i (heart) odd-toed ungulates

Knits & Purls for Penguins

On October 5th, not 2 years since the epic BP fail off the Gulf Coast caused the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, oceanic environmental tragedy struck again - this time 12 nautical miles off the east coast of New Zealand's North Island, in the Bay of Plenty. The threat: a loaded cargo ship (the Rena) run aground, hemmoraging oil, periodically dumping shipping containers from it's dangerously listing decks, and on the verge of fracturing into pieces with the next storm surge. The catastrophe is now the worst in New Zealand's maritime history, and it struck cruelly during breeding season for many native birds, who will now have to deal with sticky black tar as poisonous nest decorum.

In the scramble to clean up after such a devestating event, the desperately motivated can be counted on to get creative... With more and more oil-soaked birds washing onto New Zealand's beaches (over 1,200 casualties recorded so far) a unique and charming request was issued recently in an effort to aide the rescue and rehab of one of NZed's pluckiest avians - the penguin. What could these tiny tux-wearing birds need that trained wildlife cleaning crews couldn't provide? Sweaters! Yes, sweaters (aka "jumpers" in Kiwi-speak). You see, while waiting to be bathed (a thorough affair that can take over an hour per bird), there is a risk that ill, tar-soaked birds will try to preen out the gunk coating their feathers - injesting dangerous amounts of oil in the process. Sweaters provide a (jaunty) barrier between beaks and feathers - keeping oil out of penguin bellies - and they help warm birds that are highly stressed and uncomfortable, before and after being washed.

Grist.org reports that this is not the first mass call for penguin wooly-wear... Apparently, in 2001, the Tasmanian Conservation Trust thought it wise to try to bank penguin jumpers in preparation for a possible disaster: what began as a goal of 100 sweaters ended up with the reciept of roughly 1,000 after the request went viral and knitters got busy. Similar efforts have been launched to aide oil-soaked penguins off the coast of South Africa as well.


Above: an AP photo of a penguin sporting a jumper after a spill near Tasmania in 2000; a penguin, mid bath, photo from animaltracks.today.com (such a teeny little guy - so many blue latex fingers!); and a clean penguin recouping at a wildlife center in Tauranga, photo by Bradley Ambrose/Getty Images.

My travels around New Zealand this past summer were largely based out of Auckland - a few hours from Tauranga - and I had the pleasure of taking in the beauty of the Bay of Plenty coastline. My thoughts are with those who make this region their home. For photos of the Rena spill and it's effect on Tauranga beaches, see this gallery at the Guardian; read more about the spills effects on NZ's birds here; and see more pics of past penguin sweater endeavors here.   

As of this posting, the overwhelming and quick support of knitters around the world has once again filled the emergency closets of New Zealand's penguins with turtlenecks - but if you're curious, or would like to make your own penguin sweater for kicks, I've posted below the penguin jumper pattern, as found originally on the website of Skeinz, a Napier, New Zealand knit shop - *it should take able hands about an hour to craft:

Penguin Jumper in 8ply

Yarn
 (must be 100% wool)
1 pair 3.25mm , 1 pair of 3.75mm needles , 1 set of 3.25mm dpns or circular
Elastic (approx. 35cm)

- Cast on 36 stitches using 3.25 needles. K1, P1 to end of row.
- Repeat this row 7 times. Change to 3.75mm needles and K2, P2 rib.
- Work 4 rows increasing at each end of every row. (44 sts)
- Continue until work measures 15 cms.
- Decrease 1 st at each end of every row until 28 sts remain.
- Decrease 1 st. in middle of next row (27 sts.)
- Leave on needle.
- Make second side the same.
- Transfer the 54 sts from both pieces to 3 of the set of 4 3.25mm needles (18 sts on each) and work a round neck in K1 P1 rib for 10 rows.
- Cast off.
- Stitch up sides to decreasing to 27sts (opening for flipper). Add elastic to the top and bottom to prevent the penguins getting out of them. Top: 15cm of elastic; bottom 17 cm (knots allowed). Flat elastic is okay.

Tall Blonde, Beau & the Beauty of Ossicones

You know you've made fast friends with zookeepers when you get invited to have lunch with a giraffe. My date was with a tall, nobby-kneed male named Beau, and while he smelled surprisingly awful (male giraffes are sometimes known as "stink bulls"...), he was lovely company, and had a surprisingly gentle mouth - unlike so many horses and dogs I've known who seem to like the taste of fingers along with their treats... Beau is a Masai giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis tippelskirchi) - the tallest of the giraffe subspecies, and distinguished by ragged-edged spots that resemble impossible puzzle pieces.

Giraffes are pretty magical - so wonderfuly ungainly, and all at once lumbering and graceful. Beau was eager to saunter toward the feeding platform to receive our vegetable offerings, but as soon as he spotted the Zoo veterinarian (one of my guides), he side-stepped away in avoidance and assumed a wary, watchful stare with his enormous, thickly-lashed eyes. I imagined that startling a giraffe might easily lead to it's nervous system firing a charge that would betry it's own cumbersome legs... but watching this handsome, stilted giant perform the most fluid nervous pace, I could see that his ambulation - awkward as it was - could be trusted not to fail him under stress.
 

In admiring Beau's great long face, you'll notice how properly lumpy his forehead is, especially over and around his eyes. While periodically holding out handfulls of cubed butternut squash, the keeper explained that male giraffes develop these bumps as they age - a sort of skeletal scar tissue, the result of head-butting and "necking" other male giraffes (in what might be the most ridiculously awkward combat you've ever seen). Males naturally grow larger horns than females, though all of their crashing about wears the tufted fur - that so distinctively tops the apexes of lady giraffe horns - right down to the smooth hide (and yes, this is a reliable method for distinguishing gender). My anatomy interest peaked, I made time for an afternoon visit to Harvard's Museum of Comparative Zoology so I could get a better look at what all of these morphological differences looked like from the inside.

Examining bones and skeletons never fails to thrill me, and exploring comparisons between specimens (of different species, gender, or just age) is extra exciting. From the robust reserach archive of the MCZ I was able to find 2 lovely giraffe skulls - one adult female, and one adult male. Both were collected around the turn of the century and didn't have subspecies classification (Masai, reticulated, etc) listed, but their form revealed everything I was hoping to see regardless. Check out these beauties:
 

Above (clockwise from top left): the adult female skull, full front view; the adult female from 3/4 behind; the adult male skull from straight behind; and the male's forehead over the orbit of the left eye. (photos taken at the Harvard MCZ)

Lifting up each skull revealed the first dramatic gender difference - without a scale, my estimates put the female skull around 8-10lbs, but the male skull was probably about 25lbs (the kind of weight you cradle with both arms, as opposed to just "picking up"). The male skull felt SOLID, and understandably so - from the animation below, check out where the bulk of the bone mass lies: where the female's horns look like they were pinched out as a diminutive sculptural afterthought, the male sports 2 substantial columns of bone that no amount of battering could break off. His third, central horn is also decidedly horn-like, compared to the gentle knoll on the forehead of the female. It certainly isn't uncommon for ruminant ungulates to have sexually dimorphic heads (horns and antlers are much more commonly found in males of many species, and not females) and in this case, all that bone-weight in the male's skull gives it an advantage in the physics of a fight - since males spar by swinging their great heads at each other, a heavier skull would increase the force of a blow, and make for a more triumphant individual.


Beyond weight and shape, the next remarkable difference between these two skulls was in the texture of the bone (the feature that inspired this quest in the first place). In contrast to lovely lady giraffe's uniformly smooth skull surface, the top of the male's skull is built up, gnarled, pitted, and quite rough. This "extra-ossification" (gross build-up of bone formation) in male skulls generates larger, thicker horns than in females, and can lead to the development of a third (as seen in this specimen) and even 4th and 5th horn - the Rothschild subspecies is the only giraffe born with 5 horns, the extras sprouting oddly from behind each ear.

Giraffe horns are quite distinct from typical ungulate horns. Unlike the horns of cattle, goats, and antelope, in which hard keratin sheaths cover boney projections, a giraffe's horns are known as ossicones and are more like boney bumps covered direclty by furred skin (the term ossicones refers to their development as ossified cartilage). Proper horns start to grow from "buds" on the forehead of a baby cow, kid, or lamb, after birth, but giraffe calves are born with tiny ossicones already present. Not yet fully fused to the skull, these cartilaginous nubbins fold back when the baby makes it's passage through the birth canal, eventually standing erect and stitching themselves to the skull as the baby matures. In the female specimen above, the circular demarkation line between the ossicones and the skull is clearly visible (3/4 rear view), but the male's bone has grown so thickly that this line is obscured.

I had time after time watched the progression across the plain of the Giraffe, in their queer, inimitable, vegetative gracefulness, as if it were not a herd of animals but a family of rare, long-stemmed, speckled gigantic flowers slowly advancing.
~ Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa

I have posted many more of my giraffe skull photos from the MCZ into a flickr album. And if you're curious about the slightly comical act of giraffe necking, youtube this & that. Did you know there is a constellation called Camelopardalis? There is. Read a nifty discussion on the history of this celestial feature, and a bit of etymology on the giraffe's species name here. And why is their neck so long anyway? Wouldn't we all like to know! If you'd like to see/read more about the giraffe's only living relative, check out this blog entry I posted last year on the elusive, charismatic okapi. And finally, I can't post on giraffes and not link to something like this (because the internet exists in large part to simply spread cuteness around the universe).

Many thanks to my great friends at the Franklin Park Zoo, for introducing me to Beau, and the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology, for allowing me to spend some QT with their exceptional collections.

A Stranger on Coney Island

One of the more interesting dynamics of bird-watching, I'm learning, is that importance is given not only to the spotting and ID-ing of individual species (causing delight if it's one you've never seen before), but also to the location in which you've found it (causing delight if it's never been seen there before). Lucky beasts that they are, most birds have the ability to literally globe trot. Many make this an annual activity through the act of migration, along epic and predictable "flyways", but migrating or not, any bird that takes to the air risks finding itself lost in any number of directions. The ones who veer far enough afield become very interesting to anyone who can tell them apart from the rest of the feathered regulars in any given area.

Last week, amid crowds of the uber-regular seagulls that speckle the beaches and boardwalks of New York's Coney Island, a stranger was spotted: if you don't know a Black-headed Gull from a Herring Gull, you surely wouldn't have noticed it, but amidst the white and grey mobs fighting for discarded french fries was a highly unusual (for the East Coast of North America) Gray-hooded Gull. Side by side, the differences in coloration between the Gray-hooded and a "basic" Gull are pretty darn obvious, but not dramatic - it would take a birder to pick this guy out... though in a place as populous as NY, it was only a matter of time.

According to the New York Times, "A photo of the bird, Chroicocephalus cirrocephalus, was first reported on July 24 to eBird.org, a Web site run by Cornell University’s ornithology lab and the National Audubon Society." From there, word fanned out across birding websites and forums the world over, and dedicated birders from as far away as Chicago made haste to the beach in Brooklyn, hoping to catch a glimpse, and hopefully a great photo, of a bird that will make many "life lists" over the course of it's East Coast vacay. The Gray-hooded Gull's native range includes South America and Africa south of the Sahara - it has been officially recorded only once before in North America, on Dec. 26th, 1998, in Apalachicola Florida. So, while it may be but a variant of one of the most common birds in the States, genetically speaking, it's a great rarity here, and those who traveled over from even extended points west still saved themselves a few thousand miles to witness such a creature this far north.


Above, THE gray-hooded gull (left) photographed amid the fried dough and pretzel carts this weekend, next to a Herring Gull (right), the most common of the gulls. Aside from the obvious grey head, notice the deep red beak and legs on the gray-hooded gull, compared to the fleshy-pink legs and yellow bill (with a distinctive red spot on it's underside) of the Herring Gull. Photo credits: Gray-headed Gull by Elliotte Rusty Harold; Herring Gull by Allison Frost.  

Assuming this bird is in fact a wild individual (as opposed to a sanctuary or zoo escapee), and only temporarily side-tracked on the shores of the Big Apple (while his internal GPS "recalculates") - may luck be with you on your long flight home, jaunty Mr. Red-legs...

Hand Numbered

If you've ever walked the comparative anatomy halls of a natural history museum, where bare skeletons of all manner of creature stand starkly side by side - the spindly assembly of a lithe African antelope next to the massive bone blocks of a 4-ton hippopotamuses - you might notice, upon closer inspection, that each and every bone in any given skeleton is identified by a neat, hand-written number. On older skeletons, this handwriting can be the graceful, faded script of a quill pen; newer acquisitions might sport a more bold, rapidograph print. However the marks were made, they serve the purpose of cataloguing each animal - and all of it's osteo-anatomy - within a given museum's vast archives. Upon donation to the institution, each animal specimen is given a unique string of digits, just like the call number on a library card - but unlike a library book with a single card inside it's cover, a single skeleton contains a few hundred bones... each of which need to be numbered, lest the pieces become separated at any time and risk mingling with other specimens.

I have always admired the elements of design and order that these specimen numbers impart on the raw surfaces of the bones they identify; and recently, to my great delight, I had the opportunity to be the mark-maker myself. On an afternoon last week, working in the department of mammalogy at the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology, I was tasked with inscribing the bones of a marten skeleton with it's assigned specimen acquisition ID: MCZ 64353. Trusty Rapidograph pen in hand, I made my way down each vertebrae, along each long leg bone, across each scapula and jaw, until I was left with needle-fine ribs, fragile hyoids, and bits of phalanges too delicate for any amount of ink. It was a sublimely meditative task, and simultaneously extremely thrilling.

Below, a pine marten, in the flesh and fur that it's skeleton usually wears.

Plum Island, for the Birds

Massachusetts is not for want of lovely New England coastline and beaches, though if you're a birder, one of the most sought after stretches of shore is located adjacent to the quaint northern town of Newburyport. Not to be confused with the mysteriously spooky Plum Island of Animal Disease Center fame (located on the northeastern tip of Long Island, NY), Plum Island, MA is a stunning and quite disease-free, 11-mile long barrier island, just barely separated from the mainland by the slim Parker River. It's namesake, the beach-plum bush, grows in great numbers around the island, and in the fall produce small fruits that apparently make delicious jam. Though the northern portion of the island is inhabited by seasonal and year-round residents, the southern portion is a protected wildlife refuge filled with all manner of native creatures, the most popular being winged.

Established in 1942, the Parker River National Wildlife Refuge is one of the premier bird-watching spots in the country - over 300 species have been recorded there, from ducks, gulls, and plovers, to herons, egrets, owls, and ospreys. The landscape is off limits to random foot traffic, but neat boardwalks traverse marshes and thickets, and carefully marked trails lead through dunes and grasslands. Even without binoculars, plentiful feathered activity can be spotted flitting through the vegetation, bobbing in saltwater, or gliding and hovering above. Some of the flashiest entertainers around the beach are male red-winged blackbirds - these striking birds are jet black with brilliant red shoulder patches, or epaulets, and a bordering yellow wingbar. As is common with many birds, the female red-winged blackbird is smaller in size than the male and much less vibrant in color - her feathers are a flecked mix of blackish-brown, rusty-gold, and cream.

Red-winged blackbirds are songbirds that nest in tall grasses, rushes, and cattails, where one male controls a loose territory of up to 10 females. During breeding season the showy males will exhibit proudly, often from the spindly perch of a single reed or stalk of grass - holding their wings out just enough to showcase the red epaulets, and chuffing up their chest and shoulders in what is known as the "perched display", they'll belt out a song of "oak-a-lee" and attempt to intimidate rivals. Illustrated below is a male red-wing displaying from a patch of dry marsh grass - the object of his attention, a rival male, assumed a matching stance in a nearby bush and I watched them trade threats until the distraction of a female zooming through caused them both to take off in chase. For some reason I have never been particularly enthusiastic about watching birds, though I've come to realize, through my brief but thrilling recent introduction to this hobby, that all it often takes is an ounce of patience, and the dedication of steady eyes, to open up a world of avian drama. And I am reminded of the incredible E.O. Wilson (world's most distinguished scholar of ants), who developed his passion for ants by simply getting down on the ground as a child and passing whole afternoons just watching them; following them from the anthill, tagging along on their trails back and forth for food... Wilson has always been a great proponent of taking the time to observe the nature around you - even the most ubiquitous, mundane, minute life tells a story, if we open our eyes and ears to discover it.



March through May is Piping Plover nesting season at Plum Island, and since these petit shorebirds are considered threatened, portions of the open beach, where they prefer to lay their eggs, are closed and carefully monitored. Khaki and white in coloring, and only about the size of a sparrow, Piping Plovers are busy little things, scurrying along the tide's edge on vibrant orange legs as they forage for insects, worms, and tiny crustaceans - they're speedy enough in fact that when threatened, they'll attempt to run away first, only taking flight if really necessary. Instead of weaving a nest out of vegetation, plovers create "scrapes" in the high shore areas of the beach. Following courtship, the male will scratch out a series of depressions in the sand. After choosing her favorite, the female will "decorate" it with shells and other beach debris to camouflage it, though on account of their relatively exposed real estate, plover nests are easily disturbed by predators, humans, and even storms and high tides, hence the conservation efforts to protect them.  



If you're considering a trip to Plum Island, for the birds or just a bit of splendid beach, I highly recommend a pit stop to or from at divinely convenient Bob Lobster. Best. Fried. Clams. Ever. (and then I had an ice cream cone...)

Cemetery Sanctuary: the Great Mount Auburn

This spring I have been fortunate to accompany a fellow naturalist and dedicated birder on a number of early morning strolls through the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA. Founded in 1831, Mount Auburn has the distinction of being America's oldest, large-scale designed landscape open to the public. A burial ground amidst an arboretum,its carefully curated 175 acres are planted with an impressive horticultural collection representing 630 distinct taxa, many ornamental; thoughtful paths wind carefully through wooded dells and around neatly kept ponds; and stunning monuments in unusual and ornate carving seem like so many natural objects in such a perfectly manicured world. After it's inception, the Mount Auburn experience was so beloved that it sparked a movement of rural, "garden" cemetery design, and eventually inspired the establishment of our tremendous national parks. It's a breathtakingly beautiful place to visit, especially in the spring and fall months, when it's abundance of showy trees is flowering profusely, or blending into the firey hues of autumn.

The lush landscape of Mount Auburn is also a haven for wildlife, and as it pertains to birds, it is a migrant magnet; at certain times of year, extended-stay inhabitants like turkeys, great blue herons and cardinals mingle with colorful flocks of migratory song birds like warblers and thrushes, making the cemetery a prime destination for birders. A profuse population of chipmunks, squirrels, cottontails, and other rodents also attract a number of raptor species, who both hunt and nest among the headstones. This spring, to the immense joy of all who visit Mount Auburn - binoculars in hand - in hopes of catching a glimpse of feathered rarities, a pair of great horned owls decided to raise a family smack in the middle of the grounds.

One of the largest and most common of the North American owl species, great horned owls (Bubo virginianus) are roughly 18-25" in length and have a wingspan of up to 60". Their "horns", or "ears" are neither horns nor ears but simply long tufts of feathers, and they have absolutely nothing to do with the bird's hearing. The birds are primarily solitary creatures, coming together in January and February to mate and raise young, though the same pair will reunite for up to 8 consecutive years. Great horned owls do not build their own nests, seeking instead established platforms like tree hollows, shallow caves, abandoned buildings, or often, and in this case, the abandoned nests of squirrels. This particular pair found a rather impressive roost - a thick bed of leaves and spiky sticks - in the crook of a thorny honey locust tree. The nest (and it's inhabitants) is impeccably camouflaged, but fortunate for all spectators, it sits only about 20 feet up, offering an unusually close view of mum and her downy brood. Once discovered in April, it drew a fast following of fanciers and photographers - apparently this is the first successful nesting of great horned owls recorded in the cemetery - and eventually groundskeepers had to erect a perimeter of police tape, to keep an eager public from disturbing the birds (or perhaps becoming the targets for aggressive territorial owl behavior). At this point, one can easily find the nest by looking for the dedicated huddle of it's watchers, and following the angle of their long-lenses up into the tree.

Having only ever seen live owls of this species in wildlife rehabilitation centers, I will tell you - observing them in their environment is beyond compare, they are magnificent animals. Watching the progress of this family - the two youngsters have about another week before they fledge - has been a rare and delightful treat, and very much worth the dawn treks (even though this illustrator much prefers the nocturnal working hours of owls...). 

Above: momma great horned owl and her two downy white owlets at about 2 weeks old.
Below: a painting of the owlets at about 7 weeks old - young of this age are known as "branchers" for their interest in toddling out of the nest to stretch their wings and explore; a few views through cemetery spring blossoms; the owlets again at about 7 weeks (photo by Wenfei Tong); and another of Mount Auburn's larger avian inhabitants - a chuffed wild turkey making his morning rounds.

Baby Faces: Kambiri Hams it Up

Kambiri, the youngest gorilla in the FPZ troop (she was born November 23rd, 2010), is growing like a fuzzy little weed, and while she's still quite petite in overall size, her baby teeth have come in, her mobility is slowly but surely improving, and she takes any opportunity she can to exercise her facial muscles for visitors at the viewing glass. These paintings were made from a series of photographs I took while watching her interact with her fans (many of which are small children who enjoy mimicking her silliness).

Jockamo the Giant Anteater

The newest member of the Franklin Park Zoo's Tropical Forest was introduced to the public this month: meet Jockamo, the giant anteater. Originally hailing from Louisiana, at one and a half years old, Jockamo is 112 pounds of shaggy, needle-nosed oddity. Giant anteaters are native to South America, where they amble through fields and pastures probing termite mounds, anthills, and tree stumps for the wee insects that make up their diet. Using powerful forelimbs with impressive curved claws, anteaters are able to open insect colonies protected behind wood or earth and reach in with long (up to 2 feet!), sticky tongues which trap and reel in their skittering meals. One of a scarce handful of mammals without any teeth, known as "edentate", all anteaters (there are 4 species in all: the giant, the silky, and the southern and northern tamandua) crush their insect prey between hard palettes in the mouth; sand and small rocks found in deceased anteater stomachs suggest that these ingested objects further aid the digestion of all those insect exoskeletons. 

Having never seen a giant anteater in person before, I must say, Jockamo has single-handedly moved anteaters up to the top of my creature crush list. Not only is he bizarrely beautiful, he displays the most gentle, inquisitive behaviors - a bit like those of a domestic canine - and you just can't help but want to snuggle up and give him a scratch behind the ears. I suppose these qualities help explain the below photo of eccentric mid-century surrealist, Salvador Dalí, walking a leashed giant anteater out of a Paris subway station; apparently the artist was quite taken with the beasts and appeared in public with them on multiple occasions... which really makes perfect sense, all things considered.

Below: Salvador Dalí and anteater friend, 1969; a vintage image of a giant anteater and a tamadua; two beautiful origami anteaters by paper artist Quentin Trollip; photo of a giant anteater in Pantanal, Brazil, by Luis Claudio, and a sketch of Jockamo from the FPZ. 

From You Have I Been Absent

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew,
Nor did I wonder at the Lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the Rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it Winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.

~William Shakespeare, Sonnet XIII
 

Kitombe in Cabinet

I subscribe to the quarterly arts and culture magazine Cabinet - it's a gorgeous publication with elegant design, rich artwork, and the literary soul of  a science journal. The current issue's theme is "Hair", and to my surprise, who did I happen to find gracing page 80 but the patriarch of the FPZ gorilla troop, Kitombe (father of new baby, Kambiri). His photo was used to illustrate an article on trichotillomania, a repetitive hair plucking disorder found in humans as well as captive animals, and he is sadly a perfect case study. The article was written by local MIT Phd candidate Laurel Braitman, who researched hair plucking in the FPZ gorillas, along with "barbering" in mice, and feather plucking in cockatoos. A writer and historian of science, Laurel studies changing perceptions of animal thoughts, and how animal behavior (particularly "crazy" behavior) informs our understanding of them, as well as ourselves. She ruminates on this subject on her blog: www.animalmadness.com.

I have not to date posted my sketches and painting of Kit - perhaps I was waiting for this occasion... but I will admit, he is not my favorite ape subject, in part because of his self-styled, patchy fur (and in part because he tends to be more sedentary and reclusive than the other gorillas, which doesn't make for compelling drawing). In both depictions here, Kit's bald patches are notable: large naked areas on his arms make his anatomy much more visible than it would be on a thickly furred adult male, and the dome of his impressive sagittal crest is sadly only populated by stubble (the hair does grow back if left alone). The FPZ keepers continue to explore new solutions to the trichotillomania problem (most promising, and probably healthy in many other ways, are efforts to decrease opportunities for boredom by adjusting to more frequent foraging schedules, and introducing more enrichment items), though hair plucking can be an easily learned behavior, and a number of other troop members have already started...