Just watch it. No, really.
Just watch it. No, really.
Better know a penguin: the little/blue/fairy penguin (Eudyptula minor)
Eudyptula minor is a teeny tiny penguin that lives in New Zealand and Australia. It’s barely a foot tall and weighs like three pounds on a good day. They’re so tiny that if they get oil-slicked, they need to wear sweaters until their feathers can be cleaned, because they can’t maintain their body temperature just sitting there. I mean, it’s pretty much a penguin universal that you can’t maintain body temperature in the water with a jacked-up coat, but fairy penguins can’t even just stand there if they’ve got a jacked-up coat.
In addition to being tiny, these penguins are also a gray-blue color instead of black, prefer shallow dives and near-surface feeding, and do not fear the hand of man. They brood multiple chicks and have been known to produce multiple clutches in one breeding season.
They burrow when they’re ready to nest, and they’re apparently not terribly picky about construction to the point that they’ll nest in house cellars or just root right under house foundations. This would be slightly more remarkable if it weren’t how like, every animal in Australia rolls, where you can build a town there if you want to, but they were there first, so you’re going to wind up with a kangaroo in your living room the second it’s more convenient for the kangaroo.
The adult birds are subject to normal predation by seals, and both brooding birds and their eggs are vulnerable to invasive foxes and cats. In a few more imperiled rookeries, the colonies have benefited from the assignment of sheepdogs to protect them, because Australia.
They go out to sea and come ashore in packs, which is a common anti-seal defense exhibited by penguins. They have yet to be observed practicing another common anti-seal defense that Antarctic penguins have developed, which is to shove a random penguin off the ice to see if it gets eaten by a seal. Presumably this is because they’ve got beaches instead of sheer drops, and not out of any inherent moral superiority.
A subspecies of the little penguin, the white-flippered penguin (Eudyptula minor albosignata), is remarkable for being nocturnal, limited to a mere handful of breeding areas, and the epicenter of a prolonged cladistic slap-fight over whether or not they’re real.
Or rather, that the designation is real. I mean, clearly, yes, the penguins themselves do exist. The question is whether or not they’re a proper subspecies as opposed to just possessed of slightly odd plumage.
Above: White-flippered penguins were extremely creatively-named.
AU - Arthur returns
Shit I still haven’t even got to the end of watching this series and I’m still crying over this.
From the day we snuck in to the fair :)
So, what if Derek comes back and is all “Scott please let me be your Beta, being an Omega is the worst, I promise I will follow all your orders and be a good soldier, I swear I can follow directions please let me PLEASE.”
And Scott squints at him and says “All of my orders? Like, ALL of them?”
And Derek nods furiously.
"Okay. Go get a massage."
And Derek frowns and says “what, that’s stupid, what are you talking about,” and Scott says “YOU SAID YOU WOULD FOLLOW MY ORDERS NOW GO GET A MASSAGE” and flashes his red eyes. So Derek goes and gets a massage—probably at a kiosk place in the mall, so he doesn’t have to take off his shirt, but after going he actually feels really good and energized yet relaxed, and also proud of himself for following his Alpha’s orders.
At the next pack meeting, after telling everyone what sort of perimeter patrols they’d be doing for the rest of the week, Scott asks Derek to stay behind for a minute. “I need to know which Indian restaurant in town has the most delicious Chicken Korma. I need you to go eat at all of them over the next month and decide which one is the best.”
Derek blinks. He loves Chicken Korma. He had eaten almost all of it that one time Stiles had brought some to a stakeout, a long time ago. “I—fine. I could have it done by Saturday, if you want.”
Scott shakes his head. “No, you’ll get sick of it and then you won’t be able to rank the later places accurately. Just try a new place whenever you’re in the mood for Indian, and then rank them for me.”
"Do you just care about taste, or do you want me to include levels for service and price?"
"That’s a good idea," Scott says, nodding approvingly. "Yes, include whatever you think is important."
The next week, he’s paying the check at Cafe Tandoor when he gets a text from Scott. I need your help at work tomorrow it reads.
When Derek shows up, Scott directs him to a box full of puppies. “Someone brought in these strays last night, and they have really matted fur, so I need you to brush them. I’d do it, but I have to work on cleaning out the cages.”
Derek looks down at where the puppies are whining up at him, tumbling over each other in eagerness. “I could clean the cages, if you want.” It seems more fair for him to do the grosser job.
"No, Deaton has a whole method he likes me to use, and it would take forever for me to show you where everything is and what to do. It’s faster this way."
Derek sits down on the floor and begins carding through the smallest puppy’s fur. It squeaks in delight and nuzzles against his hand.
This is you.
everybody wants to drive on through the night if it’s a drive back home
I don’t really remember! I only watched like three episodes. My primary impressions were hella bitchface and glowy backlight.
I am a’cackle with delight.
When I was about two, my mom brought home a coffee table book called “The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaur.” It must have been on clearance wherever she found it, because back then books on a whim weren’t something we could do. I have no idea what possessed her to buy it for me; the cover image is intimidatingly ferocious, and the pages are full of scientific names and muted color palettes. It has its own Recommended Further Reading section at the end. Clearly, it is inappropriate for a two-year-old in every possible way.
I loved it the moment I laid eyes on it.
This book was my “Goodnight Moon,” my “Where the Wild Things Are.” My grandmother never got a moment’s peace babysitting until we’d read through it at least once. (The fact that my copy is still around is a testament to her boundless patience and restraint.) The first words I ever read for myself were probably from there. Every picture in the book is still burned into my memory, too, and a large percentage of them are Henderson’s illustrations. In a very real way, those black and white images up above are paleontology to me.