE MANTIS

Manny the Mantis.

Meet Manny the Mantis, my newest Animal Companion.

Disgusting, you say? My Japanese friends would disagree. Mantises are popular Animal Companions there, although the term “pet” might be a bit of a stretch. Bug-in-a-Box is more like it.

No: If you want a disgusting Insectoid Buddy, you need one of these. But Manny is a Class Act.

Some folks call these little guys “praying mantises” on account of the position in which they hold their “hands.” And maybe they are praying, at that... for I found what appears to be a tiny tallit and set of tefillin. Who knew?

CLASSY LADY

You’re looking at a picture of a Classy Lady: Olivia, Houston Steve’s eleven-year-old standard poodle.

Alas, eleven is as old as Olivia is going to get. She passed away Tuesday after a sudden bout of bloat, AKA gastric dilatation-volvulus. It’s a condition to which dogs with certain physiques are susceptible, Great Danes and Saint Bernards heading the list. And standard poodles, unfortunately, are high on that list as well.

Olivia would be there to greet us as we’d arrive at Houston Steve’s for our weekly poker game. Sometimes she would park herself on the stairway landing on the way to the basement, as if to say, “Are you idiots at it again?” And she would sit patiently by, watching us stuff our faces at our Aubrey/Maturin dinners.

Houston Steve’s daughter has written a loving tribute to this beloved Animal Companion.

Olivia, requiescat in pace. We’ll miss you...

SNAKES IN A DRAIN

As if Jimbo weren’t paranoid enough with respect to Florida’s native fauna, we now have this story.

Here’s the money quote:

“The State of Florida recently declared war on the out-of-control python population.”

Roll that one around on your tongue a few times. “The out-of-control python population.” Jeebus.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Meryl Yourish for the link... and the post title.]

SCREWY SQUIRRELS

Back in the 1940’s, the late, great Tex Avery directed five animated cartoons for MGM that featured Screwy Squirrel, a character whose antics were bizarre and over-the-top enough to make Daffy Duck look Amish.

Despite his lack of Redeeming Personality Traits - many people consider him to be merely annoying - I like Screwy Squirrel. You wouldn’t want him living in your neighborhood, but it’s fun to watch him wreak havoc on his victims... as long as you are not one of them.

But Screwy is a cartoon character. Real squirrels (or “skwerls,” as Gradual Dazzle likes to call ’em) do not talk or hit dogs over the head with various heavy objects. Their annoying traits are pretty much limited to invading the occasional attic, demolishing gardens, or devouring the contents of bird feeders.

Most squirrels in the eastern United States are a nondescript grey color, as befits a species known as the Eastern Grey Squirrel. However, during my recent travels to New Jersey and Alabama, I was reminded that not all squirrels are grey.

For example, there are black squirrels. These are simply a variety of the Eastern Grey; they may be found wherever grey squirrels live and in fact constitute a majority of the squirrel population in some places. In Princeton, black squirrels were a common sight back in my Student Days, and apparently they are still plentiful there.


Black squirrel, a common sight in Princeton.

OK, black squirrels may be unusual enough, but I’m still trying to figure out what the deal is with the strange-looking squirrels we saw in Prattville, Alabama, at the Capitol Hill golf complex. They looked and acted almost more like meerkats than squirrels, standing up on their hind legs and chittering in derision at any duffed shots. And the coloration was like unto a mashup of Red Squirrel, Grey Squirrel, a splotch of black on the face and white on the snout. Bizarre, I tells ya...


Alabama Golf Course squirrel. WTF kind of squirrel is this, anyway?

...clearly the result of a diet of Wayward Golf Balls, if you ask me.

ACTING KOI

Koi pond at Penang Restaurant, Kennesaw.

Anyone who thinks of a koi pond as something Zen Buddhist-like - something ineffably relaxing, a source of quiet contemplation - hasn’t walked past a koi pond filled with hungry fish who think it’s Feeding Time.

TIPTOE THROUGH THE TULIPS...

...but when you do so, be sure to wear your knee-high leather boots, in the event you should come upon one of these guys:



John - Donnie Joe’s brother - lives just a few miles north of us. He heard something rustling in the bushes and went out to investigate, and this is what he found. There followed a telephone call to Donnie Joe, paraphrased below...

“Hey, Donnie Joe - I found a snake in our yard!”

“Was it black?”

“No, it was brown, with a kind of pattern...”

“Holy crap - that’s a copperhead! It’s venomous - stay the fuck away from it!”

[Note: I have taken a few liberties here. Donnie Joe would never say “holy crap” or “fuck” in a telephone conversation with his brother. But if I had been on the phone... well, you get the idea.]

John is not the kind of person who willingly allows Dangerous Reptiles to make camp on his property. The landscape guys were working on his yard, conveniently enough, so he had one of them dispatch it with the edge of a shovel. The PETA folks may gripe, but tough toenails. You do NOT want the neighborhood kids stumbling upon one of these.

And besides, the meat’s tasty. Like chicken. Chicken that’s been crawling around on its belly all its life.

DOOM KABOOM

The infamous Kaboom! Tree, as it appeared three years ago.

Regular readers of this site may recall this post about the Kaboom! tree, a well-known and well-feared landmark near the home of Eric the Blade. Well-feared, indeed: Many a careless motorist has dashed his or her brains out against the Kaboom! tree over the years, owing to its strategic placement adjacent to a sharp bend in the road by which it sits. It’s a tree that has earned its onomatopoetic nickname.

It was a beautiful tree, the Kaboom! tree, despite its fearsome reputation. In the photograph above, taken in October 2006, you can get an idea of its proportions, the massive bole supporting a huge, leafy canopy.

Alas, while trees are, on the whole, long-lived life forms, even they are not immune to the ravages of Time and Nature. Eric informed me yesterday that the violent storms that swept through his area this Friday past wiped out the Kaboom! tree - or at least wailed upon it with sufficient intensity that it will never be the same again. Only about a quarter of the tree remains.


The infamous Kaboom! Tree on Easter Sunday 2009, badly in need of resurrection (it’s the one on the left). Photo courtesy Eric the Blade.

The Great Karmic Wheel spins ever ’round, Esteemed Readers... one day, the Mighty Oak is on top, the bane of careless drivers throughout McMinn County, Tennessee, and then, whammo! - it is humbled, a mere shadow of its former glory. As our High Holiday liturgy would put it, in the solemn, timeless words of the U-netaneh Tokef prayer, every year the Eternal One decides “who shall live and who shall die... who shall be exalted and who shall be brought low...” - and everyone gets a turn in the barrel.

Even if you’re a tree.

Kaboom! tree, we hardly knew ye. Ave atque vale...

NATURE, RED IN TOOTH BEAK AND CLAW

My friend Donnie Joe walked outside the other day and found himself a spectator at an Avian Airshow.

This was not some benign entertainment such as is occasionally hosted at the nearby Dobbins Air Reserve Base, however. This was a fight to the death.



First we see two hawks converge on an unlucky black bird. (What kind of black bird? I have no idea, but if you do, let me know in the Comments.)



Now one of the hawks isolates the Enemy... and moves in for the kill.



Ahhh, Nature! It’s not all Fluffy Bunnies and Ass-Wipin’ Bears...

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Donnie Joe for the superb photographs.]

AND THE ICE FLOE YOU RODE IN ON

Guys like KeesKennis can post all the pictures he likes - cute, loathsome, or in between - of alla them African animals. And you can spend hours going clicky-click on the links at the Modulator’s Friday Ark.

But nobody tells it like it is in the Fauna-Verse quite like this site.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Elder Daughter for the link.]

KABOOM!

The infamous Kaboom! Tree.

I think that I shall never see
A hazard like the Kaboom! Tree.

A tree that lurks beside a farm,
The sloppy motorist to harm;

A tree that sits astride the street,
To threaten those with leaden feet;

A tree that may in summer wear
A smashed Volkswagen in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Today? A drunken driver’s brain.

Blogposts are made by fools like me,
Watch out for yonder Kaboom! Tree.

[Apologies to Joyce Kilmer.]

What the hell is the Kaboom! Tree? You may well ask. It’s simply a humongous old tree that sits on the side of Zion Hill Spring Road - one of the little country roads near Eric the Blade’s place. The tree is strategically placed at a sharp curve in the road so that any car that misses said curve will find itself coming into violent conflict with it.

Kaboom!

The name, by the way, was bestowed by Eric, even though he gives me credit for it. At least, I’m pretty sure he named it. Once the single malt starts flowing, it’s kinda hard to tell who said what after a while...

STILL LIFE WITH PLATE BLOCK

Fall flowers brighten up the family room at Chez Elisson, Thanksgiving 2005.

After all the recent disgussion discussion about Vertical Turds, I thought it might be a good idea to air this place out. How ’bout some flowers?

With Fall fast approaching, this seasonally appropriate Pile o’ Posies may help redirect your thoughts to your Happy Place. May it be so.

A VISIT TO THE BARN

The Mistress says hello to a Feline Resident out at the barn.

This past Sunday, while I stayed back at the house in Denton helping Morris William with the Smoked Brisket mentioned in the previous post, the rest of the gang went down to Krum, where Rebecca (Mrs. Morris William) keeps her ever-increasing stable of horses.

Both the Mistress of Sarcasm and Gilad had a chance to ride Con Man, the daddy of the Mistress’s erstwhile horse, Mi Anam. Even nephew William joined in the fun.


William, the Bareback Rider.

Every well-equipped Horse-Barn has at least one cat, the better to keep the vermin under control. And where there’s a cat, sometimes you will find a kitteh or two. And the Mistress could not resist cuddling with one of those little fuzz-balls.

Meanwhile, I relaxed in the 100-plus degree heat back at the Casa de Morris William. I smoked a Cohiba as the brisket smoked...and Toby, the Family Dawg, kept me company.


Toby, the Family Dawg.

Toby is the sweetest-tempered dog I have ever known. Morris William and Rebecca took him in after he had been abandoned by his abusive and obnoxious owners...and he has been in Dawg Heaven ever since, living with a family that loves him. He towers over Madison, our 22-month-old niece, yet is gentle as a lamb with her and her brother William.

Which is why I had no compunction about sneaking a few pieces of brisket to him...