During the early ’60s, rich Arab hunters  chased this animal through the desert in their Cadillacs and shot them with high-powered rifles.

How sporting was that,  folks?

I’m talking about the princely Arabian Oryx, once hunted to extinction in the wild.

These strikingly beautiful antelope have long, slender horns and used to move in small, mixed groups or large herds of 100 or more, searching for food and water.

Sadly, this native of the Arabian Peninsula and Sinai Desert was gone from the wild by the late ’60s.

Later, In a heroic effort to help save these animals, nine of the species from private collections in Aman, Kuwait and Saudi Arabia, as well as from the London Zoo, were moved to the Phoenix Zoo in Arizona.  These nine animals were known as the World Herd.

A second breeding group of three oryx, from a zoo in Saudi Arabia, was started in the Los Angeles Zoo, and in the 1970s, animals from both of these herds were sent to the San Diego Zoo’s Wild Animal Park.  By 1991, an amazing 239 Arabian oryx had been born at the park!

In one of the great success stories of conservation, Arabian oryx have been returned to Oman and Jordan for reintroduction in their native range.

It’s a proud chapter in the zoo’s history that I will always remember.

Though over 50, but trim and in good shape, Craig went to the rescue of an unknown young woman being beaten by a druggie in an alley.

While taking a walk around the block during an evening church meeting-break, Craig spotted this low-life character beating a young lady beside a car in the alley.  Without consideration of the possible consequences or harm to himself, he went to her rescue.

When the perpetrator saw him coming, he knocked the girl out and threw her lifeless body into the back seat, then charged Craig, spewing a string of profanity.  Craig yelled at him to knock it off, threatening to call the cops.

He described the perp as tall and thin, with long, stringy hair, a goatee and displaying prison tattoos.  “I can even tell you what he smelled like,” Craig later told detectives. “And he definitely was on crystal meth!”

They clashed and this yellow-bellied addict threw a round-house right, knocking Craig to the ground.  Craig jumped up and swung a left hook that landed under the dude’s chin, causing him to begin choking and threatening to kill him for it.  He then proceeded to pull out a knife and stabbed Craig in the front of the shoulder.

Craig hit him again and the guy stabbed him in the chest, a rib stopping the point from going into this lung.

From the ground, bleeding, Craig tried to take the guy’s knee out with a kick. The coward jumped in his car, as Craig rose weakly, and threw the Toyota into reverse, hitting our Hero, knocking him into trash cans.

Bleeding and growing weak, Craig lay there in a pool of blood, realizing he could die before anyone saw him and called for an ambulance.  He crawled out to the street, where passers-by called an ambulance, which arrived within minutes.  Craig was doctored on the spot and police arrived immediately, taking down details to  help in their immediate search of the area.

Craig hates hospitals and, next morning, pulled the plug on his IV and called home for a ride.  He laid here all day and night with a killer headache, bandages over his butter-flied stitches, eating nothing and vomiting.  Then he announced he was okay and departed for his own place.

The detectives visited him three times, but to date no-have-caught this low-life, who should be back in prison for life for “attempted homicide.”

These people walk among us.

We begged Craig: “No more heroics!”  Why risk your life for a stranger…you have two kids, parents, sisters, brother, nieces, nephews.  Stick to protecting your own.

(And no - we of course don’t know whether the gal was alive or dead in that car!)

At 80, I still swim twice a week in a pool.  (I gave up ocean body-surfing years ago due to pollution at nearby San Diego beaches!)

To me, there’s no better way to work the kinks out my aging body than in a swimming pool.  I’ve been using water religiously for part of my exercise routine since I was about seven.

I literally “swam” my way to health after a several operations for osteomyelitis, which left me in braces and cast at the age of five.  This chronic bone infection proved to be fatal to nearly 75 percent of patients in the ’30s - before “wonder drugs.”

I wound up healthy enough to play football and basketball by age 16 and took up tennis, which I still play weekly (weakly?).  Perhaps I could say the culmination of my recovery occurred In 1984, when I proudly ran a leg of the Olympic torch as a representative of my employer, SeaWorld.

What an honor and thrill it was!

Weights and jogging weren’t in vogue before the ’60s and ’70s.  Of course, as a kid. bicycling daily was the other factor in helping me grow strong (that plus healthy eating and lots of sunshine).

Most health experts today tout aqua exercise as perfect for stress relief, general fitness, weight loss and easing of aches and pains.

A lady with fibromyalgia recently stated publicly: “Water workouts have changed my life.”

An instructor at my gym pool, who is certified by the Aquatic Exercise Association and the Arthritis Foundation, proclaims: “Everyone who gets in the pool feels free and liberated.  It helps you to function better.  You sleep better.”

Water trumps land, experts point out, because of the extra resistance. It improves strength and flexibility.

If you’re not a swimmer, the popular aqua aerobics is something to consider.  Water allows you to work within your own range, instead of the range of a piece of equipment.

The pool usually involves social interaction, a key ingredient for getting you to stick with the program.

It is important not to compare your ability with others.  Don’t worry if you can’t keep up.  Do what feels good to you.

Still, I must admit I time my weekly sessions to avoid Tuesday afternoons at Gold’s Gym.  A one-legged lady in her 30s usually swims at that time and beats me consistently in the lap pool!

After consulting with your doctor to make sure you’re safe to start, check out the pools and classes in your area.  If you can’t find a class, pick up a copy of “Fantastic Water Workouts.”

The Arthritis Association offers dozens of classes around the country.  For the one nearest you, check your phone book.

Not everyone, of course, has their own pool.  Or a public pool near them. I have used the indoor pool at Gold’s Gym in San Diego for years (both a therapeutic and lap pool).  I started, of course, in community pools.  But I have used YMCA pools or even hotel pools at various times in my life.

During the winter in Washington, D.C., I swam in a downtown hotel basement pool (for a fee).  I heard a noted swimming coach tell a new class enrolled there,  “Just try being mad at someone after an hour’s swim.”

Try it - it’s true.  Water workouts can help rehabilitate or prevent injury to your muscles.  And best of all, for some, can help you lose weight, if that’s a goal.  You’ll always be refreshed and pleasantly tired.  I guarantee it!

A friend in Mobile lost the front porch of a beach house which had just been re-built after being destroyed by Katrina. My brother in a new Arkansas retirement community had a drenching 7.5 inches of rain in a day.

I couldn’t help drawing a mental comparison to the arid summer we experienced this year in Southern California. San Diego, for example, must have had all of about .10 of an inch of moisture this summer (and been drenched by about 1.7 inches to date for the year!)

In fact, continuing government alerts tell us we’re facing possible water-rationing. My wife and I have cut showers to three times a week, run the dishwasher only when chock full, and our lawn is turning an unappealing brown. (Even my “Keep Off the Lawn” sign has died!)

But we want to make sure we have enough moisture in the County’s tanks to put out the inevitable late October fires.

I was raised in the stormy Midwest and some days would give anything for a good summer downpour. But I suppose if I heard a sudden, unfamiliar clap of thunder now, I’d probably hide under the bed.

Which reminds me, the loudest clap of thunder I ever heard, occurred in Switzerland, during a storm over the mighty Jungfrau peak. In a hotel at the foot of the famous mountain, my wife and I had just drowsed off, after a strenuous day touring and devouring a dinner to die for. The atomic-bomb-like explosion at l a.m. rattled windows and brought us straight out of our feather bed!

But it’s California’s well-publicized earthquakes that put the fear of moving here into most of our out-of-town friends and relatives - or so they tell us. Yet, San Diego has never had a major destructive seismic event. Quakes centered or felt in our county, starting with a 5.4-magnitude rumble near China, which we recently felt:

Nov. 22, 1800 - The first recorded earthquake struck here and was believed to be a 6.5 magnitude. It cracked adobe walls at the missions of San Diego de Alcala and San Juan Capistrano.

April 18, 1906 - An 8.3 quake and subsequent fire that destroyed much of San Francisco, was felt all the way to little sea-side San Diego.

March 10, 1933 - The Long Beach earthquake, estimated to be a 6.4 magnitude, killed 120 or more in So. California. No deaths or damage were reported in San Diego.

Nov. 23, l987 - A 6.2 shake jolted San Diego at 5:54 p.m. It was followed by a 6.3 quake at 5:16 the next morning. Two people died in nearby Imperial County.

Jan. 17, l994 - The 6.6 Northridge earthquake rocked Southern California, collapsing freeways in Los Angeles, killing at least 16 people.

June 14, 2005 - A 7.2 earthquake struck about 90 miles off the coast of Northern California, briefly prompting a tsunami warning along the Pacific Coast.

But, of course, outsiders like to say: JUST WAIT - THE BIG ONE’S COMING!

Some organizations are a little too eager to give away pets and so they skimp on temperament evaluation, health issues and/or sterilization.

A good organization takes time to match each applicant with the appropriate pet.

It’s always best to first inquire of people who have adopted pets from the group about their experiences, and also ask shelters in the area.

Other ways you can protect against having a bad experience:

Visit and inspect a facility the group maintains;

Talk to the organization’s veterinarian;

Make sure the animal is healthy and up-to-date on all vaccines and has been spayed or neutered;

Review the group’s policies on fostering, adoption and veterinary care. The top-of-the-line organizations will have written policies, often in the form of a contract.

Another pet-related issue of interest: there’s a drug for obese dogs. Dirlotapide, sold as Slentrol, reduces the amount of fat a dog can absorb and triggers feelings of fullness.

Of course, there’s a warning of possible side effects: diarrhea, vomiting, lethargy and loss of appetite.

Maybe it’s best to let Fido waddle a bit!

Though a dog is considered obese if it weighs at least 20 percent more than its ideal weight, it’s advisable to let your vet determine whether your dog is a candidate for dirlotapide.

Not permanently, of course.

I refer to my “magic fitness/mental health exercise.”

It’s called meditative breathing. And it’s popularity is growing, according to latest press reports.

This basically involves taking time out to think about and focus on your breath. Its harder than it sounds, but the results are totally awesome.

Personally, it renews me, recharges my mind. And this five-minute exercise doesn’t cost a cent. require any fancy equipment or awkward poses.

When I finish, I walk around the block (my own routine) and am back to the computer and my latest writing project.

Meditative breathing can be challenging for those who’ve never done it. It’s hard to just stop and concentrate on what is basically a natural process.

But in the short term, it has been proven to help the individual de-stress in just moments and clear his/her head. An extended practice can help lower your blood pressure and anxiety levels, according to medical reports.

For home practice, you just need to find a quiet spot where you can sit and concentrate on your breath and begin to drive out any thoughts for five minutes. For some, counting their breaths “Inhale l, Exhale 1″ helps to keep them focused on their breathing.

I set my wife’s kitchen timer, because five minutes seems much longer when you’re totally concentrating. But it returns you to the present.

Personally, I inhale and hold to a count of eight, then exhale slowly through my lips, all the while imagining I feel muscles relax in every part of my body, top of the head to toes. Breathing deep into the diaphram about seven times I quickly begin feeling relaxed and almost limp.

Personally, after that I spend a few minutes just concentrating on the word, “one” repeatedly. I can get so relaxed, I’ll fall into a ten-minute sleep if my writing efforts have pooped me out.

Then I’m ready to attack the computer again (or even do some yard work!).

You might say, as someone wrote: “It takes yoga off the mat.”

Try it a few times and see for yourself.

Consider what the fierce-looking eagle, ruler of its skies, must go through to survive to maturity.

The powerful bird of prey and symbol of strength can live up to 70 years. But to reach full maturity, the eagle must make tough decisions.

By its fourth decade, things seem to go to pot. The eagle’s long and flexible talons can no longer grab prey for its meal. Its long, sharp beak becomes bent.

Then the creature’s aged and heavy wings, due to their thick feathers, become stuck to its chest and make flying difficult.

At that point, the eagle is left with only two options: die or go through a painful process of change — which lasts a grueling 150 days.

To effect the necessary change, the eagle has to fly to a mountain-top and sit on its nest. Then it must knock its beak against a rock until it plucks it out.

After that process, the bird sits, waiting for a new beak to grow back. When that happens, it begins to pluck out its talons.

Once new talons are in place, the eagle starts plucking out its aged feathers.

At the end of five months, the eagle takes its famous flight of rebirth.

And lives another 30 years!

Learn from the eagle, which is the symbol sitting proudly atop our flag pole.

Hang tough!

Spread your wings and FLY!

Baby gorilla, Alvila, San Diego Zoo - published in My Seven Years in Captivity

Seeing an angry rhino thundering your way, with seemingly increasing momentum, ranks right up there as one of the perspiration-producing moments in my years with the San Diego Zoo.

I admit, I may have been damp in more places than one.

We had riled a mother black rhino (calf trotting along beside her) who thought our photo safari had come a bit too close. But instead of just a warning with a short charge before veering off, she seemed bent on ramming us with that ominous-looking horn.

Fortunately, the alert driver had his foot on the accelerator, ready for a fast take-off. We escaped as the prehistoric-looking beast came within twenty yards of running a horn up  — our gas tank!

While standing with my trusty camera thrust out the top, I snapped off a photo of the near-miss before being thrown back against the seat as we accelerated.

My wife later said it was like someone trying to photograph their own death.

I can assure you that a photo safari in the bush and its memories are treasured long after - even without a wild beast charge!

We were fortunate to have experienced Africa many years ago. Our band of zoological society members spent 21 never-to-be-forgotten days, fascinated at every turn. Fortunately, it was before the current political turmoil that has made some favorite areas of East Africa dangerous for tourists.

We were one of the last safari tours permitted to venture into Uganda before the nutty dictator, Idi Amin, devastated that beautiful country. And as with every member in our group, my wife and I have wanted to return again to the limitless expanse of the Serengeti, the pristine clearness of a morning in the shadow of Mt. Kilimanjaro.

Where else can you thrill to the thundering hoofs of huge herds of wildebeast across the plains, or see skitterish impala leaping five feet in the air in another of those wild aimless cavalcades?

It seems hardly believable, after having flown in comfortable jet liners for about 12,000 miles and landing in the modern capital of Kenya - Nairobi - complete with tall white buildings and wide avenues - to find oneself at the dawn of the world at Amboseli.

There, life unfolded for us as it did at the beginning of creation: giraffes gravely balancing their way against the resplendent sunrise, zebras grazing, secure in the knowledge that predators have had their fill, a replete lion resting in the shade of a thorn tree…and as far as the eye could see, the endless horizon broken only by the flat tops of acacia trees, or the imposing cloud-ringed top of Kilimanjaro.

And, for me, Olduvai Gorge in Tanzania made a lasting impression as I stared into the digs where famed anthropologist, Dr. Louis Leakey, continued searching for man’s beginnings. I ventured down to the lower level where a small monument featured bones of Zinjanthropis, uncovered there and estimated to be l,750,000 years old.

Standing in the area where Dr. Leakey and his workers had also uncovered arrow-heads carved for hunting in the Stone-Age, I never felt so young and happy to be alive!

I stayed alert. None of that giving in to the usual “flight fatigue” for me. I think it was the good night’s sleep in the mountains, the high-energy breakfast, and the way my wife jabbed what I believe was a hat pin into my buttocks every ten minutes.

We settled into a nice pattern–with me alternating my time between shrieking and standing in line in the Men’s Room. That enlarged prostate does not do well traveling.

I loved to fly 40 and even 50 years ago.

Well, actually my first plane experience was a bummer. A turbulent one in a Navy PBY seaplane. It lived up to its “rough ride” rep in the ’40s. I nearly tossed my cookies during one hysterical moment when we lost altitude, yet somehow avoided crashing into the middle of Lake Michigan.

Flying commercial after that, conditions were infinitely better. In the jet-age, I found I could enjoy a zen-like peace and serenity while zipping comfortably and safely toward a destination at 30,000 feet (or whatever).

We actually dressed up to board any flight in those days. At least to the degree we didn’t look like we just fell out of bed and slipped on the wrong-size pants. No air travel in torn undershirts, piercings or cut-off jeans.

Most often a few, or lots, of empty seats were available to sprawl over. Overhead space wasn’t jammed with strollers and pottery. (No selling of last-minute seats in the lavatory as on today’s packed flights.)

I still can’t get used to calling stews “flight attendants.” And most were so easy-on-the-eyes and service made you feel special and not a race to unload the cart.

You could pretty much figure to get wherever on time, weather permitting (well, Midway in Chicago was a little dicey and landings in San Diego were more like controlled crashes).

Speaking of San Diego, PSA made a name for itself in the (then) little Navy town. They instituted a kind of shuttle-bus service every few hours to L.A. and SanFran. Believe tickets ran around $10 or $12 (roundtrip? to Los Angeles).

PSA flight attendants (I mean “stews”) at one time wore hot pants and many were ex-models. Always friendly, they made humorous announcements in flight, improving on the boring safety pitch we still endure today. Business men dug the convenience and the eye candy. The company grew like crazy until taken over by U.S. Air.

On long flights American, Delta and United served hot meals. Not everyone agrees, but I thoroughly enjoyed wolfing one down after a relaxing toddy. I’d then recline to maybe listen to some music. Movies on long flights were offered FREE.

Slowly, nearly all amenities dissolved.

Today’s traveler, in ragged jeans and tank top is checking in for a boarding pass while talking on a cell phone and eating lunch. On the plane, he listens to stereo, works on his laptop computer and observes the cocktail hour at $5 a pop. Or falls asleep, mouth agape, on your shoulder.

And I won’t even mention the block-long lines at Security and the indignities of undressing, shoes off, and going through all but a strip-search when sent to a secondary station (which my 70-year-old, five-foot, wife always is - because she wears a bunch of hairpins in her coif, so TWO guards check her twice for bombs concealed in her big hair!)

On our flight from Salt Lake City, the usual fun and games began upon landing at San Diego’s airport. First, of course, was the sweaty half-mile jaunt from the gate to jockey for position at the baggage carousel. After watching dizzily for an inexplicable spell, I began to grow lonely.

Only three of us were left standing, hypnotically watching the mechanical merry-go-round.

Well before the month came to a close, the machinery finally came to a grinding halt. One lousy unclaimed suitcase remained.

A traveler’s worst fear. Our luggage with the little plaid ribbon tied on for swifter spotting was AWOL.

Still rational at that point, I headed directly for the lost luggage office. (I’ve been there before.)

In a controlled voice, I told the woman behind the counter that my bags never showed up. She smiled and told me not to worry because she was a trained professional and I was in good hands.

“Now,” she began officiously, “has your plane arrived yet?”

I’m serious. Those people walk among us.