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How did the chicken (and the chihuahua, and the chinchilla) cross the country? By bus, of course.
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The Weekender |
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DECEMBER 6, 2024
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So it’s December, there’s a brass band playing Christmas carols on QEII Square a block away, and I haven’t yet mentally prepared for the end of the year. The Christmas rush is perhaps a uniquely southern hemisphere problem. It signals more than a festive season, but also the end of business and school for, let’s face it, two months. There’s a white-hot panic to close out deals or book last meetings or finish projects before everyone devotes their minds to bombs off the wharf or barbequing. It’s also the start of that awful transactional effort as every retailer attempts to squeeze as much out of their customer base as possible. And very regrettably, that needs to include us. So let’s keep this low key... We lodge the latest issue on Monday, so any subscriptions received before then will receive our sparkling new issue and a free 32-page 2025 Photographer of the Year calendar. (It will still be possible to back-order the calendar from us after that date.) We have the goal of sustainable publishing well within grasp now, with just 140 to go… so your subscription will also go towards getting us over that important and ambitious goal. Check out the options online... or get in touch with Davina on 0800 782436/subs@nzgeographic.co.nz and she will help you out. (Davina works Mon, Wed and Fri, leave a message if she doesn't answer.) |
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VIEWFINDER How did the chicken (and the chihuahua, and the chinchilla) cross the country? By bus, of course.The bus trundles along the Kāpiti coastline, Karyn McLauchlan behind the wheel, her sister Leanne riding shotgun. Lined up behind them, dozing in crates instead of seats, are Winston, Zara, Reg, and Target. A tinny voice pierces the silence. “Googoo gaga! Ohh, floppy ears! Weewoo!” “Some of the crates have cameras and mics, so the owner can speak to their pet,” Karyn tells me. On the receiving end this time was an enormously droopy poodle-schnauzer puppy, who gazes at his camera with sweet doleful eyes. He boarded the bus at Pukekohe and is bound for Wellington, and his new, besotted owner. The Pet Bus voyages monthly, from Te Awamutu, up round Auckland and the Bay of Plenty, then on to Invercargill and back again. The passenger manifesto is mostly dogs and cats, but also goats, chickens, chinchillas, emus, spiders, ducks, parrots, bearded dragons and once, an ant farm. The bus smells of lavender and puppies. It is equipped with a calming aromatherapy diffuser, relaxing new-age music (“funeral music,” the sisters joke—“don’t you dare play it at my funeral, though,” Karyn hastily adds), a coffee machine, freezer and microwave, and artisanal pet water. It’s softer on sensitive stomachs, apparently. Karyn lets me have a slurp. It’s delicious. |
MORE STORIES ABOUT PETS: |
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Just so If our memories make us who we are, what’s it like to have a different type of memory entirely?Rachel Shaw is only a few steps into Spark’s territory when he darts out from between the trees and perches on a stump. The toutouwai’s little grey body is perfectly still, his eyes unblinking. He’s waiting for his memory test. But first, Shaw has to weigh him. She puts a set of scales down on the leaf litter, and Spark jumps on. She needs the New Zealand robin to be hungry—or at least interested enough in food to focus on her experiment. Otherwise, if he flunks the test, she won’t know if it’s because his memory’s bad or because he didn’t feel like a snack. Getting a bird to focus is a science in itself. After she’s recorded his weight, she places a doughnut-shaped object on the forest floor. It looks a bit like a ring light, but instead of bulbs, it’s fitted with eight small containers. Shaw makes sure she’s got each container in exactly the same position as last time. Only one has a worm inside. In theory, Spark should remember this, and head straight to it without checking any of the other containers. But he’s not very good at it. He picks the wrong container—again. So far, he’s near the bottom of the class, along with another bird called Scooby. |
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