Just a few days ago I happened to pass the first house I lived in when I was married, an eighteenth-century house built right on the sidewalk in the center of a village, also right on a river; its porch was perpendicular to the street and hung over a waterfall (wonderful white noise, great for sleeping). Anyway, there was a plaque there, on the bridge, commemorating the death of an elephant that was shot by (I think) members of the local Masonic lodge early in the nineteenth century. Every village around here has a bizarre story associated with it, but this one's really quite something. I had caught sight of the plaque the other day and thought about what it took to import these poor creatures and haul them around on tour back then. I just watched this week's Peer Review prize and was heartened to see a backhoe put to so positive a use, since when I see the uses these large beasts are usually put to I'm tempted to shoot at them.
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