26May2005

Some of my loyal readers may recall my story of a year or so ago wherein I traced the discovery and journey of the rare and endangered species of frog known as “Archey’s Frog”. Their journey took them from the Waikato to Canterbury University. Well in the last few weeks there’s been some dramatic developments in the frog pond. I thought I should update you.

A brief synopsis. The Archey’s Frog is one of New Zealand’s rarest species of frog. It was found in the Waikato. The University of Canterbury Biological Services Department is a world leader in frogology. The study of frogs. When the Archey’s frog were discovered under a log in the Waikato, because they were regarded by local Maori as “Taonga” three Kaumatua were commissioned to take the frogs to Christchurch for further research. You may recall the difficulty the Kaumatua experienced in getting the frogs on the plane. Fortunately they got their charges to Christchurch without one of them croaking. There they delivered them into the hands of Bruce Waldman the University’s frogman and guru of native frog research. But the news is that he has now lost his permits to collect endangered native frogs. As you will all be aware under the Native Frog (Endangered Species) Regulations 1952 any person or persons who has on or about his/her/or their person a frog of the species defined in the schedule to the Regulations must keep proper and true records as to the number of frogs at any time under his/her/or their control. Bruce apparently had formal permits to keep 96 frogs and he had another 36 frogs which he kept under informal permits. These 36 were a bit like overstayers under the Immigration Act. Apparently he had some unpermitted dead frogs. Late last year someone spilled the beans on Bruce. The Department of Conservation’s (DOC) Frog division swooped on the University conducting a week long audit trawling through papers, emails, frog specimens and of course the ponds. The audit would have been similar to those that the IRD carry out. Every entry. Every deposit. Every frog hop would have to be accounted for. At the end of the audit DOC wondered whether they should call in the SFO – Serious Frog Office. This whole issue of the University being over frogged finally involved the pro-Vice Chancellor Ian Shaw. “It wasn’t easy to determine how many frogs we’d got and how many permits we’d got. If in the end it’s found that the University is in breach of the regulations it could be barred from further frog research.” I’m suggesting this could have serious consequences on future research funding. I believe that in each year a return specifying the number of frogs undergoing research would have to be supplied to the Vice Chancellor’s advance committee. Funds would then be allocated on a per frog basis. But what DOC audit didn’t seem to take into account is the fact that frogs are prolific breeders. Like for every frog that croaks it, the next day there are at least two more to replace it. That’s nature.

Bruce Alderman is a man who’s given his life to frogs. “I don’t spend my life reading contracts. I’m just so lost in frogs and trying to save frogs. My personal professional goal is to save all frogs from going extinct.” Would that we all were so principled. This discussion is ongoing. Dr. Avi Holzapfel leader of DOC’s native frog recovery program said there had been some sensitive issues between DOC and the Biological Department. “We’re working to resolve them” he said.

Well I am pleased to hear that. This is a big story. I sought some comment from the Prime Minister’s Department. A spokesperson who didn’t wish to be named assured me that the Government like all its policies had a very liberal policy when it came to frogs and indeed the researching of them. Frog preservation was right up there with health, education, social welfare and the police. “But at the moment with all the ongoing inquiries into 111 calls, abandoned cats and tennis balls the frog thing has, as you might say, caught us on the hop”. I didn’t like to suggest that that was in the nature of frogs.

I’ll keep you in touch with developments.

19May2005

They say that history has a habit of repeating itself. I wondered about this as I contemplated the forthcoming Lions rugby tour and the entourage of it’s supporters who is about to invade us. This is shaping up to be an invasion on a par with the Normans’ efforts back in 1066. Let me for a moment refresh your memory. Edward the Confessor on his deathbed is supposed to have uttered “Into Harold’s hands – Harold was, as you will recall, the well known and well connected Harold Godwinson – I commit my kingdom.” As soon as Edward had snuffed it Harold wasted no time getting his head measured for the Crown. The measurement incidentally was 6⅞. Across the English Channel William Duke of Normandy decided he also had a claim to the English throne. Edward was a distant cuzzie to William. William was quite certain that Edward had designated him as his successor. This is where it all becomes a bit complicated. According to William when Harold donned the Crown he had violated a sacred oath. William rang the then Pope on a direct line VAT 69. The Pope had Harold excommunicated and consigned him and his supporters to hell. Now as we also know about the same time a third party came on the scene. Harold Hardrada King of Norway also laid claim to Harold’s throne. He prepared to invade England. Harold got it both ways. The Vikings in the North. The Normans in the South. To cut a long story short Harold not only beat the Vikings in the North but got the bonus point. Of the Vikings that survived you could have fitted them into three sardine tins as they made their way back to Norway. It was a different story down south. After putting up a bit of a fight Harold’s Anglo-Saxons bowed under the sheer skill and might of the Normans. And on September 25 1066 at Hastings the Normans triumphed. The rest as they’re always saying is history.

This wordly introduction brings me to the present day. What we’re about to witness is a reverse Anglo-Saxon invasion. Instead of waiting at home for the Normans, this time (for Harold read “Sir Clive Woodward), his men and his army of supporters are going to attempt to invade us. We the latter-day Normans are under our King Graham Henry IX. Sir Clive mirrors the hapless King Harold in so many ways. When he won the great battle of Sydney, two years ago he immediately assumed the Crown “King of the Rugby World”. Since his self coronation his army has had few victories, Realising his power was waning he gathered together a group of English, Welsh, Scottish and in desperation even Irish in a motley band of up to 20,000 known as the Barmy Army of ill equipped, ill trained supporters. It’s about to embark on an invasion of Henry IX’s territory. But unlike the Normans’ arrows of those centuries ago we’ve decided on a different defence. We’re going to beat them on the battle field with sheer brilliance. Henry the IX will see to that. Off the battlefield we will attack the marauding hordes of freckly, speckled, overweight supporters with frenzied hospitality. Make them feel at home with litres of warm Guinness. Thousands of half baked, half cold pork pies. Bowls of steaming tripe and onions. And salted smoked Kawhai masquerading as kippers. It’s been said the way to a soldiers heart is through his stomach. So be it. All over the country marquees are being erected. Roads are being closed. Beer is being brewed in an effort to deal it to the invaders. Churchill spoke of them and their Camper Vans – 3000 of them. “Strong columns of their vehicles will ravage the open country which for the first day will be without defenders. They have penetrated deeply and spread alarm and confusion. But in the end we will never give in. We will drive them camper vans and all from our shore. This will be New Zealand’s finest hour.”

As I said history has a habit of repeating itself.

Postscript: I see Sir Clive and his motley crew have in desperation enlisted the help of royalty – Prince William Windsor. He’s second in line for the Throne. His coming here I believe is an injudicious decision for henceforth he shall be know not as William the Conqueror but rather William the Conquered.

12May2005

This is really a story about John Tamihere and his cats. But first I need to digress. When I was about eight years of age my mother considered that my speech wasn’t all it should have been. Accordingly she decided that I should take elocution lessons. Every Monday afternoon she’d give me a shilling and off I would reluctantly go to Miss Donnelly’s house for my lessons. I’d sit in the musty dark hallway awaiting for the kid before me to finish his lesson. Through the wall I could hear the muted, muffled grunts as Dougie Kelly, as reluctant as me, was taken through the correct recitation of the vowels. Correct according to Miss Donnelly, whom I thought had an unusual and fascinating way of speaking. I found out in later years she was Irish. Silence through the wall. The big door opened. There stood Dougie Kelly. The look of relief on his face as he was about to be set free. “Your turn now Lundon” he whispered sneeringly to me through clenched lips. Even through his sotto voce utterance I knew that the lesson had done nothing for him. The “now” of “your turn now” came out as “neow”. Miss Donnelly would have insisted that it rhymed with “brown” and “cow” as in “how now brown cow”.

She wasn’t a big woman but her presence seemed fill the room. A big gloomy dark room. The funny musty smell of the hallway was recreated here. It reminded me of how my wet rugby socks smelt after a week of lying in the corner of my wardrobe. There was a massive black upright piano. It dominated one wall. The only light was a gnarled twisted wooden standard lamp with a golden shade and tassels hanging off this. Although it was only 4:00pm the heavy curtains had already been drawn. They were dark red. Velvet I think. I couldn’t stand touching velvet. Like the black velvet shoe polisher my father had. Touching its sent a sort of creepy feel up the back of my neck. Miss Donnelly looked at me through her half moon rimmed glasses. “Have you got your shilling Jack?” I don’t know why she called me Jack. Something to do with an American author called Jack London. I found out later on that he wrote adventure stories like “White Fang” and “Call of the Wild”. As an elocution teacher Miss Donnelly was well read. She obviously wanted to let me know. This was wasted on me. I’d never head of Jack London. As I handed over the shilling I mentally noted what better purposes I could have put this money to other than an elocution class. Like a couple of toffee bars. And an afternoon in the dress circle of the Majestic Theatre in Willis Street watching the Lone Ranger and his faithful servant Tonto once again cheat certain death from the Sioux Indians.

“Today we’ve going to learn a poem, but first our vowels”. “aay – ee – aye – oo – you”. I intoned them after her. “Not yew. “Round your lips”. Her little red mouth outlined in red lipstick formed a little round red ring. Reminded me of those rings farmers used for getting rid of lamb’s tails and other things. “Good” she responded as I made a valiant effort to comply. “Now for today’s poem. It’s called the ‘Cat came back’.” Well I won’t bore you but it went on for about ten verses. It was the epic story of an unwanted cat that everyone involved with it was trying to get rid of it without success. One verse went like this
A little boy said he’d kill the cat got a dollar note.
Went out in the river with a little open boat.
Tied a rope around the moggie’s neck.
With a stone that weighed a pound.
They’re dragging in the river for the little boy that’s drowned,
But the cat came back.
Which brings me to John Tamiehere’s cats. John has been castigated for leaving his two tom cats behind after he vacated his West Auckland property. If the truths known he took the cats with him when he and his family left. But like Miss Donnelly’s poem they kept coming back. And the last verse went something like this
They gave it (the cat) to a preacher who was going far away.
But as his train went around a curve it struck a rotten rail
And not a man aboard was left to tell the tale.
But the cat came back”.

04May2005

There’s a company in California “Genetics Savings & Clone” which is a leader in the animal cloning industry. Reports tell us that over the past couple of years their technicians have managed to clone several kittens. This year they’re planning to clone a dog. These clones don’t come cheap. The starting price for kittens could begin around US$100,000.00. Don’t ask me how much a cloned dog would cost but it would probably beat a lifetime (that’s a human’s lifetime) supply of Tux dog biscuits.

The chief cloner is one Phillip Damiani. Just as John F. Kennedy vowed to put a man on the moon within five years of his presidential inauguration, or like George W. Bush pledged to be out of Iraq by 2050, Phillip Damiani has set himself a deadline of late 2005 to clone a dog. Dogs are apparently more difficult to clone than cats. Well I could imagine cloning a St. Bernard or one of those big Newfoundlands could take some time, but what’s so difficult about a Chihuahua? Mr Damiani, or perhaps we could call him Phil, may have set himself an impossible deadline. He’s reported to have said “I feel the pressure every day when I come to work”. Well put yourself in his position. How would you cope with being a dog cloner? Phil arrives home at about 8:30pm every day exhausted. He’s greeted by his wife. “What sort of a day did you have at work today Honey?” (For some inexplicable reason American couples call their spouses “Honey”. Don’t ask me why.) “How’s your dog going?” “Not a good day Honey” (see what I mean) replies Phil. “When I got to the lab this morning and opened up the test tube all I got was a pile of fur and whiskers. Cats were a breeze but I’m finding this transition from cats to dogs too much. I’m afraid I might end up with something that looks like a dog, runs like a dog, wags its tail like a dog but its whiskers, fur and the meow would give the game away. I’ve got this deadline to meet by Christmas. Some of my customers have already bought kennels and “Beware of the Dog” signs. If I don’t deliver by Christmas it could be all over Rover. We might have to go back to that short hair cat we cloned for allergy sufferers. That was a big earner.

Enter Dr. Arthur Caplan a bioethicist at the University of Pennsylvania into the argument. “Cloning may be over-hyped. Bringing back your dead pet is not all it’s cracked up to be. The new dog won’t know the old tricks.” How true. Just imagine it. You’ve paid Phil Damiani US$30,000.00 to clone Rover, who for the last 15 years has run down your driveway every morning through rain, hail, snow, sunshine and fetched and brought “The Press” to your front door. Now you’ve got Rover’s clone and all he’s doing is lying there and wanting for his tummy to be scratched. Or worse taking your slippers to the gate. Dr. Caplan continues “there’s nothing wrong with pet modification if it produces pets that have a smaller footprint on the environment. This is where the problem arises for Phil Damiani. If he’s successful and clones a puppy by Christmas he undoubtedly will want to extend his cloning horizons to something big like an elephant. I’ve seen the foot print of an elephant and it’s big. I bet Phil’s having dreams right now. “Well yes” says Phil. “I could, after dogs, move onto elephants. The only problem is that in my dreams all the elephants I see are pink.” We understand Phil, but a pink elephant is worth the effort. Go for it Phil – send in the clones.