Beavers really like chopped apples and squash. Especially apples. We were worried that our beaver was too sick to eat, so our Center Director found the most succulent apples and the yellowest squash in the market. We chopped it all into bite-size bits and then pondered how to feed a beaver - ? We decided to put a few bits near her long, sensitive nose and just see what happened. She was well enough now that when anyone came into her room, she would open her eyes and follow them. But she stayed quite still. Her paws were still tucked up close to her chin and she lay partway on her side. It must have been the most comfortable position for the healing wounds on her back. More about them in a minute.
We placed a few bits of apple and squash near her nose and stepped back. At first, nothing. Then, slowly, slowly, that nose began to twitch. She tried to focus her eyes on what smelled so good, but the food was too close. More sniffing. Then, again, slowly, one paw moved just enough to guide a bit of apple into her mouth. If a beaver can have a look of pleasure on her face, this one did. I don't think we imagined it, although we were that relieved she would eat. It was a slow, ruminative process, but we were glad to provide a steady stream of apples and squash over a few hours' time until she was finally satisfied.
One major hurdle taken care of. However, she wouldn't get enough fluid from apples and squash to adequately rehydrate her body. Once rehydrated, we might keep up with her, but she needed an initial boost. I was elected to place a large bore needle in the nape of her neck (supposedly loose skin there) in order to infuse some IV fluid. I selected a one inch eighteen-gauge needle, short and strong. I gently grasped her neck skin and moved to pierce it with the needle. It glanced off. Beavers have incredibly thick skin. Like armor. It took me several tries before I was able to get the needle into a space where the fluid would flow. Again, she patiently endured our treatments. She winced and squeaked, but once the fluid was running, she was quiet and cooperative.
Her wounds required drainage and antibiotic care. Working together, two of us would gently apply pressure to the wounds and clean the drainage from her back. It had to be very painful.
This was the routine for about a month, until the Director felt that she was healed enough for the next step. Her wounds had closed and she was moving about. She needed to be in water in order to maintain muscle function.
One of the volunteers has a small pond and stream on her property, as well as a clean, empty shed. So we had moving day, putting the beaver in a large blanketed enclosure in the back of Cheryl's car. We waved goodbye, knowing that we had experienced something quite special with this mammal.
We were anxious for reports and Cheryl called in the next day to say that she had taken the beaver from the car into the shed via wheelbarrow and left her there with some chopped apples for the night.
Early the next morning she had planned to swim her in the pond. Another hurdle. How to get her to the pond which was a distance of about fifty feet. The beaver didn't want to move out of the shed, although she was able.
Ingenious Cheryl cut up an apple and placed it in the wheelbarrow. No choice but to climb in, (the barrow was tilted to the ground) if she wanted that apple. So, in she climbed. Cheryl reported that she looked like a queen, sitting regally in the wheelbarrow, holding apple bits to her mouth as she pushed her to the water. Cheryl would gently tip the barrow and the beaver would slide out into the cool, clean pond for a swim.
We were worried that once free, she would swim away. Not so. She would wait for the barrow with its reward of apples each day, and climb in for her ride to the shed. This went on for another month until she was strong and healed.
Eventually she was moved to Eastern Oregon, to an isolated, gently flowing river. I hope she is there to this day, chewing twigs and having baby beavers.
We never knew what caused the injuries to her back. The river near where she was found was deep enough for small boats, so it could be that a rudder caught her before she could dive. They were cruel wounds, though.
I'll never forget her gentle acceptance of our care. This isn't meant to be an anti-fur rant, but I think of this quiet, ruminative creature with one of those ingeniously made, slender paws caught in a trap. I think of that squeaky moan when we caused her pain. Enough said.
Winter Sunset, Loomis Outlet
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Brave Beaver
I think beavers get kind of a bad rap as interesting animals. Maybe not a bad rap , but just not very interesting. I have to admit I wasn't enthralled with beavers either, until we moved to a place on the water where I am lucky enough to see them fairly often. It's usually at the end of the day, or early in the morning, when the water is completely still except for the perfect arrow created by a beaver swimming slowly up- or down stream. Nose, eyes and little rounded ears are all that's above water. Silently they make their way through silver water on their various missions and chores.
I got to know one beaver very well, and she made me realize how much I had underestimated them. As a volunteer at the Wildlife Center, I had the privilege to care for an injured beaver. As a nurse, I usually feel that it's a privilege to provide care for the sick and injured. Usually. Most times. But with this beaver, there was no doubt.
Her story was that she was found in a parking lot in a nearby seaside town, not far from the small river that meanders through town. She was so weak she couldn't escape from her rescuers. Any time a wild animal cannot escape, you know they're very ill. She had four deep linear gouges that ran from her shoulders to her mid-back. By the time she was found and brought to the Center, she was very sick. Her wounds were so infected that her entire upper back was swollen and tight. The volunteers made her a bed of folded blankets in a small room where she could have quiet and relative darkness. She lay on one side, carefully, with her front paws tucked under her chin. She kept her eyes shut tight. Who could blame her? First major injury and pain, now this strange noisy place with smells that were beyond anything in her experience.
I met her on her first day in the Center. She was dehydrated, and we assumed, malnourished, although with her gorgeous thick beaver pelt, it was hard to tell. Her fur was long and smooth and chocolate brown. Lovely. She had longish, leathery feet and of course, that tail. Its texture is hard to describe. Sort of like thick leather, a little like the skin of a big fish. A beaver tail. And she was big. Maybe three feet long, not counting her tail.
When another volunteer and I entered the room, she tensed up and squinched open her eyes. We guessed that she was in such pain that she really didn't want to move at all. Talking softly and moving slowly, we approached her and gently reached out to her. It was important to examine her wounds and care for them.
Her blankets were soiled, as she had no way to urinate or defecate other than right where she was.
In nursing school, we learned to make an 'occupied' bed. That means that if the patient is too ill or weak to get out of bed, the nurses can make the bed with the patient in it. It's not as hard it as might sound. I suggested that we try it with the beaver, since she looked really heavy and we didn't want to cause her any more pain than necessary. We got more thick blankets and rolled them lengthwise along her body, after pulling the soiled portion of the blanket over her on that side. Cheryl, on the other side, then gently used those blankets to pull the beaver more onto her side. I then slid the clean linen under her. This left a lump to roll back over. So very gently, we began to roll her over the lump to her other side, onto the clean blankets. I'd never heard a beaver vocalize, so we jumped when she gave a little squeaking moan of pain. We spoke to her softly and continued to gently pull out the soiled linen. Viola. Beaver on clean blankets. She was panting with the pain and effort. Her wounds were oozing a bit. But her eyes were bright.
During this entire frightening and painful process, the beaver was never aggressive. Aggression is a protective mechanism with many animals; perfectly understandable. Something is causing pain, you bite or lash out at it to protect yourself. If you work with wildlife, it's critical to understand this and be prepared. This beaver had front teeth that were a good inch long, and her claws were close to an inch long, too. She could do some damage. We were cautious and ready, but I don't think it's in a beaver's nature to be aggressive. I don't know. I need to read up on that. All I can say is that this girl let us do what we needed to do, telling us with her squeaky moan when it was getting to be too much.
After changing her bedding, we decided to let her rest for an hour before we did more. Over-stressing wild creatures can make them much sicker, even cause some to die. So we turned off the lights, pulled the door almost closed and opened the windows so she could hear the sound of the wind in the trees.
Tune in for chapter two of beaver care soon.
I got to know one beaver very well, and she made me realize how much I had underestimated them. As a volunteer at the Wildlife Center, I had the privilege to care for an injured beaver. As a nurse, I usually feel that it's a privilege to provide care for the sick and injured. Usually. Most times. But with this beaver, there was no doubt.
Her story was that she was found in a parking lot in a nearby seaside town, not far from the small river that meanders through town. She was so weak she couldn't escape from her rescuers. Any time a wild animal cannot escape, you know they're very ill. She had four deep linear gouges that ran from her shoulders to her mid-back. By the time she was found and brought to the Center, she was very sick. Her wounds were so infected that her entire upper back was swollen and tight. The volunteers made her a bed of folded blankets in a small room where she could have quiet and relative darkness. She lay on one side, carefully, with her front paws tucked under her chin. She kept her eyes shut tight. Who could blame her? First major injury and pain, now this strange noisy place with smells that were beyond anything in her experience.
I met her on her first day in the Center. She was dehydrated, and we assumed, malnourished, although with her gorgeous thick beaver pelt, it was hard to tell. Her fur was long and smooth and chocolate brown. Lovely. She had longish, leathery feet and of course, that tail. Its texture is hard to describe. Sort of like thick leather, a little like the skin of a big fish. A beaver tail. And she was big. Maybe three feet long, not counting her tail.
When another volunteer and I entered the room, she tensed up and squinched open her eyes. We guessed that she was in such pain that she really didn't want to move at all. Talking softly and moving slowly, we approached her and gently reached out to her. It was important to examine her wounds and care for them.
Her blankets were soiled, as she had no way to urinate or defecate other than right where she was.
In nursing school, we learned to make an 'occupied' bed. That means that if the patient is too ill or weak to get out of bed, the nurses can make the bed with the patient in it. It's not as hard it as might sound. I suggested that we try it with the beaver, since she looked really heavy and we didn't want to cause her any more pain than necessary. We got more thick blankets and rolled them lengthwise along her body, after pulling the soiled portion of the blanket over her on that side. Cheryl, on the other side, then gently used those blankets to pull the beaver more onto her side. I then slid the clean linen under her. This left a lump to roll back over. So very gently, we began to roll her over the lump to her other side, onto the clean blankets. I'd never heard a beaver vocalize, so we jumped when she gave a little squeaking moan of pain. We spoke to her softly and continued to gently pull out the soiled linen. Viola. Beaver on clean blankets. She was panting with the pain and effort. Her wounds were oozing a bit. But her eyes were bright.
During this entire frightening and painful process, the beaver was never aggressive. Aggression is a protective mechanism with many animals; perfectly understandable. Something is causing pain, you bite or lash out at it to protect yourself. If you work with wildlife, it's critical to understand this and be prepared. This beaver had front teeth that were a good inch long, and her claws were close to an inch long, too. She could do some damage. We were cautious and ready, but I don't think it's in a beaver's nature to be aggressive. I don't know. I need to read up on that. All I can say is that this girl let us do what we needed to do, telling us with her squeaky moan when it was getting to be too much.
After changing her bedding, we decided to let her rest for an hour before we did more. Over-stressing wild creatures can make them much sicker, even cause some to die. So we turned off the lights, pulled the door almost closed and opened the windows so she could hear the sound of the wind in the trees.
Tune in for chapter two of beaver care soon.
Monday, May 23, 2011
New Kid on the Block
Those were sad, quiet days post-Bridget. The house felt empty. No bright face peering around the door, no soft paw on my face to wake me up. Bridget liked to sit on the counter in the bathroom and keep up a running commentary as she watched my morning preparations for work. Things like that may seem incidental and cute at the time, but they're heartbreaking when only a memory. Empty house, sad heart. A wise and dear friend and I talked at length about the magic of animals and what they give us. I wanted that love and sweetness again. But I was worried that in some way, I was disrespecting Bridget by wanting another cat. And I was worried that 'another cat' just wouldn't, couldn't measure up. Big paw-prints to fill. My wise friend told me that I'd know when the time was right and that the right cat would find me. That sounded good, but I was in the mood for concrete direction, no mistakes allowed.
One day I was driving sort of near the Animal Shelter. By 'sort of near' I mean that I actually had to go about 10 blocks out of my way to get there, but I thought what the hey, I'll just look. We have a wonderful, loving no-kill shelter on the Peninsula. There are three rooms full of kitties just waiting for someone to love them. Of course, all the Shelter volunteers (and they are legion) do love them, but you know what I mean. So the hunt began. The first room was "kitties for a special price" as they had been there the longest. It made me sad to think about bargaining for pure love, but whatever works to find a home. Those kitties were sweet, as were those in the next room, but no one really reached out to me.
Ah, but the third room. This is where the cats are in enclosures, either due to a recent surgery, recent birth or some other need to keep them physically quiet. As I stooped to gaze into the cages, two lovely brown mitts with extra toes reached out through the bars. Bright green eyes looked up at me with interest.
"How about this one?" I asked.
"Oh, this is Piper." (All kitties get new names when they enter the Shelter, I learned.) "She came in with a litter of five kittens. She's barely grown, probably became pregnant in her first heat. She was just spayed, so she has to be kind of quiet. She's a sweetie, part Abyssinian I think."
I took her out of the cage and she began to purr, of course. She relaxed into my arms when I sat, and studied my face with wide eyes. To be fair, I put her back and looked at few other kitties. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see those paws again reaching out through the bars.
As I write this, India (her new name) is lying next to me on the desk, lazily pushing pencils,clips, everything on the floor, since in her opinion, I'm not paying her enough attention. We chose "India" because she is exotic and beautiful, and she is "Indie" for her coming home with us close to July 4. She was a skinny teen mom with prominent hip bones. She's now five pounds heavier, fully grown and so full of love that I know Bridget had a part in her choosing us. I know it.
Make no mistake, there will never be another Bridget. It's been almost a year since we lost her and I still miss her. But then, here is Indie, batting a ping pong ball into my office for a game. Who can resist?
One day I was driving sort of near the Animal Shelter. By 'sort of near' I mean that I actually had to go about 10 blocks out of my way to get there, but I thought what the hey, I'll just look. We have a wonderful, loving no-kill shelter on the Peninsula. There are three rooms full of kitties just waiting for someone to love them. Of course, all the Shelter volunteers (and they are legion) do love them, but you know what I mean. So the hunt began. The first room was "kitties for a special price" as they had been there the longest. It made me sad to think about bargaining for pure love, but whatever works to find a home. Those kitties were sweet, as were those in the next room, but no one really reached out to me.
Ah, but the third room. This is where the cats are in enclosures, either due to a recent surgery, recent birth or some other need to keep them physically quiet. As I stooped to gaze into the cages, two lovely brown mitts with extra toes reached out through the bars. Bright green eyes looked up at me with interest.
"How about this one?" I asked.
"Oh, this is Piper." (All kitties get new names when they enter the Shelter, I learned.) "She came in with a litter of five kittens. She's barely grown, probably became pregnant in her first heat. She was just spayed, so she has to be kind of quiet. She's a sweetie, part Abyssinian I think."
I took her out of the cage and she began to purr, of course. She relaxed into my arms when I sat, and studied my face with wide eyes. To be fair, I put her back and looked at few other kitties. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see those paws again reaching out through the bars.
As I write this, India (her new name) is lying next to me on the desk, lazily pushing pencils,clips, everything on the floor, since in her opinion, I'm not paying her enough attention. We chose "India" because she is exotic and beautiful, and she is "Indie" for her coming home with us close to July 4. She was a skinny teen mom with prominent hip bones. She's now five pounds heavier, fully grown and so full of love that I know Bridget had a part in her choosing us. I know it.
Make no mistake, there will never be another Bridget. It's been almost a year since we lost her and I still miss her. But then, here is Indie, batting a ping pong ball into my office for a game. Who can resist?
Monday, May 16, 2011
Bridget
This is going to be a tough one. Almost a year ago, I lost my beloved, 17 year old cat. Growing up, I learned that pets were sweet and fun, but they were pets. Pet: something about that word doesn't fit for me. These beings who know us better than many humans we're close to, who accept our bad behavior, forgive fully and only seek to be in our company. I mean cats, too. If you don't think so, you really don't know cats. My cat, Bridget, was a soul mate. She was opinionated, bossy, demanding and just full of love. Her happiest times were curled up on my lap. Because I couldn't in good conscience be a birder and have an outside cat, Bridget wore a harness and long lead and basked in the sun on the deck. She would go for walks on her lead around the yard, as long as she could decide where we went. The best part of the walk was rolling on the warm concrete driveway. Pure bliss, eyes closed, getting completely twisted up in the lead, but not caring. She never panicked on the lead either. If it pulled or she got twisted around patio chair legs, which was often, she simply sat down and waited for me to rescue her. Of course, whenever she was outside, I kept a close watch.
Bridget, like many cats, developed kidney failure as she aged. Our wonderful vet said that in order to prolong her life, we would need to 'hydrate her'. This means placing an IV needle in the neck scruff and running in about 8 ounces of IV fluid. Every day. In a cat. I'm a nurse and my husband is a pharmacist and we still were freaked out. Turned out she was the soul of patience. Somehow, she got the importance of it. She never went and hid, even though we did it at the same time every day, after dinner. She'd let me pick her up and sit her on the counter while my husband prepared the needle and hung the fluid. One short meow as the needle entered and then she just sat, still as a cat, until we were done ~ it only took about 7 minutes. Oh, once in a while she'd have a little meltdown when we'd have to wait a half hour and re-try, but we did this for seven years! And she had a great quality of life for all those seven years.
She had been a shelter kitten and just hated being behind bars. The first time we had to board her, I asked the vet if she could have extra time outside her enclosure. When we returned a week later, Bridget was living in the vets' spacious office, snoozing on a chair. Such was her charm.
About this time last year, I could tell that she wasn't feeling as well as she had been. Sleeping more, eating less. Then eating much less. There is no cure for failing kidneys in animals. (Well, some places do transplants but I won't even go there.) When I would say her name, she would still look at me with big eyes, but there was less focus in those lovely eyes. I knew her time was limited.
We said goodbye the last day of May last year. Our vet-beyond-compare came to the house so that Bridget's last journey wouldn't be in a car. I held her. My husband caressed her. Crying now as I think about it. We put her to rest in the yard with a view out to the water, where she used to love to sit and watch the ducks.
I tell people now that we just cried and drank wine for a week. It was tough. The 'first times' are killers. The first time you go outside and she's not waiting at the door for her harness to be put on. The first time you get in bed and she isn't right there, leaning first on one human, then the other, for her well-deserved love. The leftovers of a life: cat food, IV fluid, leads and harnesses. God. I understand why folks say they'll never have another animal. But I knew that I was meant to have another kitty, and I knew that, once Bridget was gone, she would fully approve. But that's another story.
Right now, each day reminds me of her and of that sweet, unconditional love. You can find it at any Shelter. It's priceless.
Bridget, like many cats, developed kidney failure as she aged. Our wonderful vet said that in order to prolong her life, we would need to 'hydrate her'. This means placing an IV needle in the neck scruff and running in about 8 ounces of IV fluid. Every day. In a cat. I'm a nurse and my husband is a pharmacist and we still were freaked out. Turned out she was the soul of patience. Somehow, she got the importance of it. She never went and hid, even though we did it at the same time every day, after dinner. She'd let me pick her up and sit her on the counter while my husband prepared the needle and hung the fluid. One short meow as the needle entered and then she just sat, still as a cat, until we were done ~ it only took about 7 minutes. Oh, once in a while she'd have a little meltdown when we'd have to wait a half hour and re-try, but we did this for seven years! And she had a great quality of life for all those seven years.
She had been a shelter kitten and just hated being behind bars. The first time we had to board her, I asked the vet if she could have extra time outside her enclosure. When we returned a week later, Bridget was living in the vets' spacious office, snoozing on a chair. Such was her charm.
About this time last year, I could tell that she wasn't feeling as well as she had been. Sleeping more, eating less. Then eating much less. There is no cure for failing kidneys in animals. (Well, some places do transplants but I won't even go there.) When I would say her name, she would still look at me with big eyes, but there was less focus in those lovely eyes. I knew her time was limited.
We said goodbye the last day of May last year. Our vet-beyond-compare came to the house so that Bridget's last journey wouldn't be in a car. I held her. My husband caressed her. Crying now as I think about it. We put her to rest in the yard with a view out to the water, where she used to love to sit and watch the ducks.
I tell people now that we just cried and drank wine for a week. It was tough. The 'first times' are killers. The first time you go outside and she's not waiting at the door for her harness to be put on. The first time you get in bed and she isn't right there, leaning first on one human, then the other, for her well-deserved love. The leftovers of a life: cat food, IV fluid, leads and harnesses. God. I understand why folks say they'll never have another animal. But I knew that I was meant to have another kitty, and I knew that, once Bridget was gone, she would fully approve. But that's another story.
Right now, each day reminds me of her and of that sweet, unconditional love. You can find it at any Shelter. It's priceless.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Otis: An Untypical Owl
Burrowing owls don't seem like 'typical' owls: they live in the ground. They prefer abandoned gopher holes or other ground-dwelling rodent holes in big, rural open fields. When I lived in Albuquerque in the very late '60s, I could drive out to the open arid land surrounding the city and see burrowing owls everywhere. A walk around the area would bring their little rusty brown bullet-shaped heads popping up from burrows all around to see who had arrived. Then -pop- not a head to be seen until all visitors were again at a safe distance.
Just on a chance one day, I visited one of the pet stores in the city. On a high shelf behind the cash register, there were three burrowing owls in cages. $8 would buy me a wild creature- cage and food extra. The owls were clearly terrified. Imagine living in the quiet of the open mesa, hearing only the passing of distant cars and an occasional jet heading to or from the nearby air base. Crickets and coyotes and other owls would have been company, the passing of the wind overhead bringing the odors of the grass and ground around the burrows.
Then one night, trappers arrived at the burrows with nets and somehow managed to extricate the three owls. I didn't have the heart to ask how it was done. Remember, this was before it was illegal to trap and/or shoot wild birds. So here crouched a few terrified owls, fluffed out to the max in metal cages, hearing the yipping of puppies, smelling the mixed odors cat food, dog food, chicken feed, eau de pet store.
I had to buy one, just to get him out of there.
I was a birder then, but I hadn't studied bird behavior, or how birds live their lives. I did know that burrowing owls eat insects, and New Mexico has no lack of bugs. Especially cockroaches. Just wait till dark and no matter how clean your surroundings and how good your housekeeping, they will come. Being from Oregon, I was horrified that a few hung out under my sink. God.
Otis gradually got used to me and if I moved slowly, I could feed him bits of meat from a gloved hand. At first he crouched in the far corner of his cage, fluffed and hissing, but gradually he learned that I meant food and not harm. He savored the meat, holding it firmly in one long-taloned foot as he pulled it to bloody shreds.
Burrowing owls are active during the day, and I sadly watched him bumping around in his cage. That was just wrong. So I started leaving his door open whenever I was home. Couldn't stand to see this wild little guy in jail. Birds who eat meat leave very nasty droppings, but Otis was kind of predictable. If he was kept in his cage for about an hour after eating, he would leave a dropping, then I'd open his door and he had free range of my small apartment.
One or two evenings after starting to let him fly free, I realized he was taking care of the cockroach problem. He liked to perch on top of his cage in the dimness of the kitchen. I could hear him fussing around or grooming in our small space. He had been perched just a few minutes when I heard the soft whisper of his wings as he launched off the top of his cage, a muffled scrabble as he landed on the floor in the far corner. I crept out so as to not scare him, and lo and behold, there he proudly stood with a cockroach writhing in one taloned foot. It looked like he was holding an ice cream cone. He enjoyed that roach from the head down, methodically crunching, eyes half closed. It must have been really good - meat on the hoof, I guess.
So Otis took care of my roach issue. I started leaving the cupboard doors open, inviting roaches to explore the kitchen floor. Otis really cleaned up.
But he was a wild bird. He didn't belong in someone's apartment, spending his life alone entertaining a human. Burrowing owls live in large groups. He needed friends. I watched him watching out my window, turning his head almost to the horizontal if he saw something of interest. He would bob his head up and down quickly if excited, and really could turn it almost three-sixty degrees to look behind him. He was a gentle, inquisitive, intelligent bird.
So one sunny day I packed him and his cage into the back of my car. I blanketed the cage but I could tell he was freaking out. More sounds, smells, noises. What next in an owl's life? I drove out to the mesa where I'd watched burrowing owls so many times. From afar, I could see the little heads bobbing up, and some owls sitting right next to their burrows.
With my glove, I reached in for Otis and gently took him from the cage. I walked a short way into the burrow area, now with no owls in sight, and set him on the ground. He crouched, totally disoriented, and fluttered away from me. I sat very still as he spread his lovely spotted wings and flew, low to the ground, away. I knew no other birds would come up while I stayed there, so I left, wishing him many crickets and small tasty snakes in his future.
I don't know if Otis was successfully repatriated. I revisited the area many times, but really, all those owls looked pretty much alike. He could hunt, so I felt that he could survive on his own.
I still think of him, bobbing his head in excitement, then launching silently over the linoleum for a tasty cockroach. Otis, you still live in my heart.
Just on a chance one day, I visited one of the pet stores in the city. On a high shelf behind the cash register, there were three burrowing owls in cages. $8 would buy me a wild creature- cage and food extra. The owls were clearly terrified. Imagine living in the quiet of the open mesa, hearing only the passing of distant cars and an occasional jet heading to or from the nearby air base. Crickets and coyotes and other owls would have been company, the passing of the wind overhead bringing the odors of the grass and ground around the burrows.
Then one night, trappers arrived at the burrows with nets and somehow managed to extricate the three owls. I didn't have the heart to ask how it was done. Remember, this was before it was illegal to trap and/or shoot wild birds. So here crouched a few terrified owls, fluffed out to the max in metal cages, hearing the yipping of puppies, smelling the mixed odors cat food, dog food, chicken feed, eau de pet store.
I had to buy one, just to get him out of there.
I was a birder then, but I hadn't studied bird behavior, or how birds live their lives. I did know that burrowing owls eat insects, and New Mexico has no lack of bugs. Especially cockroaches. Just wait till dark and no matter how clean your surroundings and how good your housekeeping, they will come. Being from Oregon, I was horrified that a few hung out under my sink. God.
Otis gradually got used to me and if I moved slowly, I could feed him bits of meat from a gloved hand. At first he crouched in the far corner of his cage, fluffed and hissing, but gradually he learned that I meant food and not harm. He savored the meat, holding it firmly in one long-taloned foot as he pulled it to bloody shreds.
Burrowing owls are active during the day, and I sadly watched him bumping around in his cage. That was just wrong. So I started leaving his door open whenever I was home. Couldn't stand to see this wild little guy in jail. Birds who eat meat leave very nasty droppings, but Otis was kind of predictable. If he was kept in his cage for about an hour after eating, he would leave a dropping, then I'd open his door and he had free range of my small apartment.
One or two evenings after starting to let him fly free, I realized he was taking care of the cockroach problem. He liked to perch on top of his cage in the dimness of the kitchen. I could hear him fussing around or grooming in our small space. He had been perched just a few minutes when I heard the soft whisper of his wings as he launched off the top of his cage, a muffled scrabble as he landed on the floor in the far corner. I crept out so as to not scare him, and lo and behold, there he proudly stood with a cockroach writhing in one taloned foot. It looked like he was holding an ice cream cone. He enjoyed that roach from the head down, methodically crunching, eyes half closed. It must have been really good - meat on the hoof, I guess.
So Otis took care of my roach issue. I started leaving the cupboard doors open, inviting roaches to explore the kitchen floor. Otis really cleaned up.
But he was a wild bird. He didn't belong in someone's apartment, spending his life alone entertaining a human. Burrowing owls live in large groups. He needed friends. I watched him watching out my window, turning his head almost to the horizontal if he saw something of interest. He would bob his head up and down quickly if excited, and really could turn it almost three-sixty degrees to look behind him. He was a gentle, inquisitive, intelligent bird.
So one sunny day I packed him and his cage into the back of my car. I blanketed the cage but I could tell he was freaking out. More sounds, smells, noises. What next in an owl's life? I drove out to the mesa where I'd watched burrowing owls so many times. From afar, I could see the little heads bobbing up, and some owls sitting right next to their burrows.
With my glove, I reached in for Otis and gently took him from the cage. I walked a short way into the burrow area, now with no owls in sight, and set him on the ground. He crouched, totally disoriented, and fluttered away from me. I sat very still as he spread his lovely spotted wings and flew, low to the ground, away. I knew no other birds would come up while I stayed there, so I left, wishing him many crickets and small tasty snakes in his future.
I don't know if Otis was successfully repatriated. I revisited the area many times, but really, all those owls looked pretty much alike. He could hunt, so I felt that he could survive on his own.
I still think of him, bobbing his head in excitement, then launching silently over the linoleum for a tasty cockroach. Otis, you still live in my heart.
Friday, May 6, 2011
A very special Mallard hen mother
I've written before about the mallard hen with the gimpy leg. I worried that she would struggle on the ice during the past winter. She may have, but she made it. I watched happily as she gamely pulled out of the water every morning and began her uneven, bobbing walk to the thrown corn. The rest of the flock considered her their equal, for all I can tell. No chasing, pecking or excluding. And she could hold her own with the drakes. If she wasn't in the mood for mating behavior, she would lower her head, open her bill and chase off any would-be suitor. Of course, her chase had that bobbity-bob thing, but the drakes turned tail, just the same.
I think she's brooding eggs right now. I have seen only the non-breeding pair in the yard for a few weeks. I know ducklings have hatched around here already. I haven't seen any yet on our pond. Last year she had eleven. Imagine brooding eleven eggs. That means oh-so-carefully sitting on them, but also gently turning them with her bill every few hours so that all eggs are evenly brooded. It means being fearless on the nest. A hen will sit absolutely motionless in the face of terror, a skunk for instance, until the very last minute.
Ducks don't have much in the way of protective mechanisms. Some birds have sharp, powerful bills or talons. Not so ducks. Some ducks have a wonderful threat behavior where they lower their head, open their bill and sway their neck and head in a sort of reptilian manner, which I'm sure they mean to be menacing. When I worked in the Wildlife Rehab Center we would get Scoters in, which are big, sturdy sea ducks. They would display this behavior when humans approached, and it looked for all the world like the duck was saying "Wanna a piece of this??" You work with what you've got, I guess. Ducks mainly have flying away, swimming and sometimes diving, depending on the duck. That does nothing for the eggs left behind.
Last year she would bring her young brood out early in the morning and in the evening. Her nest was against the bank in some very deep and thick reeds and grasses. They would silently appear, tiny golden jet-propelled fluffs darting around the hen. If you listened very closely, you could hear tiny, sibilant peeps from the ducklings. She would try to keep them in close formation in order to keep an eye on them, but you know kids. There's always one. I'll bet it was a male - who just would not wait for her. He would swim a good twenty feet out ahead of her, anxious to explore his new green world. Suddenly he would realize he was quite alone and a loud, frantic peeping would begin. The hen would speak low and soft to him as she made her way over the water. No limp in the water, of course. She swims a bit to the left, as her feet aren't equal in strength. But she gets where she needs to be. The panic calls of one youngster would cause the other ten to scooch very close to the hen. This usually ended the outing and the family would head quietly back through the duck weed and floating reeds to the nest.
Every foray into the pond was cause for great caution and concern. Mother mallard would continuously count her brood as they ranged farther afield as they grew. Sadly, her brood did shrink. Some of the threats out there are hawks, bullfrogs, herons, big fish, otters and skunks. It's probably why mallards and other ducks start with such a large clutch of eggs. She ended up with five successful grown up ducks, and that's quite an accomplishment.
So while some moms are having brunch, opening chocolates or arranging bouquets of flowers, some others are sitting in the rain on a soggy nest, water dripping off their bills, keeping wings a little spread and down so that the tiny lives under their soft bellies stay dry and warm. They wouldn't have it any other way.
I think she's brooding eggs right now. I have seen only the non-breeding pair in the yard for a few weeks. I know ducklings have hatched around here already. I haven't seen any yet on our pond. Last year she had eleven. Imagine brooding eleven eggs. That means oh-so-carefully sitting on them, but also gently turning them with her bill every few hours so that all eggs are evenly brooded. It means being fearless on the nest. A hen will sit absolutely motionless in the face of terror, a skunk for instance, until the very last minute.
Ducks don't have much in the way of protective mechanisms. Some birds have sharp, powerful bills or talons. Not so ducks. Some ducks have a wonderful threat behavior where they lower their head, open their bill and sway their neck and head in a sort of reptilian manner, which I'm sure they mean to be menacing. When I worked in the Wildlife Rehab Center we would get Scoters in, which are big, sturdy sea ducks. They would display this behavior when humans approached, and it looked for all the world like the duck was saying "Wanna a piece of this??" You work with what you've got, I guess. Ducks mainly have flying away, swimming and sometimes diving, depending on the duck. That does nothing for the eggs left behind.
Last year she would bring her young brood out early in the morning and in the evening. Her nest was against the bank in some very deep and thick reeds and grasses. They would silently appear, tiny golden jet-propelled fluffs darting around the hen. If you listened very closely, you could hear tiny, sibilant peeps from the ducklings. She would try to keep them in close formation in order to keep an eye on them, but you know kids. There's always one. I'll bet it was a male - who just would not wait for her. He would swim a good twenty feet out ahead of her, anxious to explore his new green world. Suddenly he would realize he was quite alone and a loud, frantic peeping would begin. The hen would speak low and soft to him as she made her way over the water. No limp in the water, of course. She swims a bit to the left, as her feet aren't equal in strength. But she gets where she needs to be. The panic calls of one youngster would cause the other ten to scooch very close to the hen. This usually ended the outing and the family would head quietly back through the duck weed and floating reeds to the nest.
Every foray into the pond was cause for great caution and concern. Mother mallard would continuously count her brood as they ranged farther afield as they grew. Sadly, her brood did shrink. Some of the threats out there are hawks, bullfrogs, herons, big fish, otters and skunks. It's probably why mallards and other ducks start with such a large clutch of eggs. She ended up with five successful grown up ducks, and that's quite an accomplishment.
So while some moms are having brunch, opening chocolates or arranging bouquets of flowers, some others are sitting in the rain on a soggy nest, water dripping off their bills, keeping wings a little spread and down so that the tiny lives under their soft bellies stay dry and warm. They wouldn't have it any other way.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Potluck
Five years ago I stopped by a tree sale at Hoyt Arboretum near Portland. I'm a complete sucker for plant and tree sales. It was very late summer, so the bloom was off plant sales, so to speak. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, but it was the Hoyt Arboretum. How could I pass that up? So I drove the winding road through acres of glorious trees and grasses. Hills and valleys unfolded to show every color and texture of green. Walking paths laced through the tree plantings, streams sparkled in the low spots. Near the office I found the sale. It was almost the last day of the sale and there wasn't much left, but I did discover a motley assortment of twigs in one-gallon pots on a picnic table. Most were labeled "close out". If you know plant sales, you know that this is just the place to find the treasures. But at Hoyt, you must be willing to do a little homework and maybe take a chance. Homework is needed because the Hoyt people, being arborists, put the scientific name on what's on offer. If you're lucky, there will be a common name too, but don't count on it. Chance, because late in the season, the label may have long ago fallen off the container. Then it's pot luck unless you are really good at recognizing twigs.
So I browsed the table, seeing unimpressive little sticks, some with a few leaves on them, most for $10.00 or thereabouts. But luck was with me in the guise of a Hoyt volunteer. The elderly man wandered up quietly, clearly happy to talk trees if I was interested. I mentioned that I lived on a lake outlet near the ocean so that whatever I might find would need to be tolerant of wet feet most of the year, and possibly wet knees some of the year. And wind.
"This would be a lovely choice," he said. He pulled forward a particularly barren and uninteresting twig. I raised my eyebrows and looked at him.
"River birch. Not native, but grows well here and loves wet feet. Needs them actually. Has wonderful rust-colored bark that peels away like paper. Grows fast. Good, bright yellow color in the fall." All this future in this little twig. Hmmm. Not native. I really try to keep my yard mostly native, but that's another story. How could I not buy this, especially for just $10??
And he was so right. My little birch is now close to twenty feet tall. It's slim, double-trunked, elegant. Lithe enough to dance in the wind, which can be considerable, and not break. It lives on the very edge of the water so that wet feet are a given. Brilliant, small chartreuse green leaves in the spring, on-fire golden in the fall. And all year long, that papery bark.
So I guess I could draw a metaphor about having faith in the potential of the small and dubious looking, whether it be a plant or a person, but I'll leave that for another day. I'm going out to admire my tree.
So I browsed the table, seeing unimpressive little sticks, some with a few leaves on them, most for $10.00 or thereabouts. But luck was with me in the guise of a Hoyt volunteer. The elderly man wandered up quietly, clearly happy to talk trees if I was interested. I mentioned that I lived on a lake outlet near the ocean so that whatever I might find would need to be tolerant of wet feet most of the year, and possibly wet knees some of the year. And wind.
"This would be a lovely choice," he said. He pulled forward a particularly barren and uninteresting twig. I raised my eyebrows and looked at him.
"River birch. Not native, but grows well here and loves wet feet. Needs them actually. Has wonderful rust-colored bark that peels away like paper. Grows fast. Good, bright yellow color in the fall." All this future in this little twig. Hmmm. Not native. I really try to keep my yard mostly native, but that's another story. How could I not buy this, especially for just $10??
And he was so right. My little birch is now close to twenty feet tall. It's slim, double-trunked, elegant. Lithe enough to dance in the wind, which can be considerable, and not break. It lives on the very edge of the water so that wet feet are a given. Brilliant, small chartreuse green leaves in the spring, on-fire golden in the fall. And all year long, that papery bark.
So I guess I could draw a metaphor about having faith in the potential of the small and dubious looking, whether it be a plant or a person, but I'll leave that for another day. I'm going out to admire my tree.
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