A rare Malayan Tapir has been born at the Royal Zoological Society of Scotland’s Edinburgh Zoo. The male calf was born to mum, Sayang, and dad, Mowgli, late on January 31.
The birth is the latest chapter in the charity’s success story with this endangered species, with the Zoo having welcomed eight Tapir calves since 2007.
Malayan Tapirs are increasingly threatened in the wild by habitat loss and hunting, so the European conservation-breeding programme plays a key role in protecting the species from extinction.
Jonny Appleyard, team leader for hoofstock at Edinburgh Zoo, said, “Malayan Tapir populations in the wild are continuing to decline, so all births are incredibly valuable to the breeding programme and we’re really excited about our latest arrival.”
“At the moment he is staying very close to mum, Sayang, but will soon find his feet and start to follow her outside.”
Baby Tapirs are born with brown and white fur, which helps to provide camouflage in their natural rainforest habitats, and they develop the black-and-white adult colouration after a few months.
The baby Tapir was named with the help of the public. Votes were cast from a shortlist put together by RZSS patrons. Almost 9,000 people voted. With an impressive 4,263 votes, the winning name was…Megat (a name with royal significance in Malaysia).
Over a 10-week period, from November 20, 2018, through January 30, 2019, eleven calves from six different ungulate species were born at the Saint Louis Zoo!
The new calves— three Speke’s Gazelles, two Addaxes, a Soemmerring’s Gazelle, a Grevy’s Zebra, two Lesser Kudus and two Lowland Nyalas — are healthy and have been bonding with their mothers behind the scenes at Red Rocks.
New zebra foal, Nova, and her mom can be seen in their habitat, weather permitting.
These important births were recommended by the Association of Zoos and Aquariums Species Survival Plans (SSP), which are responsible for maintaining genetically healthy populations of these ungulate species in North American zoos.
Five of these SSPs are coordinated by Zoo staff. The Saint Louis Zoo’s WildCare Institute Center for Conservation in the Horn of Africa and Saharan Wildlife Recovery Center supports conservation of unique species in Africa.
More great pics below the fold!
We were down five on six for most of this game, but we did hold back their first push, and this was part of why. Like ducks, all in a row, at the amusement park.
(We did not hold back their second push. We did, again, on second point, but not as well, and then lost, despite finally getting a sixth player.)
I'm currently making a sort of "municipal geneaology" for the various original townships of Allegheny County. So far, I've got Wilkins*, Plum, and Versailles...you know, the easy ones. 😼 My current one is Mifflin Township, but that's a complete mess, so I may split Baldwin Township away from it into its own tree (especially considering it's doubly split from Mifflin/St. Clair).
The goal is to have all of the Original Seven Townships from 1788 completely mapped out. G*d help me when I get to Pitt Township.
* - Wilkins was not one of the Original Seven, but it was so convoluted that it needed to be spread out to its own tree.
( Allegheny County Municipal Family Trees )
I joined a team that had taken the first point at Anubis, and had apparently stalled out a bit trying on the second point, and someone dropped.
After a bit of futzing around and a halfhearted push that I survived (but most of my team did not), they got grouped together and made a decent second go of it. Enemy team wasn't expecting a highly mobile Widowmaker, so I was able to pick their primary healer before this clip started, and then I just hauled my blue aggro ass in with the tanks for this POTG.
(Silvered in objective kills, too, which is always funny as basically deep backfill.)
This isn't a very interesting highlight, and I'm a little sad about that, because it was a very interesting game.
I'd mined their initial spawn, as always, for the little early intel about who they had coming at us, yeh? And it tripped, like always, and one of the incoming was enemy Widowmaker, who I headshot as she chained up to the hotel balcony that you can see in the preview before she even landed.
She was mad. And, as it turned out, good. And the first kill was so hilarious that it took me a couple of goes to figure that out, and the entire game came down to which of us could keep the other one of us down. When she had me down, she'd kill half our team, and they'd advance the payload. When I had her down, I did the reverse, and we backed them up.
And that was the entire game. When, in the end, I came out ahead against her, we won. Simple as that.
Funny thing about this was how much of the key part of it happened before this POTG starts. They were flanking to our right, and I'd ping-ponged my neg orb through that channel, and it was racking up damage while I was over on the payload making sure they couldn't inch it home. So the orb's POV would've been a lot more interesting, really?
I had been backfill - enemy team had already made the first checkpoint - and had come in as Pharah, and we almost held them at the second, but a few of them figured out that Pharah as a fucking problem and took me down. Then, inside, well, Pharah's not the best choice, so Moira.
We're at La Gloria, down by the river. It's approximately Mexican, but due to the location caters mainly to braying pricks with too much money; so we have bits of farm machinery nailed to the walls for the sake of ambience, bottled beer or five billion varieties of marguerita, and the sort of fare which inevitably draws screeching twats who just love love love that num nummy numptious Mexican street food. Everything above head height is a television screen blasting out the game, the Dallas Cowboys legendary play off against the Dallas Cowboys or something of that general nature. Men in helmets and padding have grunting fights which last two seconds before we cut to five minutes of grinning salesmen discussing what just happened as though it matters.
I am here because my wife is here, and because Zara has just chucked in her job and is moving to Austin. There are a load of folks from the office so why not, I figured. I know some of them. We enter the bar and familiar faces mouth greetings which I don't hear due to the noise of the Dallas Cowboys legendary play off against the Dallas Cowboys, except for Hunter. I hear him fine. I had my fingers crossed in hope of his having stayed home, but no luck.
'Hey buddy!' he bellows like I'm some long lost pal, eyes big and deep like those of a needy hound, the kind which eventually tries to hump your leg. 'It's been a long time!'
That's because we don't actually know each other, which is in turn because we aren't friends due to having nothing in common besides very vaguely mutual friends, but I say, 'Sure.'
He's clearly been hoping I would show, and I don't like to think why. I'm trying to say hello to a few of the others, people I actually sort of know. 'So when we gonna party?'
'Huh?' I'm caught out. It's a truly weird question.
'You and me, we're gonna party!' There's something seriously creepy about the smile on his face. I'm trying not to think about what it could mean.
'No,' I state firmly. 'We're not. You don't know me. I don't party. That's all there is to it.'
'We're gonna party, buddy!'
'No, we aren't. You are mistaken.'
'We're gonna party.'
Maybe it's meth. Maybe it's booze. Maybe it's just Hunter.
Bess pulls me to a seat at the opposite end of the table, which is thankfully fourteen or fifteen feet in length with others from the office all packed around the circumference. We squeeze in between Bob and Santina. I wave distantly at Rowena.
Rowena arranged our wedding. Bess and I were married within a month of my arriving in America, although obviously we had known each other longer. It was just going to be a registry office, but Rowena said oh hell no, possibly whilst doing that cobra head wiggle made popular by disgruntled female guests on talk shows.
Oh no you di'nt, girlfriend.
So Rowena arranged it all, or most of it, or some of it. They all showed up at our house. Edi ordered cupcakes. Rowena made enchiladas, and the preacher was a friend of her husband - and her husband was Hunter; so that's how I know him.
Hunter and I stood out in the garden smoking. I was in a state akin to shellshock. I dislike crowds and it was my wedding day, or at least the day of the ceremony, the stuff you tend to remember. Hunter was simply entertained to meet an English dude.
Tonight it seems that he's back with Rowena, which is why he's here at La Gloria guzzling bottled beer. It's hard to keep track. She sticks with him because he's good with the kids and takes care of them while she's at work, and because he's so handsome.
Some weekends he disappears, just vanishes without a word and doesn't answer his phone. It's meth and hookers, and specifically pre-operative male to female transexual hookers, although apparently his thing is enemas, so maybe it doesn't quite count as sex, or at least not intercourse. You would probably have to ask Bill Clinton about that.
He usually resurfaces, regretting everything or regretting some of it. Someone told me that the deal with transexual hookers is a surprisingly common pendant to meth abuse, although I don't know if that's true. It's just a thing for Hunter, but everybody is a little bit curious, right? I mean, we all love to see that shit, don't we? This is usually the case for his defence as he swears never to succumb to temptation ever again, or at least not for another couple of weeks as it usually turns out. Once he came back claiming to have found God, and even made plans to train as a preacher.
We always wondered who Rowena's facebook posts were for, each time the fucker crawled back, and there he was doing a little dance while firing up the barbecue because baby, you so crazy, filmed on a phone with a string of hearts and hashtags, that man of mine. I guess the posts were for Rowena herself. One of these days she'll change the locks. One of these days she'll come to her senses.
Hunter grins at me from the far end of the table, mouthing something about a party which isn't going to happen because I don't really do parties and no-one is sticking a rubber tube up my bum, no matter how nicely they ask.
The football has changed to golf across the upper half of the room, and somehow it's still deafening.
'Really?' I mutter to Bess. 'Does anyone who isn't a complete wanker really give a shit about golf?'
Bob, who clearly gives a number of shits about golf picks up on the one word, my identification of his favourite sporting pastime. He leans over and begins to tell us about golf, and about playing on courses in Scotland, which is of obvious interest to me because I was born somewhere near there; but it's still a better proposition than the one with the meth and a length of rubber tubing.