On many occasions I’ve mentioned the difficulty in identifying insects.  More than 80% of all known species are insects.  They vastly outnumber plants and animals combined to a degree most people can’t fathom.

For example, more than 900,000 species of insects have been identified, while slightly more than 4,000 species of mammals have been identified—humans among them.

Truth be told, scientists believe more insect species have yet to be identified and named than already have been categorized.  That’s a stunning realization in that it means this single type of living creature is far more numerous than all other living things.  By orders of magnitude beyond comprehension, mind you.

The current estimate is that there are up to 30 million insect species in the world.  All other life combined would scarcely represent a tiny fraction of that, and it demonstrates a ration of 200 million insects for every individual human.

Consider that there are more species of dragonflies alone than there are of mammals.

So is it any doubt that identifying them can be tremendously difficult?

Hardly.

With that said, allow me to introduce to you a moth I encountered on January 20.

Perched atop a common dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), it seemed dwarfed by a small flower that otherwise would pass unnoticed for most people.  Not me, however.

This winged mystery remained absolutely motionless while I invaded its personal space trying to take presentable photographs.  Not once did it flinch; not once did it bat a wing.

Perfectly still, perfectly small, it lay on a golden bed while I stooped and leaned and clicked.

The angle of light and camera washed its markings away in a sea of dazzling reflection.  Nevertheless, the scale of the thing can be seen in this version of the same picture.

When I placed myself betwixt the moth and sun, a different view came into focus.

I still can’t offer a positive identification.  Regrettably, none of the photographs I took that day proffer a sound image with “This is me!” plastered all over it.

That failure notwithstanding, however, I can guess it’s a Eudonia moth (no common name; Eudonia heterosalis) by its coloration and markings.

But I could be wrong.

Too many moths fit this description, look like this in other pics.

So I ask: Who are you?

My new camera arrived in late December 2007.  Because my naiveté with its functionality meant the date had not even been set correctly, I can’t truthfully say when I first held this splendid piece of magic in my grimy paws, nor can I tell you the actual date these photos were taken (as the EXIF date is incorrect, although it’s only off by 12-24 hours from what I remember).

Nevertheless, I can tell you this: Perhaps taken Christmas Eve or the day before, perhaps taken Christmas Day even, these images represent my new Canon S5 IS’s initial performance at White Rock Lake, its debut as my photographic companion at the urban oasis I love.

So welcome to the first walk, to be presented in parts since there’s lots to see.

Two American white pelicans (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos)
and a double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus)
perched on a submerged branch and preening in morning sunlight.

Taken immediately after the previous photo, I zoomed out to give some
perspective on where I stood when I snapped that picture.  This is
facing west from Sunset Bay.  You can see my shadow in the lower-
right corner of the image, and the pelicans and cormorant can be seen
just right of center.

A pair of juvenile ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis) standing on a
submerged tree stump, sometimes preening, sometimes looking around
as though trying to determine what to do with their morning.

The confluence in Sunset Bay crowded with teeming waterfowl, from
an American white pelican (Pelecanus erythrorhynchos) to American coots
(Fulica americana) to brown and white Chinese geese (a.k.a. swan
geese; Anser cygnoides).

A covert of American coots (Fulica americana) milling about in the shallows
near shore, some eating, some preening, some wandering aimlessly.

A veritable flotilla of ducks swimming upstream from the lake, including
two male, one female, and one unidentified pekin ducks (a.k.a. domestic
ducks, white pekin ducks, or Long Island ducks; Anas domesticus), a male
mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), two male Indian runners (Anas platyrhynchos),
and a male crested Indian runner (Anas platyrhynchos).

That’s it for now, but there’s more to come in future installments.

Allow me to finish with this:

It took me years to realize my Canon PowerShot S50 had a macro setting, let alone what that could do for me.  It took me years to develop any level of proficiency with that piece of equipment, my first digital camera.  It took me years to feel comfortable with it, to feel confident with changing the settings to fit the conditions.  It took me years to start taking respectable images.

My sincere hope now is that it won’t take me years with the S5 IS.  I love photography.  Something about capturing the moment as I see it means a great deal to me, whether the pictures are just for me or for public consumption.  My newest camera, although certainly not a professional piece of equipment, offers tremendous power and advantage when compared to its predecessor.  I’m trying to learn its ins and outs as quickly as possible.  Considering these photos were taken the first day I had it, I hope I’m making more rapid progress than I did before.

[Next]

Larenti has some of the weirdest sleeping habits I’ve seen in a cat.  Sure, he sleeps on his back from time to time, but so do Kako and Vazra.  Lots of cats do that, which makes it anything but unusual.

I’m talking about positions that don’t even look comfortable, let alone restful, positions that seem accidental rather than intentional.  You might remember seeing one such pose last November while he was still living outside.

I thought at the time that he looked as though he was taking a bath and fell asleep before he finished.  Now I know that really happens.  Like this:

And this:

I’ve seen him do that regularly all about the house.  It starts innocently enough with normal feline hygienics, but somewhere in the middle of the process he grows tired and simply goes to sleep.  Without lying down or changing position.

I can’t claim this Buddha Belly demonstration resulted from the same mid-bath unconsciousness, yet I do know he wound up propped against the bed rolled forward such that he had to hold himself up with his front paws—while he slept!

All I know is that this cat is a true weirdo.  He certainly came to live in the right house…

From an e-mail I just sent to Mom:

On the subject of my shadow, al-Zill, I intend to rescue and adopt him.  [...] I now feel confident that he does indeed have neurological damage.  I suspect it’s from a coyote attack, although I could be wrong.  A car might explain the wounds and problems.  Then again, maybe not.

His wounds have healed with a great deal of effort and care.  He still might need additional treatment depending on the severity of the damage, but I can assure you the infection is gone, the wound is healing nicely, and he’s in much better condition now than he was six weeks ago.

I said on the blog that I don’t need seven cats.  Nevertheless, I can’t ignore the situation.  He won’t survive without intervention.  And I won’t leave him behind knowing the fate bearing down on him without my protection.  I can’t do it.  I can’t be that callous, that heartless, that uncaring and unnoticing.  So I’ll mess up my finances even more by tending to his needs, getting him healthy, and giving him a home.

He’ll cause more chaos with the other six cats, I know, but I consider myself an expert at this now.  I can do it.  He’ll fit in fine, he’ll make friends, he’ll be safe, and I won’t carry the scars of inhumanity that haunt me for every life I can’t save, every bit of mercy I fail to show.  That’s not the person I am and it’s not the person I want to be.  So I sacrifice, I give in to my better nature, and I curse those who look at me crosswise simply because they can be vile and ghoulish without blinking, they can be selfish sans a bit of care for those hurt along the way.

That’s just not me.  It hasn’t been, isn’t, and won’t be.  Ever.

From a recent telephone conversation with xocobra:

xocobra: “What if he’s critically wounded?  What if he can never be healthy and happy?”

Me: “Then so be it.  I’ll give him the life he can enjoy while he can enjoy it.”

“What happens if the doctor says he needs to be put down?”

“I’ve always erred on the side of quality versus quantity.  If he can’t have a comfortable, happy life, I’ll make the decision that needs to be made.  I’d rather he wallow in some goodness for a short time than suffer through agony for a long time.”

“Thank you.  Thank you for saying that.  Thank you for being that way when it comes to what matters.”

Truth be told, however, I fear for what Randy said in his latest missive:

And at the same time, I think you know that you are perilously close to having someone [...] show up at your door for harboring too many animals.

How so very accurate an observation.

Seven?  Too many?

Perhaps.

But I can’t ignore compassion.  Benevolence is my way, I’m afraid, and I must do what I must do.

Scheming and plotting a capture now appear the necessities of the day.  To secure, to evade, and to provide.

I’ll go from there.

Dusk.  Our familiar star settles below the horizon, yet neither light nor dark rule our planet.

Nothing less than otherworldly, the twilight hour defined by a mingling of giants: night and day.

Weak light bends through the air to offer sight in still darkness.  Not too much vision, mind you, but enough.

Amongst the foraging creatures stands a runner.  Tall, upright, obvious.  He towers over his feathered brethren.

I stagger at his presence, his defiant stance above his kind, his station.  What empowers him to be so different?

Gravity.

It’s no more complicated than that.

With legs placed further back than other ducks, his center of gravity rests near his tail.  This forces him and his kind to stand up.

And to walk like they’re running.

Or marching.

While gabbing ad infinitum with a diatribe meant for the gods.

Still, even in this late hour when daylight and darkness combine, his presence remains unmissable, unmistakable.  Even if you’ve seen his kind before, a runner at dusk is a magical thing indeed.

[male Indian runner duck (a.k.a. Indian runner or runner; Anas platyrhynchos); also seen are American coots (Fulica americana), mallard ducks (Anas platyrhynchos), and pekin ducks (a.k.a. domestic ducks, white pekin ducks, or Long Island ducks; Anas domesticus)]

al-Zill, on the other hand, makes me reconsider.

Without a doubt he suffers from neurological damage.  Such a feline cannot survive in the wild.  Had he not already taken up residence on my patio, what with constant attention, food, water, shelter, and protection, he undoubtedly would be dead.

A simple stretch tumbles him to the ground, his front or back legs failing the commands necessary to achieve such uncomplicated physical movements.

Walking appears sound most of the time, yet even that basic task intermittently resembles frenzied chaos.

Running?  Perhaps he can and perhaps he can’t.  Sometimes he seems more a fish out of water, a writhing mass of black fur flailing about on the ground, no traction beneath sliding feet, no coordination amongst four legs destined to leave him easy prey.

As I’ve grown to know him, I’ve likewise grown to understand better the once massive wound atop his head, the one in front and at the base of his left ear, the one originally infected and bleeding and oozing puss so vehemently as to seem fatal.

You see, that very wound coincides with a dislocation of his lower jaw, one that leaves his mouth agape and his teeth showing on the left side.

A coyote, most likely, were I to conclude such a thing based on the damage alone.

A hinged vice such as the jaws of most animals creates bidirectional force.  One seems logical: a compression between two opposing pieces, a squeezing of that caught in its grasp.

The other?  Perpendicular to the force exerted, a pressure shoving the object held away from the hinge.

To wit: Hold a glass in your hand.  Stretch your fingers out straight, and then squeeze.  You’ll find the glass pushed away from as much as pinned between your fingers.

Large enough to grasp his head in its grip, such a force could explain the head wound and the dislocated jaw, both perfectly aligned with a gaping maw I cannot see.

Perhaps a cracked skull or a tooth pierced to the brain tells the tale al-Zill cannot convey.  I suspect as much.

In my quest to leave the city behind, something to happen as quickly as I can work it out, abandoning him in this place to fend for himself with so many of his superior instincts and capabilities crippled by this attack would beg the question of my own humanity, my own sense of mercy and care for others.

What of a shelter?  Only a no-kill shelter would keep him alive, for any other would put him down with expeditious cruelty.  A “special needs” cat is unlikely to be adopted, they would claim.  And they would be right.

In other settings where his problems did not spell certain doom, chances of adoption would fall off dramatically due to the very same issues I’ve already mentioned.  Who wants a cat with brain damage, one who has difficulty functioning normally (albeit on a limited basis)?  Who wants a cat not always aware or in control of bodily functions?

Would you so readily adopt such a predator, taking him home with full knowledge of the difficulties ahead?  How many would?

My soul cringes at the thought of leaving him to such chance, to what destiny hope and opportunity could provide for such a creature.

Nay, poppets, I shan’t wear the spirit’s scars made from that decision.  I can’t.  I won’t.  To bear such eternal anguish frightens me.

An interesting yet unintentional dichotomy via photography.  The scene is the same: My favorite spot, the lone pier in Sunset Bay at White Rock Lake.  The view: What I enjoy each time I can as I step onto the wooden planks that will carry me to this most meditative of spots.

Taken 8:55:35 AM CST on January 21, 2008, a cold morning when frozen fingers hindered my walk by making image captures near impossible.

Taken 9:49:28 AM CST on January 26, 2008, a morning defined by a continuity of gray that finally melted before strong winds and midmorning sun.

What a pleasure I felt at the discovery of this interesting comparison, this contrast between cold and clear and the subsequent warm and foggy landscape.

Before all hell broke loose at work and I lost the majority of my time to the demands of employment, I enjoyed a leisurely walk at White Rock Lake early on the morning of February 2.  While this by no means encompasses the totality of the photographs taken that day, it does present a nice avian menagerie representative of that glorious experience.  You can expect more later.

The most ubiquitous species of its kind here at the lake, ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis) enjoyed a casual sunrise on the pier in Sunset Bay, my favorite spot to sit and meditate in the company of this urban oasis and all the nature it has to offer.

I especially like the juvenile on the right caught with its leg outstretched while grooming (I believe that’s second-winter plumage).

Three female house sparrows (Passer domesticus) perched atop one of the pier’s supports as they undoubtedly gossiped and spoke of the ungrateful men in their lives.  You can almost hear the cackling and goings on, the talk of no shopping money left in the nest when “those men” disappeared all too early, the discussion about who really has to raise the young’uns while others gallivant around the countryside as if they haven’t a care in the world.

A male downy woodpecker (Picoides pubescens) spent a great deal of time hunting the outer branches of this tree in search of food.  His female counterpart, also in the same tree, never left the dense shadows of its thick trunk.

Only later did I realize this is normal behavior, the male commandeering thinner branches while he forces the female to stay lower in the tree.  Apparently he knows where the better insects hide.

A female European starling (Sturnus vulgaris) sat high in a tree facing the sun, making photography rather difficult lest I stand facing her.  Such is the result.

She made a great deal of noise as I approached her nest (hidden in a hollow limb).  When I didn’t pass by uncaring of her presence, she bellowed out a series of demands that I move along immediately.  Too bad she remained in the tree’s upper branches and in a position that forced me into a singular view of her (from in front and below).

A male pekin duck (a.k.a. domestic duck, white pekin duck, or Long Island duck; Anas domesticus) swam by me as I walked along the banks of Dixon Branch (one of the many creeks that feed into White Rock Lake).  He paused briefly to look at me, perhaps a question as to my intent or a quick pondering of my obvious inability to swim.

In either case, he made a rather nice portrait with his deep blue eyes and illustrious whiteness.

A rock dove (a.k.a. common pigeon; Columba livia), one among many, paused momentarily as it glanced at me while I trundled along pretending I hadn’t noticed all of them feasting on breakfast.

And Kris Tate along with it.

As if the plethora of problems since the botched Mark III implementation weren’t enough, and as if the migration to the Japanese data center hadn’t created its own pains for those using the image hosting service, today marked a new and unimaginable low for Kristopher Tate and his Zooomr catastrophe.

My entire account is gone.  As all are of my images.

Not just the last six months that went missing when it came time to move this debacle to Japan.  Oh no!  Now it’s all of them.

I can’t even login to the service without having to traipse through the “new user account” process.

As of today, I simply don’t exist.  And I had a “Pro” account.

When Zooomr began taking money for its service, it stopped being a beta.  Period.  You can play that game elsewhere, but betas don’t cost money and don’t charge for additional functionality.

Them’s the facts, you buncha idiots.

As of today, I’m migrating to Flickr.  All new photos will go there, as has been the case for some time, and all old images will be migrated as time permits.

This disaster has been nothing short of a cataclysmic example of why some internet companies should never attempt to be anything other than a garage-based hobby for some acne-ridden, mindless twit who hasn’t a clue.

This is the big world, Kris.  Things out here don’t forgive and forget when it comes to almost a year of problems topped off with an utter and complete failure.

What you’ve done is screwed the living daylights out of us, your users that you claim to love so much, and you’ve forced us into a predicament where it will take a great deal more time and energy to recover from your ineptness than it did to invest time and money in what has amounted to a complete fiasco turned miscarriage.

The fact that I can no longer even rely on Zooomr to properly host my uploaded images or recognize me as a legitimate longtime user means you have betrayed the very people you need to survive.  Betrayed us in the most unforgivable ways, too.

Pathetic and pitiful.

I’m outta here.

We’ll see if Zooomr can ever get its act together.

The middle of February.  Still winter.

So why during my walk this morning did White Rock Lake seem so empty, so devoid of this season’s normal inhabitants.

Too few waterfowl appeared as I strolled from Sunset Bay to Winfrey Point, back again, then to the Bathhouse Cultural Center before returning to Sunset Bay.

This area normally teems with life this time of year, from regulars like ring-billed gulls and mallard ducks to migratory visitors like snow geese and American white pelicans.

But this morning?

Few winter visitors could be found, and only the year-round residents were to be seen.

Climate change, in my opinion.

Our cold has been anything but this year, a tryst here and there with freezing, but mostly warmer than that, warmer than usual.

Have northern migrations begun early this year in light of the absent finger of frigid weather?  Did the lake empty so quickly because no one sees a reason to stay through such a temperate season?

I wonder.