Pets Allowed

Why are so many animals now in places where they shouldn’t be?

By Patricia Marx

Photograph: Robin Siegel

What a wonderful time it is for the scammer, the conniver, and the cheat: the underage drinkers who flash fake I.D.s, the able-bodied adults who drive cars with handicapped license plates, the parents who use a phony address so that their child can attend a more desirable public school, the customers with eleven items who stand in the express lane. The latest group to bend the law is pet owners.

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So This Is How They Do It! Zebras Getting Stripes

By Robert Krulwich

solis_zebra

How did it happen? How’d the zebra get its stripes?

In Rudyard Kipling’s version, a gray, horsey-looking beast went into “a great forest ‘sclusively full of trees and bushes and stripy, speckly, patchy-batchy shadows,” stayed there awhile, and after a “long time”… got stripy.

OK. Not bad.

Here’s another notion, this one from Ricardo Solis, an artist working in Guadalajara, Mexico. He says a team of highly intelligent, “mini-me” creatures got itself a roll of black ribbon. Using giant scissors, the mini-me’s cut themselves long slivers, which, dropped from a blimp, they pasted on a horse.

This is such a satisfying explanation. No waiting eons and eons. No random mutations. No molecular biology. Just a team of itty-bitty designers doing, well … almost intelligent design. They’re not precise. Life should be accidental, which is why it feels right that a flamingo gets its pink from teeny buckets of paint, randomly poured. And why the mini-me’s down below have to protect themselves with small umbrellas.

solis_flamingo

Plus, creature-building should be hard work. In making a giraffe, a team of designers had to draw, manufacture and stock each golden-brown blotch, and ship them to the studio, where this monster-sized animal, tethered by a handful of mini-me’s, is patiently waiting to be accessorized. It’s a paint-by-numbers job, each blotch must be fitted to its pre-figured spot, and if they take too long and the giraffe gets restless? I’m not even going to think about that.

solis_giraffe

In the Bible, genesis happens super-fast, as befits an all-powerful being. Creation is a six-day effort, from “let there be light” all the way through zebra-striping, giraffe pigmentation and flamingo pinks. Then, on the seventh day, God rests. He gives Himself a single day off. One.

Giraffe Production Bottlenecks

Not the mini-me creatures. Ricardo Solis doesn’t say, being an artist, but I’m figuring those little guys needed two, three full days to paint in each giraffe. Multiply that by the number of giraffes on order, and creation is a labor-intensive nightmare. Figuring regular weekends, summer vacations, holidays and medical leave for paint-poisoning, giraffe gestation is going to be very, very slow — which is why, if Ricardo Solis ever visits Africa and gets to see 50, 60 giraffes ambling together across the plain, he — more than the rest of us — will blink, smile and say, “That? That is a miracle!”

There are many routes to appreciating the bounty about us.


To see more Ricardo Solis drawings – of hippos being inflated, armadillos getting armored — you can find his latest work collected here.

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The New Yorker / Krulwich Wonders / Published: April 19, 2014
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Quote of the Day

Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry. -Jack Kerouac

[Happy birthday, Jack.]

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How Wolves Change Rivers

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Quote of the Day

If you were born without wings, do nothing to prevent them from growing. -Coco Chanel

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World Wildlife Day

Antarctica_8176

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

-Lord Byron

 

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Who is Dependent on Welfare

It is time for a new social contract.

Momma Welfare Roll

Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
Pudgy hands bunched on layered hips
Where bones idle under years of fatback
And lima beans.
Her jowls shiver in accusation
Of crimes clichéd by
Repetition. Her children, strangers
To childhood’s toys, play
Best the games of darkened doorways,
Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of
Other people’s property.

Too fat to whore,
Too mad to work,
Searches her dreams for the
Lucky sign and walks bare-handed
Into a den of bureaucrats for
Her portion.
‘They don’t give me welfare.
I take it.’

-Maya Angelou

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