(Q)uahog Clam

I turned 40 yesterday, which pretty much puts me smack dab in the middle of life, given an average life expectancy of 77.3 years (for a white female born in 1975).

I don't think I'm ready to be halfway done with my life already.

But I'm in good company: Priscilla and Patches, our male and female (yes, respectively) Desert Tortoises at the Oregon Zoo, have a similar life expectancy. These two are program animals, which means they are docile enough to be used in educational experiences at the zoo and in our outreach programs.

Desert Tortoise
Courtesy of Oregon Zoo

I volunteer with the ZooSnooze program, one of the opportunities volunteers have to be hands-on with animals. It's pretty great to be able to show off an animal like the Desert Tortoise and share interesting talking points with small groups. Such as why Priscilla is a boy and is named Priscilla: because it takes over a decade for their boy parts to become noticeable, and when we first acquired him we thought he was a she. (And because, paperwork. It would be too much of a hassle to change his name at this point. Zoo bureaucracy and all.) But I don't usually talk about boy parts with kids. Yikes. I'm not a parent for many good reasons; not having to explain the birds and the bees is one of them. I refer, instead, to the gular horn, an extension of their lower shell which males use in fighting with other males.

It's about as riveting as you'd expect. Be sure to hang in there until the bitter end!

But I digress. And my attempt to console myself with animal life expectancies doesn't really work, because I start lamenting about people taking on exotic animals as pets - pets which will outlive them or whose humans will grow tired of them long before the pets can even attempt to outlive them ...

Okay, that really doesn't make me feel better.

I don't feel better, until I think of 40 in comparison to very long-living animals.

Lake Sturgeon, 152 years
Courtesy of Lake Champlain International

Red Sea Urchin, 200 years
Google Image, Unknown Photographer

 And the Quahog Clam, which lives to be an astonishing 400 years old.

Ocean Quahog Clam, 400 years
Courtesy of Paul Kay

Seriously?!? 40 is only one-tenth of 400. I don't need to live another 9 lifetimes. Yay, middle age! I just made myself feel a whole lot better.

Happy birthday, me!


For more information :
http://news.discovery.com/animals/top-10-longest-living-animals.htm

(F)ly, Little Bird

The Arctic Tern,  a medium-sized seabird, migrates annually from pole to pole, flying an average of 44,000 miles. 44,000 miles, flown by a bird. If that sounds like a lot, it is. Arctic Terns win the distinction of having the longest annual migration of any animal in the world. Furthermore, since these birds live relatively long lives (approximately 30 years), this means that their lifetime migration is the equivalent of flying to the moon and back ... three times. A bird.

Frankly, this gives me an entirely new perspective on how long my own journey has been, searching for a career path that excites me.

The awe-inspiring Arctic Tern

Granted, an Arctic Tern is probably a little more single-minded and needs-driven than a human suffering from the affliction of free will.

I turn 40 this week, and to say that I am frustrated and disappointed that I have neither a satisfying career nor my bachelor's degree yet is an understatement. But my birthday will come and go, and those facts won't change, and I'll just get on with things.

What I can be proud of is the fact that I actually have been getting on with things for a couple of years: in less than a six-month period beginning at the end of 2012, I began volunteering at the zoo, working with animals in a paid position at the shelter, and pursuing my degree in earnest.

When the Arctic Terns begin their migration south, they don't do so with immediacy. They spend close to a month at sea in the middle of the ocean, a lengthy stop-over that researchers believe is their chance to "fuel-up". The waters farther south provide less food, and the birds must be prepared. Their return journey is even less direct; the birds take a circuitous route which allows them to take advantage of global winds, thus reducing the energy they must expend to reach their breeding grounds in Greenland.

I can't clearly identify my "fueling-up" points at this stage in my personal migration, or the benefits gained from my own circuitous route. But I'm confident in a couple of things: First, I am not the only free-willed human out there feeling like they have mucked up most of their personal journey thus far. And second, retrospect will show me how and why my trek was the right one for me.

In the meantime, I don't need to focus on a destination as distant as the moon. Or even 44,000 miles. I just need to fly, little bird ... fly.

(C)hange is for the Birds

When I first started volunteering in the North America area of the Oregon Zoo, part of my routine included some work with our herps. "Herp" is a vernacular term derived from "herpetile", meaning reptiles and amphibians. Like this guy:

Newt. Cute!

A few months ago, the care of our herps was redirected to a specific Herp Keeper. So, while I didn't do much more than change out their water and spritz the plants in their exhibit (oh, and count them to make sure everyone was still there), now I only wave at them as I walk by them.

This morning I was told that the birds in our collection are going the way of the herps. That is, they will remain on exhibit in North America, but a Bird Keeper will now be solely responsible for their care. So, all that pervasive duck poop that I mentioned in my last post? Not going to be my problem anymore.

It's a little sad. The ducks all have personalities and I'm going to miss interacting with them. It's fun to give them their worms and feel like the most popular person on zoo grounds when doing so. And it really is awe-inspiring stepping into the bald eagle exhibit, despite the fact that they avoid us at all costs.

Jack, our male bald eagle. He only has one eye, which he is using to make sure
I give credit for this awesome photo from the Oregon Zoo website.

But, as they say, change is the one constant. The zoo is certainly not immune to this law of life. When the keepers I work with broke the news to me this morning, they were concerned that I wouldn't want to keep volunteering as my routine would change. But I am the rare bird that loves change, thrives with transition, and resents routine. So I'm excited to see what this means for me! It may mean that I get to work with animals I've spent minimal time with so far, or do more in-depth work (training, enrichment) with the animals that are currently part of my routine.

Today, for example, I helped train our river otters for injections. On the inside of their enclosure, a large PVC pipe has been cut in half lengthwise and attached with the open side facing the keepers. The goal is to get the otters to crawl inside willingly, which they do for food, and remain in place while receiving an injection. Training the animals to accept treatment willingly is an important part of their care, greatly reducing the stress they might otherwise feel if confined against their will. So, I lured the otters with food, and the keeper practiced poking them with a dull syringe, desensitizing them to the sensation.

We'll see what the next few weeks of transition look like. And, hopefully, I'll see my list of skills and qualifications grow!

(P)oop

Since I (unintentionally) took a year hiatus from this blog, I might as well come back with a bang. So, poop it is!

I deal with a lot of poop during my 3-hour volunteer shift at the zoo each week. If I worked mid-day, perhaps I'd do more with enrichment or training or even diet prep for the following day ... but I'm there in the morning, and a night's worth of poop is there waiting for me. Depending on the area I'm assigned to, my "good morning" from the animals is either unsightly and pervasive (ducks) or disturbingly aromatic (river otters). Mountain goats are the most polite poopers, sprinkling their dry, dainty pellets into neat little piles. Let us not discuss bear poop. Ever.

Unicorn poop, far more lovely than any zoo animal poop I am likely to encounter

This past year has been exceptionally busy. My husband has asked me to consider stepping back from my volunteer commitment in an effort to reduce my stress level. But it's strangely therapeutic, hosing down poop. (If only I could get the same sense of satisfaction from cleaning my own house!) 

Cleaning up zoo animal poop also brings a sense of adventure: Can I maneuver this hilly, rocky terrain as nimbly as the goats? Is today the day I fall into the beaver pond instead of crossing safely over the waterfall? Will I deftly clean up the ringtail exhibit without one of them perching in a branch above me and christening my head? It can also make for great comedy: Tilly, our river otter mom, in an effort to teach her son Ziggy the poop dance, would inadvertently poop directly on him as he moved in for close examination. And always, within inches of the exhibit window, to the delight and disgust of zoo visitors.

Plus, poop can just plain be interesting. It can tell us about digestion, bacteria, gastrointestinal parasites, viral diseases, and other medical conditions, such as pregnancy. How do you know which poop is Tilly's if she shares an exhibit with two other otters? Simple: add something like glitter or blue food dye to her meat. Her poop becomes undeniably hers, and can be collected and tested for hormonal changes which potentially indicate pregnancy.

So, poop can be very telling. And the fact that I'm blogging about it might also be telling ... but I'll leave it at that and share this Osaka Aquarium otter poop dance video in closing. You're welcome!