cattle run

SNAKE LORE OF AUSTRALIA.

***
THE HOOP SNAKE. (March 15, 1890)

The following question, says a correspondent of the Scientific American, in still being asked: “Is there such a thing as a hoop snake, and has anybody ever seen one, or a specimen of one?” The way the hoop snake is said to move about is thus: It takes its tail in its month, coils itself in an ellipse, and moves around like a hoop. There are many persons who uphold the existence of the hoop snake, yet all reports and declarations that have been advanced in its favour have all proved to be totally unreliable. The anatomy of a snake alone is sufficient to prove that hoop like progression is impossible. The hoop snake has never been described by any naturalist in any standard work on reptiles, and no museum nor collection in the world contains a specimen of it. It exists only in the minds of the ignorant and unscientific, and it must be classed with ghosts, mermaids, winged snakes, sea serpents, and fishhooked-tailed fishing snakes.

***
COW MILIKING SNAKES. (October 2, 1910)

An old country belief, usually called a superstition, has been justified by a very curious experience near Chipping Norton. A Mrs. Rice, residing near the village of Oddington, Gloucestershire, keeps two cows, which, although in perfect condition, were recently not giving a proper supply of milk. Her cowman, going into the meadow one day, found one of the cows lying down quite contentedly, while two large grass snakes were sucking at her udders.

***
SOME SNAKE YARN. (August 13, 1921)

Putting all jokes aside, did you ever hear of a hoop snake? Drovers [livestock drivers] and other overlanders in the early days often spent hours at the entrance to the old Cloncurry suspension bridge, when Coppermine Creek was a banker [river that reaches to the top of the banks], watching the antics of these reptiles. Averaging a length of nearly 5ft, the hoop snake originally received its name on account of its peculiar methods of propulsion. By, inserting its tail in its mouth, and wriggling to a perpendicular attitude in the form of a hoop, it is enabled to cover the ground with no little velocity. As above stated, the drovers coming down from the Gulf and Territory country generally found the time lag very heavily on their hands after the usual initial “spree,” writes J.T.K. in the Brisbane “Courier.” Squatting on their haunches near the entrance of the bridge, few, if any of them, were averse to “backing their fancy” [placing a bet] as the various hoop snakes endeavored to negotiate the swinging spans of the bridge. Money passed hands very freely, and curses were loud and deep when one of the leading snakes, possessing more velocity than sense, rolled from the bridge and hit the water below. These races were quite a regular feature of the ‘Curry in the good old days, but I am since given to understand that snake racing has has been banned by the local Council, at the instance of a representative body of churchmen, who held that such an amusement was nothing more or less than a pastime of the devil.

***
SNAKES THAT FLY IN THE NIGHT. (January 27, 1917)

Recent paragraphs in The Observer about the discovery of what was at first thought to be a winged snake, have called forth from our Green’s Plains correspondent the following effusion:—Some diversity of opinion has recently been expressed among correspondents of The Observer whether another correspondent really killed a winged snake, as he asserted, or was merely the victim of an optical illusion with a lizard. Now, although not for one moment doubting that it was either a snake or a lizard that was killed, or maybe both, I would like to say right here and now, that the first correspondent, unless his veracity has been of long standing and firmly established, made a serious mistake in killing the reptile off his own bat, without having first shown it to a friend, or friends, whose testimony might have been very useful just now. This shows how very careful one should be. There cannot be the slightest doubt about this having been a belated specimen of the winged snake aerial fleet.

These reptiles were very numerous and popular in the early days of the province, when distances were largely marked by distant grog shanties, and events simply by what happened—those far-away days when the native cat and the locust were sworn enemies of the pioneer, and sought his blood or crop by day or night. It was then in the gloaming that he listened for the whirl of the white-winged serpents, as they came in flocks to chase the  marauders back into the gathering night, for these fireless flying serpents were very partial to locust and wild catty. And yet they were generally understood to be labelled “not dangerous” unless they hit something. There was, of course, an occasional overgrown specimen which might not be quite so handy or harmless about the place. For instance, there is the backblocker [one who lives in the outback], who, coming home in the dusk, saw and fired at, what he took to be a wild turkey flying low, and found when it landed almost in the door of his little grey home in the bush that it was a broken-winged and very indignant snake.

They both spent a wildly wakeful night. Another early pioneer, gun in hand, in broad daylight, saw rapidly approaching overhead, and mostly all head, some remarkable monster, which he would have mistaken for an aeroplane had those innovations been about in those days. As the whirring wings passed overhead, he shut his eyes and fired, and brought down a most fearsome-looking creature with the head of a shark and the slimy winged body of a snake, which on closer inspection it proved to be. The serpent had evidently undertaken—for a wager maybe, or maybe only for a meal—to swallow a full-grown lizard of the Jewish persuasion, and had succeeded in getting the brute down all but the head, which was unusually large, and ornamented with frills and whiskers, some of which had apparently caught in the snake’s teeth, and so in all probability saved both their heads.

And this is the only authentic local instance of a lizard flying, although there is not the slightest doubt that they could do so if they wanted to. The lizard is, how ever, more of a ground bird, and seems quite content to make haste slowly; and as in the case mentioned, only flies by compulsion. But there can be no doubt that now, as in the days of old, there are and were flying serpents, and The Observer correspondent who made the discovery, or  rediscovery, need not be in the least discouraged, as it is a highly creditable one, and must prove interesting to science and other denominations.

***
A FEARSOME REPTILE.  (October 28, 1909)
The Whip Snake of North America.


One of the most terrifying reptiles in the whole world is the “whip” or “hoop” snake (genus Masticophis), found in North America. An account of it reads like a piece of clever fiction, but, nevertheless, the whip snake is very real, and one of the earth’s most real dangers— that is, to one whose lot it happens to be in life to live in a portion of the country where there are deep swamps or thick woods or wild rough hillsides. This is the whip snake’s choice of a world to live in, and there he is peaceable enough.

If you happen to invade it, he will creep away, if possible, and fight only as a last resort. He will even lie so snug that you may step over him scatheless a dozen times— if only you do not step on him.

You may see him sometimes basking on a log or bare rock, blinking at the sun, and looking as inert and harmless as a fallen twig. He is long and slim, rarely under four or over six feet in length. His back is dull dead brown, his belly reddish ocher, with brown lights. He has a mouthful of sharp teeth, but no fangs; but at the tip of the tail you see a suspicious-looking horny spur, for all the world like a cock’s spur, but somewhat sharper.

So he creeps and blinks away the spring and early summer, feeding on frogs, mice, berries, and small birds and their eggs. Nobody sees him unless they hunt him, and then only by rare good luck. By-and-by, however, midsummer arrives, and dries up the marshes and woodland pools, the hill streams run low or fail altogether, and the negroes and hunters begin to say apprehensively : “Better be keerful ; time for hoop snake to come whirling out de water, an’ crazy mad at that.”

Soon you hear weird tales indeed. In this midsummer madness the creature curls itself till the horned tail rests just on the back of its head, and then with a terrific jerk flings itself into the country road or open woodland. A succession of these vicious springs are its mode of progression, and woe betide whatsoever may cross its path. The name whip snake, hoop snake, or cartwheel snake, as it is called in different localities, comes from its habit of locomotion on these mad midsummer forages.

Vision is impossible, yet in some way the creature immediately discerns a living presence, and strikes madly at it, fling its barbed tail almost its own length in front of its head. There is a poison gland at the root of the spur, full of venom so swift, so subtle, that it has no antidote.

A horse struck by it falls shivering and groaning, bathed in cold sweat, and dies within the hour. Near cattle either run bellowing into the nearest thicket in foaming frenzy, or drop in their tracks as though shot. A dog dies with the quick rigours of strychnine poisoning, then fall into merciful insensibility that runs rapidly into death.

Luckily, however, the snake misses oftener than it strikes. In that case it makes no second attack, but whirls away in search of new victims. It cannot strike sideways, but is so full of fight it will turn squarely on its course to deliver a straight-out blow.

Few things are more awesome than on a lonesome moonlit country road to encounter one of these wheels of vengeance.

The full moon of August is the whip snake’s usual season for its mad frolic ; but sometimes it runs amuck by daylight. Once a group in front of a roadside smithy were horror-struck at sight of a tremendous fellow whirling down hill at them with a speed and force of a thunderbolt. They were three men, with a tethered horse, in the midst, of them. Almost before they could drew breath the snake was upon them. It struck madly at the animal, which reared, plunged backwards, and broke rein just in time.

Instead of it, the snake struck the sapling to which it had been tied, and with such force that the horn penetrated the bark and held the reptile prisoner. The smith immediately smashed its head with a blow of his hammer, flung it away, and set about putting a shoe on the lucky beast which had had so narrow an escape.

By the time the shoe was in place the sapling began to wilt. By morning it was as black and dead as though hard frost had touched it. In fact, whenever a tree suddenly and unaccountably dies, the countryfolk will tell you that it has been stung by a whip snake; — “Spare Moments.”


From— The Week (Brisbane, Qld. : 1876 - 1934) 15 March 1890, The Sunday Sun (Sydney, NSW : 1903 - 1910) 2 October 1910, The Shoalhaven News and South Coast Districts Advertiser (Shoalhaven, New South Wales, Australia) 13 August 1921, Observer (Adelaide, SA : 1905 - 1931) 27 January 1917 & Cobram Courier (Vic. : 1888 - 1954) 28 October 1909. Trove. National Library of Australia.



2

I just wanted to give some respect to Sheriff Nedley

•For someone who has been dealing with the bs that comes with Purgatory, (and having no way to fix anything), the man is not a class A ass.

•Worst thing I have seen him do was throw away Nicole’s report, all while feeling bad about it

•The biggest one in my book is during the party when drunk, jealous, misogynistic Champ outs WayHaught, Nedley brushes it off “what they do is there business”. Hell ya Nedley. By the way you can see how shocked and slightly uncomfortable this news made him, he has grown up in a small gunshotting, cattle running, demon infested town, and the guy still gives the ladies the respect they deserve. Nicole was happy about that, I’m sure she looks up to the man even a little bit.

•He calmed down a drugged up, crazy filled, homicidal, angry mob and got them to let they Earp girls go. That was brave. His speech on Wynonna though, “She is our fault like we made her who she is, the girl we hate, that’s our doing” (Not his actual words but ya) it takes a village and all that.

Overal Nedley is a very well written side character. His type would usually be homophobic and would have locked Wynonna up himself during the rage fest but no.
This is also a testament to the writers on the show who shot and saved not one but two lesbians.

8

Another one burned last night. Better than TV. People outside the fence, they took the last of them four days ago. People just like us run like cattle, piled into trucks, one suitcase apiece. Headed east. At least that’s the rumor. Bakersfield, Vegas, who knows? It’s safe inside the fence. Outside, everything’s dead, everyone’s gone. This is, uh, day nine.

Fear the Walking Dead (Not Fade Away)

Cowboy Luke.

“I can’t find my damn belt buckle! Have you seen it anywhere?” Luke’s voice shouts from his bedroom.

“On the floor beside your dresser.” You say as you step into the room. “I think we knocked it off last night.’

"Wow. Were we going that hard?” He asks, picking up with golden buckle sporting the words ‘Giddy Up’ on the front.

“We have great sex Luke, you shouldn’t sound so surprised.” You say, taking the buckle and hooking it onto his ass hugging jeans.

“That,” he pauses and plants a kiss on your lips, “we do.”

Luke heads to the edge of the bed and begins slipping on a pair of cowboy boots, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging open showing off his chest. You’ve never seen him dressed this way, but your body begins growing excited that you decided on country western couples outfits for the costume party tonight. After his feet reside in their proper footwear he sits up and looks you up and down smiling. You stand there in an unbuttoned flannel tied at the waist over a tight fitting tank top. Your legs are shown off between some daisy dukes and a pair of boots of your own. Your hair is tied back in low braided pigtails that flop over your shoulders and you’re pinning a golden star onto the left pocket of your shirt.

“So, what do you think?” You ask placing your hands on your hips and popping out one of your knees, rolling your foot to its toes. “Can I pull off the cowgirl look?”

“I think you can. And if not, I’ll pull it off for you later.” He responds, winking as he rises to his feet to move toward you. Luke places his fingers on his buttons and begins closing his shirt. When the two of you meet in the middle of the room you finish off the last of the buttons and peck him on the cheek. He grabs two hats from the floor beside the dresser and places them on each of your heads. “Ready for the ride of your life ma'am?”

“Let’s do it, but don’t call me ma'am. That won’t get these boots knocking.” You say as you slip your arm through his and he leads you out the door.

You arrive at the party and head inside. The room is filled with people dressed from head to toe in Halloween spirit. Spotting a few familiar faces you head to chat with some friends as Luke ventures off to get drinks. Looking around the room, you wonder if he will be able to make his way back to you. You try to stay in the same area to make it easier, but soon enough time has passed that you give up hope and head to get your own drink. Now, with a beer in each hand you sip and walk about the crowded space looking for your cowboy. You drink one beer down and set the cup aside with a stack of others like it. About halfway through your second drink you hear a voice shout through the crowd and into your ear.

“Howdy partner. Can I interest you in something to wet your whistle?” You turn around to see a tall handsome cowboy standing there passing you a fresh beer.

“Jesus. I thought I’d never find you in this mess.” You say taking the cup.

“Yeah it’s way more crowded than I expected. I feel like a cow in the middle of a cattle run.” He says. You give him a confused look and he continues, “that was bad. I have no idea what that means. I was just trying to stay in character to keep the evening interesting.”

“What do you say we make the rounds and then get these cowpokes back to the barn?” You laugh in response.

“Sounds like a darn good idea to me.” He says smiling and pulling you through the crowd.

Settled in the cab, Luke lays a hand on your knee and rubs it gently with his thumb. You place your hand on top of his, rest your head on his shoulder and he kisses the top of your head.

“I’ve never been so aroused by a cowgirl before.” He says.

“You’re aroused? Do you know the pain you put me through having to watch you slowly slip into that outfit tonight?”

“Well it seems to me that the only appropriate decision we can make tonight is to satisfy the hunger of these two country phonies.” He says giving your knee a bit of a squeeze.

“I know I’m not wearing much, but it’s literally taking everything out of me to keep my clothes on right now.” You whisper as the car pulls into the driveway.

Hopping out of the car Luke grabs your hand and the two of you run for the front door. He sticks the key in, turns the handle and the door goes flying open. Luke throws the keys to the floor and turns grabbing you by the hips and lifting you up so your face meets his. You wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your boots behind his back. His mouth engulfs yours as you begin making out. He holds you tightly as you move your arms to his chest and begin unbuttoning his shirt. Luke walks the two of you to the bedroom, knocking into a few walls along the way. You pull his shirt off of his shoulders and it dangles behind him, caught between your legs and his body.

When you make it to the bedroom, Luke drops you on the bed hard enough that your body bounces completely off of it before you settle. You kick your boots off one at a time letting them fall to the floor. He stands above you while his hands untie the bottom of your shirt and slide beneath your tank top up to your breasts. He plays with them momentarily over your bra until he pulls the shirts off of you completely. Luke leans closer to your body causing you to lie down on the bed. He unbuttons your shorts and pulls you out of them and your black thong. Now naked everywhere but beneath your bra you sit up again and move your hands to undo his belt.

“Legend has it that if you remove a man’s belt buckle and don’t follow the instructions written on it that you’ll be given eleven years bad luck.” He says gesturing to the words 'Giddy Up’ shining in front of you.

“Oh that won’t be a problem. I just hope your ready for the ride ahead.” You respond through a crooked smile.

You toss the buckle aside and rise to your feet to kiss him as you undo his jeans. Dropping them to the floor followed by his boxers, his penis springs up pointing directly at you. His hands reach behind you to unhook your bra and as your faces separate a little you notice he’s still wearing his boots. You turn yourself so Luke moves with his back now to the bed. Pressing your fingers against his chest you force him to sit down. You straddle his thighs and kiss him some more while guiding him to lie back. Sliding out of his lap you drag your hands down his legs and pull his boots from his feet. You throw them behind you and Luke scoots himself further back on the bed. You stand up and look at the naked cowboy in front of you.

“Well? Saddle up, cowgirl.” He says with piercing dimples. You quickly move onto the bed and throw a leg over him so his body sits between your knees.

“So would this here be the horn of my saddle?” You say closing your hands around his penis and moving them slowly up and down.

“I think I’ll just sit back and enjoy this ride.” He says through a bit of a quiver.

Gripping him tighter as you move your hands along his shaft, you guide the tip inside you. Gently moving yourself down to let him completely enter you, you begin grinding your hips forward riding on his penis. His hands move onto the sides of your thighs and he helps push and pull himself in and out of you. You lean forward slightly and place your hands on his chest as you continue rocking your body into his.

“Ride 'em cowgirl!” Luke shouts, slapping one of his hands against your bare ass. The sound of his voice causes you to look at his face and you notice him biting his lips together. You pick up speed and roll your hips into him harder and faster. Your breathing quickens and you let out short panting sounds as Luke exhales a deepened moan from the back of his throat. Once his voice quiets his hands wrap around your waist causing your motion to pause. He sits up, forcing you off of him and onto your back on the bed. “Time for this cowboy to finish what’s been started.” He says looking down at you with a mischievious grin.

Luke climbs on and reenters you thrusting his hips quick and hard. His hands move up your arms until they stop on your wrists on either side of your head. He puts a little pressure on them as he supports himself above you. Your breathing has become short and choppy as you release small high pitched moans. As Luke pushes and pulls himself inside you, he glides perfectly against your clit. Your moans soon become one big loud scream as you lose all control of your body. Your arms react and try to rise from the bed, but Luke holds them tightly in place while your fingers curl up and tighten in your palms. His thrusting slows to a nice steady pace waiting for your voice to calm and slowly match this motion of pleasure.

Finally as you catch your breath, Luke pulls out from inside you. Hands still holding you by the wrists, his face drops down so that his lips can kiss yours. He kisses you hard and slow and then rolls over next to you as your faces part. Your hands move and fall to your chest as the two of you lie there breathing heavily.

“I guess now I understand how we might have misplaced my belt buckle last night.” Luke says in a voice as if he’s just ran a marathon. You take a long deep breath in and roll towards him, lining the front of your body with his side.

Circling a finger lightly around his chest you respond, “should we have some more fun and see what else could go missing?” You raise your eyebrows at him and the creases in his face show up immediately. “Let’s see what might disappear with a little reverse cowgirl,” you continue as you rise from the bed mounting him once again.

If you walk long enough, your crowded head clears,
like how all the cattle run off loudly as you approach.
This fence is a good fence, but I doubt my own haywire
will hold up to all this blank sky, so open and explicit.
I’m like a fence, or a cow, or that word, yonder.
—  Ada Limón, “During the Impossible Age of Everyone,” from Bright Dead Things 
Under a wide sky

This is the first chapter of an AU set in 1950s Australia. It’s an idea that’s been brewing in my mind for a while and @leiascully‘s XFWriting Challenge prompt International has forced my hand. 


Chapter One

The night sky was a wonder. There were so many stars in patterns he didn’t recognise. If he blinked more and more appeared until all he saw were black spots in the silver sky instead of the other way round. Australia was a wide open dream, a new future perhaps. Everything seemed to be in front of him. Everything was big. Everything was new and untested. Fox Mulder felt right at home.

           He lay back on the stubby grass, sparse and sharp under his singlet. The ground was beyond hard. He’d been at the sheep station for only a couple of days, yet to meet the owner, but he’d surveyed some of the land in his short time and seen the deep fissures that spread across the paddocks, red earth cleaved apart by a brutal sun. In the night time, the moister air closed some of the cracks and the air filled with the smell of warm earth. He knew he should be careful of snakes at this time of night, but the cabin he bunked in was oppressive both in its heat and its company that he often wandered along the creek bank (dried out for the summer) looking for a moment to clear his head and breathe before turning in for the night. Snakes be damned, he thought as he wriggled his back, relieving a sweat-induced itch.

He pressed his eyes shut for a moment, thought of his sister, Samantha. How she would have loved this place. Its beauty and its danger. He smiled at the thought of her face. “If you’re going to die from snakebite in Australia it might as well be while you’re admiring the most beautiful sight in the world.”
           “Hello?”

Mulder shot up, aware of the scrape and rustle of his body against the dry land.

“Who’s there?” It was a woman’s voice, breathy and a little afraid, perhaps.

He peered into the blackness, still unable to anchor his gaze on anything other than the imprint of the night sky behind his eyes. He blinked and heard it. The unmistakeable sound of a shotgun being loaded and engaged.

“I’m armed.”

“If I raise my arms, how will you know?” He tried for humour, his default setting, but he knew it was lame as soon as the words left his mouth.

“I’ll smell you,” came the quick response. Perhaps she wasn’t afraid anymore. A gun would do that.

“I’ve got both hands above my head. No gun. I’m not doing anything. I just came for a walk by the creek, to admire the stars. If you step closer you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

“You talk too much, Mr Bushranger.”

“I’m just talking so you can hear where I am. And I am not a bushranger. I’m a worker on the station.”

There was a moment of silence, just long enough for Mulder to lower his arm and retrieve his torch from the back pocket of his shorts.

“What are you doing?” the voice demanded. “You said you didn’t have a gun.” Her voice was a notch higher than before.

Mulder fought back the urge to chuckle. “I’m not going to shoot you with a Coleman torch. I promise.” He flicked it on, moved a step closer and there she was, all five-foot-two of her, red hair falling around her face, brows low in concentration and a double-barrel shotgun held steadfast in her arms. If he hadn’t been a trained observer he would have missed the slight tremble of her fingers against the trigger.

“Who are you, Mr Bushranger? What are you doing out here in the middle of night? Where’s your truck?” She shoved the gun closer to him, so that it was almost touching his chest. He kept the beam of light from his torch steady on her face, and he could see the freckles on her skin and the beauty mark above her lip.

“Who are you, Miss Shotgun? What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? Where’s your truck?”

She held his gaze, her cool blue eyes fixing him so that he felt more pinned by them than the gun. This woman was a firecracker. And he suddenly felt even more at home in this strange wide land.

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anonymous asked:

Or they didn't waste a dine and actually intended to kill her off after building her up. She's one of many characters who died right smack in the middle of their character arc after being upgraded from side to main character. Merle Dixon got the same treatment, both on and off the show. He spent time with Daryl, he had his character grow after getting fleshed out more, only to be killed right after changing for the better, and then went on to star in other things.

Well nonny thank you for the message. I like discussing Merle. Michael Rooker is my fav celeb and so this makes me happy to talk about.

You’re right about this. Merle’s character has similar connections to Beth’s character. Their stories were developing, they were both being fleshed out with Daryl, and they were cut down too soon.

But there are some things I want to point out. Not for arguing because in honesty, whether she’s alive or not, I’ll accept either path. I’m okay with either path. But I like thinking about this stuff. I like discussions like this because I like discussing how the media world works. It’s my major after all.

Now that aside, let me point out first that Merle’s run was during season 1, a big nudge in season 2, and then appearing and dying in season 3. Right? Right.

Keep reading

Five Verbs (Chapter 1/6)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the wonderful, lovely, talented Carrie a/k/a @amagicalship​!!!!This fic was born from a song prompt: “Gravity” by Allison Krauss, and a request from the birthday girl for a modern western.

Emma Swan never stays anywhere very long. Roll into town, get a job, make enough money to move on. She’s not made for settling down and nothing - not her best friend’s eternal optimism and pop psychology, and certainly not her piercing-eyed new boss - could possibly tempt her to change her mind.
Drifter!Emma and Rancher!Killian. Modern Western AU set in the high desert near the Rio Grande.

Read it on AO3 here.

CONTENT WARNING:  Kiddies, this story is going to be smutty (smuttier than I’ve ever written before) and it’s going to get that way quickly. In fact every chapter except this first one will contain some degree of smut. It’s also gonna contain a fair few curse words because… I just like swearing.
There will also be mentions and non-graphic descriptions of minor character death in the past. No one is dead in the fic that isn’t dead in canon, if that helps (sorry, Lena).


Pop Psychology

“Dave, I’m not in the fucking mood for…”

Whatever Emma was expecting to greet her when she rolled up the long dirt drive to the old Victorian-style house, it wasn’t this. It wasn’t him. The house was grand and stately, if a bit worn, the white columns that lined its wrap-around porch showing the occasional chip and the once-yellow trim and navy shutters bleached by the unforgiving desert sun. Three stories tall and topped with a widow’s walk, it stood out in stark contrast to the bleak landscape surrounding it. This was a house with a name, a history.

Where the house was bright and welcoming, the man staggering out the front door onto the porch was dark, disheveled and very clearly drunk. Emma turned her wrist to check her watch. 10:00 a.m. Nice.

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anonymous asked:

What could happen if dinosaurs were introduced into modern society and humans domesticated them?

(I only think about this every other day tbh)

I’ve come to the conclusion of: not much. While it would be cool to imagine riding a hadrosaur to work or using a triceratops to plow fields, the truth is we’ve moved past using animal muscle for work. Many of the herbivorous dinosaurs would probably be more trouble than they’re worth. Large sauropods deposit up to a ton of poop every day and the methane alone would choke the atmosphere. Besides, leafy plants and grass both came after the dinosaurs, so you’d need to have large quantities of conifers, ferns, and primitive marsh plants to properly feed your herbivores. To say nothing of the carnivores. You’d need to run a cattle ranch to keep something like an allosaur or carnotaurus fed.  

Since dinosaurs don’t have any practical value, you can move towards some impractical values. While not important to strategy, you can bet your ass the militaries of the world would try to do something with the carnivores, because the only thing more terrifying than an M1 Abrams tank is the same gun mounted on a tyrannosaur. 

Many of the smaller dinosaurs like compsognathus, microceratops, or microraptors could become household pets, although other people will undoubtedly try making even larger and more dangerous species into their pets. The faster dinosaurs could be used in races. Even if dinosaurs weren’t used for any other purposes, someone would try to recreate Jurassic Park and scientists would probably want as many dinosaurs as possible in a Mesozoic recreation area for studying purposes.