Most of the events took place months ago. No names were changed to protect the innocent because it seemed pointless and silly.
Andrea texted me as I was walking up Forth Street toward BART, “Find us a place for a cocktail.” Quickly I went through my go-to list of great places to have a drink in San Francisco. Very quickly actually, because I have no such list. But being attracted to shiny things I soon found Annabelle’s Bar and Bistro, because 1) I walk past it every day and it has a large neon sign and 2) neon is shiny.
When I entered the place I grabbed a seat at the only empty table in the bar; a table for five. The waitress’s raised eyebrow drew an assurance from me that my wife would soon be joining me, but she still left the drink menu with a side of surly glance. I ordered a Stella Artois, not because I think it’s the best beer ever, but because I like saying Artois (ar-twa).
It was only a few minutes later when an older gentleman came in and asked if he could share my table until the rest of his party arrived. Thinking that his presence would help soften the waitress’s unease about seats sans butts, I pointed to a chair and said, “Please.” He was dressed in tan cargo pants, a denim shirt, brown leather jacket and a baseball cap with Gigantes stitched across it. He had a shock of gray hair and the natural-looking tan of someone who spends time outdoors for reasons other than getting a tan. He said his name was Jon, “Without the H, I hate the H.” I decided not to tell him that I have an H in my last name that I don’t even really use.
We fell into a conversation about books when I noted he was using a Kindle. He was reading a book about the Selma and I one about William Tecumseh Sherman; both about people who performed an important march in the southeastern United States in the sixth decade of their respective centuries. I found out he had been in Marin visiting friends who he had graduated from a New York high school with in 1963, which puts him at about 70-years-old. I also learned that later he was going to head out on a multi-hop flight to Africa to meet with some people he was working with to stop the poaching of what he called The Painted Dogs. Later he would be speaking to people about saving the Northern White Rhino. Basically I was sitting across the table from Indiana Jones (Notice, no H in Indiana or Jones).
The Painted Dogs, also known as African Wild Dogs, are an endangered animal whose numbers used to be over a half million in 39 countries. They are hunted (illegally) for food and sport. Now there are about 6,000 left, mostly in Zimbabwe, yes that Zimbabwe, the same Zimbabwe where if you’re wealthy enough you can hunt lions right out of a zoo. Seeing that these animals can only be found in a country so corrupt and so poor, means when American dentists and beauty queens have finished killing all the lions and giraffes respectively, not respectfully, the Painted Dogs will undoubtedly fall into their crosshairs next. At least they may prove more difficult to hit since they are faster than giraffes who are basically very tall cows, or a lion with an arrow sticking out of him.
Painted Dogs are basically extinct in every place that isn’t Zimbabwe. So when they are gone from there, they are gone. Painted Dogs live in packs and their social bonds are considered stronger than those of lions; solitary living/hunting is almost unheard of.
Jon, without the useless H, said that when he retired he decided that instead of golfing or watching FOX “News”, he would go to Africa to help protect endangered animals. Why rhinos along with dogs? You see rhinos have nearly been hunted to extension too, but not for food or even sport. They are hunted for their horns.
In fact there is just one male Northern White Rhino left. One. There are three females. Our male is under constant guard by armed rangers, and his horn has been removed to discourage poaching. Let me repeat that; his horn has been removed yet this animal is still under armed guard. Perhaps the poachers think it will grow back, or maybe some people just like to kill things. So, why do poachers want the rhino’s horn?
Because…in some parts of Asia the ground up rhino horns are believed to reduce fevers and seizures and sell for $30,000 a pound. Unlike ancient tradition and superstition, medical research (research that passes testing and peer review) says that taking ground up rhino horn for any reason -reduce fever, stop seizures, cure cancer in Vietnam, or get better boners, yup it’s used for that too- is about as affective as chewing your fingernails. Because that’s what rhino horns are, fingernails. If these poachers were smart, they would collect the sweepings from manicure/pedicure shops, grind them up, and get their $30,000 a pound that way. Plus it would be hilarious to see some old fart snorting up what he’d been told was rhino horn and pretending it was making him healthier or giving him a better…you know, when in fact he was snorting up ground up toenails from the Curl-Up-&-Dye Beauty Salon.
On a side note; Annabelle’s has closed and been replaced by a place called Keystone. The cool neon sign is gone, along with a name that seemed friendlier and more personal than Keystone. I have no news on the surly waitress.
