I think I need a computer of my own. Ken has been doing work all the time, liberally interspersed with playing something called “Hobowars” – he says he’s the leader of a gang, whatever that means – and other equally unproductive activities, usually accompanied with bouts of elation and less than pristine language. I usually update after he goes to sleep, but by then I’m usually asleep on or near my habitat of choice, the couch. But National Domestigraphic is counting on me, so here I am.

I’ve been putting my gear to good use. I have a backpack to carry my stuff around in now, such as the stuffed camera (for effect mostly), a magnifying glass, and a butterfly catcher, among other things. This has inspired me to take up climbing, something you would expect from a koala anyway, but for me this is a means to observe the preserve as an ecological gestaltic whole. Or at least the small cats while in a feeding frenzy.

Here’s a couple of pictures of me Ken took. The first one is where I was about to establish a basecamp on top the fridge on my way to a particularly high peak in the kitchen. I abondoned that effort when I realized I was almost to the top anyway. The achievement was mine alone (see second picture). Why did the koala climb the highest cupboard? The same reason people climb the highest mountains. Bragging rights.

From there I was able to watch small cats roam, midget wolves follow the humans about, and watched as various guests came and went. For those moments I was like a koala god, looking down from my personal heaven, surveying all. I wish I hadn’t forgotten to ask for Ken’s camera.

Also in the last few days I’ve been taking it easier, getting to know my couchmate and brother, Fenway. He was there when I was born those many days ago, and is such a constant companion I sometimes fail to mention him, but mostly because he isn’t really part of the preserve’s game stock, but like me, one of the more personable inhabitants. Here is a picture of Fenway I took while he was checking Red Sox stats.

Apart from whispering warnings that the Ken’s wife “throttles” him during moments of stress involving baseball on the telly, we talk about the simplicities of life, eschewing epistimological contemplations and the swapping of scientific hypotheses. After all, he is only a stuffed teddy bear.

Speaking of which, until there is equal time for Koalas on Ken’s computer, I will have to post while I can. I hear him right now talking about the Hobowars site being down and he wants to see if it’s back up. Every five minutes.