This region of the outback has a yearly Tribal Paternal Holiday this time of year, and so the warden and Ken went to the clan’s abode of parents. I asked to come along as a sign of interest, but in fact was hoping to document other habitats for comparison. But I had a good time. And I ate well. And Koalas are allowed to put their feet on the table. we ARE cleaner than humans, you know.

Their indoor habitat was a spare wasteland in comparison to this one. Here, you can’t go from one room to another without being trampled by smallcats or a vigorously excited “pasha” and even during periods of faunal inactivity it’s hard not to step on either.

There they had a single smallcat named “Wart” or “Wort” or “Tamara” or something similar. And she appears to be inactive most if not all of the time. If felt it rude to poke animals in someone else’s preserve, so I just took a picture.

Please note her eyes were not glowing when I took the picture. Do not be concerned. I am sure there is a valid scientific explanation. I hope.

There were also very few fruits. Being accustomed to an almost orgiastic cornucopic superfluosity of such vegetation, I was nervous about the survival of their micro-ecosystem. Maybe they eat clocks or something. There sure were a lot of those. If they aren’t edible, I can only surmise their purpose as a cultural obsession with the abstractions of temporality. Or maybe they just like clocks.

The smaller midget wolf came with us, and apparently she was familiar with this environment, as she expressed some extreme extrapolation of Pavlovian reaction. She was at full attention wherever food was present, far more than here at the preserve. And she seemed to spend a lot more time outdoors, even sitting throne-like in a human chair. And she made sure to mark the territorial equivalent of a small nation known as the “backyard.” I wish we had one of these. The backyard, not the marking.

The father of the clan was awarded a flamingo named “Skeeter” who apparently is my brother and likes fishing. I believe the fishing part, but he doesn’t look much like me, or Fenway, or my brother sent out West. I am starting to think we are all adopted.

In the end it was a good party and we did not eat clocks.