I really can’t get out of my head (and believe me, I’ve tried!) the image of noted wildlife rescuer Hope Swinimer with a blanket draped over her arm begging entrance to Dartmouth’s home of “adult entertainment”, Ralph’s Place. That has been one of several enduring images from Hope for Wildlife in the four weeks following their late-August Open House, a time of year when things usually mellow out and slow down. Not this year, however. Strange and uncommon events kept Hope for Wildlife in the news across Canada and around the world.
First there was a seagull who decided to impale himself on the lightning rod of a downtown Halifax church. He was up there for two days before the fire department helped him down. Pictures from that event went everywhere, including news services in Europe and India. The media focus was so tunnel-visioned on the gull story that they almost missed the Department of Natural Resources nabbing people trying to sell a fawn on the internet as a house pet. Both the gull and the deer ended up at Swinimer’s Seaforth farm, and with them came a wave of media attention.
The dust had barely settled around those incidents when hurricane Earl swept in, bringing with it many surprises. Newborn squirrels, raccoons, and song birds began showing up, just when Hope for Wildlife was releasing akin foundlings from last spring. What followed them was not pretty. More than one hundred birds, some merely needing food and a place to rest but others smashed by the gales, started to pour into the Seaforth facility, and many were deep-sea birds of unusual kinds. Two were Royal Terns, a species that summers off Florida and the West Indies and should have been heading for Argentina and Africa for the winter months. Neither survived. There were many Storm Petrels, another bird rarely seen by land folk, and most of them made it.
As this mass of birds was being sorted out, the Department of Natural Resources got itself into the news again. Using undercover agents, plus sea and air transport, DNR raided Tancook Island in Mahone Bay to rescue a captive deer. The three year old doe was crated and air-lifted off Tancook , then trucked to Hope for Wildlife. She was placed in a deer enclosure full of orphaned fawns and became an instant celebrity.
That same day, Hope Swinimer was sitting in her office at the Dartmouth Veterinary Hospital when someone rushed in to tell her there was a pelican on Main Street in front of Ralphs’ Place. Pelican spottings in Nova Scotia are on the rare side, so it took a few more reports before she felt this one deserved checking out. Since the sighting was only two buildings away from her office, she decided to go herself, and quickly met witnesses who said the bird had left Ralph’s parking lot but now was up on the building’s roof. Without really considering the ramifications, Swinimer took her capture blanket, swung open the front door of Ralph’s Place, and asked to go up to the roof. A startled clerk denied her and called for the manager. Patrons began to stare and Swinimer quickly became aware of her situation and what pub people must be thinking of this strange woman with a blanket trying to talk her way into an adult entertainment facility, claiming to be looking for a lost pelican.
Thankfully, someone outside called to her that the bird had left, so she quit in pursuit, tracking it to the parking lot of McDonald’s next door. Swinimer was able to identify it as a Brown Pelican, a bird that lived from the Carolinas southward, and knew it was another guest courtesy of Earl, but before she could act, the bird flew to the top of the Dartmouth Veterinary Clinic, then to Burger King where it began mooching fries and hamburgers, and causing traffic problems. It fled when she approached, but this time showed just how weak storm travel had made it by slamming into the glass front of a nearby building and stunning itself. Swinimer made the capture and took her new guest, now known as Ralph for obvious reasons, to Seaforth for rehabilitation,. Meanwhile, media were once again all over her for the story, including a live interview on CBC Radio’s Information Morning. Host Don Connolly tried to sum up the adventure.
“Going from Ralph’s to McDonald’s, to Burger King, and then knocking himself out. Sounds like a Saturday night, doesn’t it?” he suggested. “Sounds like a bad Saturday night,”
Bad for the bird,perhaps, but not for Hope for Wildlife. However, it was definitely part of a September that had not been normal. Perhaps "unusual" would have been a better word.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Slow Fade-Out of the Black Duck
One June morning about 25 years ago, I was leading a high school canoe camping trip down a stiillwater in Kings County when we rounded an elbow bend and found ourselves in the middle of a panicking family of Black Duck. Little ones scattered and hid while mom did her best to convince us she was an easy lunch. It was a teachable moment, so I used it and then moved the group on.
As we swung the next turn in the meander, a girl in a canoe near me shouted “Look. Mr. MacLeod! A real duck!” It was a Mallard male.
In 30 or more years on those waters, I’d never seen a wild Mallard. I’d heard rumours they were moving eastward from their prairie homeland, but the ubiquitous Black Duck had been there all my life and was what I expected, and in memories still do. I remember being slightly annoyed this suburbanite had been so brainwashed by cartoons and story books that she thought the fancy-dressed Mallard drake was the “real duck”. Sadly, I had no idea she was accurately predicting the future.
This August, I stuck my head into Hope Swinimer’s office and asked what was new that day for animals. Two Kestrel and another family of ducklings, the Director of Hope for Wildlife told me, so I asked her the species of her duck babies.
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“How should I know?” she replied. “I can’t tell the difference any more. They all look the same these days.”
Swinimer went on to tell me this had been a very busy year for duck rescues. Most of them appeared to be Black Ducks, but had coloration differences that shouldn’t be there and confused the identification issue.
“They are all really pretty little ducks, but we really can’t tell right now what they all are,” she said.
The problem is, the Black Duck is a creature under siege. In Nova Scotia, the number of moms who get run down every year as they lead their ducklings across a road is increasing. More little ones show up at Hope for Wildlife as a result.
“If the mother is leading them across a road, they are going to water. It’s not a random thing.” Swinimer explained. “You may not see water, you may only see them holding up traffic, but you can take as a certainty that water is there.”
The other contributor is genetic, and there are a lot of scientific questions being asked right now about whether the Black Duck as a species will continue to exist. It started in the 1950s, but whether from habitat change, climate shift, disease, hunting, food shortages, or pressure from the Mallard is not yet known. What is known is that there are 50% less Black Ducks around now than back then.
More and more, the Mallard is being considered the source of the problem. It is believed the Black Duck (Anas rubripes) and the Mallard Duck (Anas platyrhynchos) are descended from a recent common ancestor. Genetically, they are almost identical. The Black is dark brown in both male and female, quite similar to the Mallard female. It is the green-headed breeding plumage of the Mallard drake that differs. When the two species overlap, as they have done for several decades in Nova Scotia, the Mallard drakes not only force Black Ducks out of their territory, they mate with their females.
The result has become a hybrid duck, once an anomaly but in the past few years more and more common. In some parts of the Atlantic Flyway, it is now estimated one out of every five Black Ducks carries Mallard DNA. Sometimes, strange feather patterns make it obvious, but more often a glint of the green Mallard drake head colour during mating season is the only evidence. As Hope Swinimer said, it’s making identifying the young ones very difficult.
In nature, most hybrids can’t reproduce, but that’s not true in this case. The complicating factor is that studies show 67% of the offspring of a Mallard/Black cross are male. For some reason, fewer females are produced, and those that are born of a cross-match seldom live to breeding age. This means it is the female Black Duck genes that are being gradually squeezed out of the pool.
Even before the hybridization crisis, Mallard drakes generally outnumber females and were very aggressieve during mating season. Unpaired males group together and engage in "rape flights" in which they attempt to islotate a female and attack her until she weakens, at which point they all mate with her. They sometimes also do this to smaller Mallard males. Often, the result is that the bird being attacked drowns. This "mate with anything" Mallard drake impulse is considered one of the reasons for hybridization, as a "rape flight" often involves a female of another duck species..
There's evidence that while the Black/Mallard cross may be the most familiar to us in Eastern Canada, it is not the only one. Mallard drakes are not only moving into Black Duck territory and dominating its females, they are doing it to many species throughout the Northerm Hemisphere. Hybrids reported include the Gadwall (Anas strepera), Pintail (Anas acuta), Green-winged and Eurasian Teal (Anas crecca), and Spot-billed Duck (Anas poecilorhyncha). At least those ducks are members of the same genetic family. The Mallard is also known to have reproduced with the Muscovy Duck (Cairina moschata) and the Wood Duck (Aix sponsa). In all, Mallards have shown the ability to cross breed with 63 duck species.
Whether it is evolution or something we’ve done to give Mallard males a social advantage is not known, but as Hope Swinimer said, it is getting much harder to say for certain that what appears to be a Black Duck is actually to be found in even in the most up-to-date Peterson Field Guide.
As we swung the next turn in the meander, a girl in a canoe near me shouted “Look. Mr. MacLeod! A real duck!” It was a Mallard male.
In 30 or more years on those waters, I’d never seen a wild Mallard. I’d heard rumours they were moving eastward from their prairie homeland, but the ubiquitous Black Duck had been there all my life and was what I expected, and in memories still do. I remember being slightly annoyed this suburbanite had been so brainwashed by cartoons and story books that she thought the fancy-dressed Mallard drake was the “real duck”. Sadly, I had no idea she was accurately predicting the future.
This August, I stuck my head into Hope Swinimer’s office and asked what was new that day for animals. Two Kestrel and another family of ducklings, the Director of Hope for Wildlife told me, so I asked her the species of her duck babies.
\
“How should I know?” she replied. “I can’t tell the difference any more. They all look the same these days.”
Swinimer went on to tell me this had been a very busy year for duck rescues. Most of them appeared to be Black Ducks, but had coloration differences that shouldn’t be there and confused the identification issue.
“They are all really pretty little ducks, but we really can’t tell right now what they all are,” she said.
The problem is, the Black Duck is a creature under siege. In Nova Scotia, the number of moms who get run down every year as they lead their ducklings across a road is increasing. More little ones show up at Hope for Wildlife as a result.
“If the mother is leading them across a road, they are going to water. It’s not a random thing.” Swinimer explained. “You may not see water, you may only see them holding up traffic, but you can take as a certainty that water is there.”
The other contributor is genetic, and there are a lot of scientific questions being asked right now about whether the Black Duck as a species will continue to exist. It started in the 1950s, but whether from habitat change, climate shift, disease, hunting, food shortages, or pressure from the Mallard is not yet known. What is known is that there are 50% less Black Ducks around now than back then.
More and more, the Mallard is being considered the source of the problem. It is believed the Black Duck (Anas rubripes) and the Mallard Duck (Anas platyrhynchos) are descended from a recent common ancestor. Genetically, they are almost identical. The Black is dark brown in both male and female, quite similar to the Mallard female. It is the green-headed breeding plumage of the Mallard drake that differs. When the two species overlap, as they have done for several decades in Nova Scotia, the Mallard drakes not only force Black Ducks out of their territory, they mate with their females.
The result has become a hybrid duck, once an anomaly but in the past few years more and more common. In some parts of the Atlantic Flyway, it is now estimated one out of every five Black Ducks carries Mallard DNA. Sometimes, strange feather patterns make it obvious, but more often a glint of the green Mallard drake head colour during mating season is the only evidence. As Hope Swinimer said, it’s making identifying the young ones very difficult.
In nature, most hybrids can’t reproduce, but that’s not true in this case. The complicating factor is that studies show 67% of the offspring of a Mallard/Black cross are male. For some reason, fewer females are produced, and those that are born of a cross-match seldom live to breeding age. This means it is the female Black Duck genes that are being gradually squeezed out of the pool.
Even before the hybridization crisis, Mallard drakes generally outnumber females and were very aggressieve during mating season. Unpaired males group together and engage in "rape flights" in which they attempt to islotate a female and attack her until she weakens, at which point they all mate with her. They sometimes also do this to smaller Mallard males. Often, the result is that the bird being attacked drowns. This "mate with anything" Mallard drake impulse is considered one of the reasons for hybridization, as a "rape flight" often involves a female of another duck species..
There's evidence that while the Black/Mallard cross may be the most familiar to us in Eastern Canada, it is not the only one. Mallard drakes are not only moving into Black Duck territory and dominating its females, they are doing it to many species throughout the Northerm Hemisphere. Hybrids reported include the Gadwall (Anas strepera), Pintail (Anas acuta), Green-winged and Eurasian Teal (Anas crecca), and Spot-billed Duck (Anas poecilorhyncha). At least those ducks are members of the same genetic family. The Mallard is also known to have reproduced with the Muscovy Duck (Cairina moschata) and the Wood Duck (Aix sponsa). In all, Mallards have shown the ability to cross breed with 63 duck species.
Whether it is evolution or something we’ve done to give Mallard males a social advantage is not known, but as Hope Swinimer said, it is getting much harder to say for certain that what appears to be a Black Duck is actually to be found in even in the most up-to-date Peterson Field Guide.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Fox Who Stole Hearts
When I was young, my father would frequently regale me with stories about foxes. He was a conductor on the old Dominion Atlantic Railway through the Annapolis Valley and often saw them on the dyke lands as his train passed through.
For several years, his favourite subject was one fox who had the company of a small white dog, and together they romp through my memory to this day in my father’s stories. Years later, I found out other Kentville railway men had brought home tales of this dykeland odd couple, and some of their children knew and remembered with me.
I mention this because I’m absolutely certain there will be children now and children to come who will hear, tell, and remember stories of Sweet Pea. Foxes of my past came to mind when I heard in January that this most popular of all residents at the Hope For Wildlife facility at Seaforth had died. There was something about this little lady, crippled in her first year, that needed to be told. My intention was to do that telling here, but then I received a poem from Hope For Wildlife volunteer Karla Henderson that says everything I could, and more.
Run Sweet Pea, Run!
This is the time of year you most notice a fox,
a wily orange blur past white snow and dark spruce
writ large in our consciousness:
Kit. Swift. Cape. Silver.
Cunning King in Luke 13.
Vulpes vulpes for the scientist.
Reynard for the English folklorist, Regin or vixen for the German.
Disney caricatures for Robin Hood and Maid Marion.
The Fox! In Stravinsky’s Renard, and barter for the Voyageurs.
These are people’s foxes.
But you, Sweet Pea?
You’ve made us fox-people for nine years.
A jetsam orphan on the Eastern Shore, bedding down
on wild pea under a boardwalk;
a Shepherd is your second foe,
rickets, your third, and you lose a leg.
Amid this chaos, you must wonder Is this life? Is anybody there?
Hope arrives with meat and mice and might
and before long, the word gets around of
a little orange piñata brimming with treasures.
Oh! The hats you don:
Mama tutor to young kits,
patient for the most part with all those foxes in boxes.
Star attraction for old and young
For several years, his favourite subject was one fox who had the company of a small white dog, and together they romp through my memory to this day in my father’s stories. Years later, I found out other Kentville railway men had brought home tales of this dykeland odd couple, and some of their children knew and remembered with me.
I mention this because I’m absolutely certain there will be children now and children to come who will hear, tell, and remember stories of Sweet Pea. Foxes of my past came to mind when I heard in January that this most popular of all residents at the Hope For Wildlife facility at Seaforth had died. There was something about this little lady, crippled in her first year, that needed to be told. My intention was to do that telling here, but then I received a poem from Hope For Wildlife volunteer Karla Henderson that says everything I could, and more.
Run Sweet Pea, Run!
This is the time of year you most notice a fox,
a wily orange blur past white snow and dark spruce
writ large in our consciousness:
Kit. Swift. Cape. Silver.
Cunning King in Luke 13.
Vulpes vulpes for the scientist.
Reynard for the English folklorist, Regin or vixen for the German.
Disney caricatures for Robin Hood and Maid Marion.
The Fox! In Stravinsky’s Renard, and barter for the Voyageurs.
These are people’s foxes.
But you, Sweet Pea?
You’ve made us fox-people for nine years.
A jetsam orphan on the Eastern Shore, bedding down
on wild pea under a boardwalk;
a Shepherd is your second foe,
rickets, your third, and you lose a leg.
Amid this chaos, you must wonder Is this life? Is anybody there?
Hope arrives with meat and mice and might
and before long, the word gets around of
a little orange piñata brimming with treasures.
Oh! The hats you don:
Mama tutor to young kits,
patient for the most part with all those foxes in boxes.
Star attraction for old and young
who chant your name up the drive with great anticipation.
Favourite resident for volunteers searching for your acknowledgement,
carting your cuisine closer: Oh, hello, you greet them as gently as your footfall.
A fugitive, three times busting out of Dodge; we fret daily, nightly: Is she back?
Mostly, though, you rescue us―
From thinking that society and nature have nothing in common.
From thinking there is no such thing as love at first sight.
Thank you, fearless little friend.
Long may you run!
Karla J. Henderson
January 2010
In my dictionary of literary terms, I use the term Ode to describe a serious but lyrical poem of high praise. Certainly, under my definition, what Karla Henderson wrote here is an Ode, which is only fitting. Sweet Pea, the little fox from Seaforth, was indeed owed a lot.
Favourite resident for volunteers searching for your acknowledgement,
carting your cuisine closer: Oh, hello, you greet them as gently as your footfall.
A fugitive, three times busting out of Dodge; we fret daily, nightly: Is she back?
Mostly, though, you rescue us―
From thinking that society and nature have nothing in common.
From thinking there is no such thing as love at first sight.
Thank you, fearless little friend.
Long may you run!
Karla J. Henderson
January 2010
In my dictionary of literary terms, I use the term Ode to describe a serious but lyrical poem of high praise. Certainly, under my definition, what Karla Henderson wrote here is an Ode, which is only fitting. Sweet Pea, the little fox from Seaforth, was indeed owed a lot.
Long may she run!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Rescuing A Great Horned Owl
“This owl certainly has an attitude,” Hope Swinimer told me.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to pick that bird up” said a friend, looking over my shoulder at a picture taken by passerby David Chaisson of Ketch Harbour.
We were discussing a Great Horned Owl, so I was not surprised. What I found fascinating is the courageous manner in which this most dangerous of all Canadian owls came to be at Hope For Wildlife’s shelter.
The Great Horned Owl is large, powerful, and known to be aggressive towards humans. Its talons have a crushing power of 500 lbs. per square inch. Compare that to 60 for the hand of the average adult human male. It will defend its territory aggressively against any creature of any size.
Of course, all predators are territorial to some degree, and this protective instinct doesn’t make the Great Horned Owl a woodland monster. It’s just an owl being an owl, with its own manner of doing it.
However, it also makes the Great Horned the only owl in North America to have killed a human. Granted, it was a slash to the neck of someone trying to check eggs in a nest, but a fact is a fact, which is why Hope’s story of how the owl she dubbed “Adam” was rescued on Cole Harbour’s Salt Marsh Trail on New Year’s Day past has a special edge in the telling.
The hero of the story is Steve Mitchell of Lawrencetown. He, with dog Geisha and partner Mary Leigh Petersen, was walking about half way across the Cole Harbour dykeland when they found the large owl, obviously with an injured wing.
Their first reaction was to call Hope, but there was no answer so they left a message, and thinking that would take care of it, resumed their walk. Immediately a mob of about 50 crows began circling, so the trio returned to the owl.
A rescue appeared to be needed, so Steve, using Mary Leigh’s down vest as a wrap, softly captured the injured owl. It was then, according to Mary Leigh, that they realized their situation.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to pick that bird up” said a friend, looking over my shoulder at a picture taken by passerby David Chaisson of Ketch Harbour.
We were discussing a Great Horned Owl, so I was not surprised. What I found fascinating is the courageous manner in which this most dangerous of all Canadian owls came to be at Hope For Wildlife’s shelter.
The Great Horned Owl is large, powerful, and known to be aggressive towards humans. Its talons have a crushing power of 500 lbs. per square inch. Compare that to 60 for the hand of the average adult human male. It will defend its territory aggressively against any creature of any size.
Of course, all predators are territorial to some degree, and this protective instinct doesn’t make the Great Horned Owl a woodland monster. It’s just an owl being an owl, with its own manner of doing it.
However, it also makes the Great Horned the only owl in North America to have killed a human. Granted, it was a slash to the neck of someone trying to check eggs in a nest, but a fact is a fact, which is why Hope’s story of how the owl she dubbed “Adam” was rescued on Cole Harbour’s Salt Marsh Trail on New Year’s Day past has a special edge in the telling.
The hero of the story is Steve Mitchell of Lawrencetown. He, with dog Geisha and partner Mary Leigh Petersen, was walking about half way across the Cole Harbour dykeland when they found the large owl, obviously with an injured wing.
Their first reaction was to call Hope, but there was no answer so they left a message, and thinking that would take care of it, resumed their walk. Immediately a mob of about 50 crows began circling, so the trio returned to the owl.
A rescue appeared to be needed, so Steve, using Mary Leigh’s down vest as a wrap, softly captured the injured owl. It was then, according to Mary Leigh, that they realized their situation.
“We found ourselves back on the causeway with an owl wrapped in an Eddie Bauer vest, cradled like a baby in Steve’s arms, with its talons encircling his fingers and its beak six inches from his face,” she later wrote to Hope. “I must add here that Steve was wearing his new MEC, good to -17 degrees, gloves. The label said nothing about carrying owls. We were over three kilometers from the car, with really only one choice. We headed to it.”
It took about half an hour. Hope called and said she would meet them at the other end. The owl stopped the warning clicking and hissing, and, according to Mary Leigh, “seemed to enjoy the ride”. However, it kept an eye on the dog, and Steve could no longer feel his fingers.
It took about half an hour. Hope called and said she would meet them at the other end. The owl stopped the warning clicking and hissing, and, according to Mary Leigh, “seemed to enjoy the ride”. However, it kept an eye on the dog, and Steve could no longer feel his fingers.
Hope was waiting in the trail-end parking lot, expecting a Barred Owl. The site of a Great Horned surprised her. She placed a blanket over it, a calming move for most wild creatures, and had Steve extend his owl-clad arm into a basket. The owl, which had already been relaxed, now brought all its tremendous crushing power to bear for the first time.
“This really brought Steve to his knees,” Mary Leigh said. “Actually, I think he had his forehead in the gravel and was rocking back and forth, all the while trying to relax his hand while the owl tightened its grip.”
Hope kindly related that they could not force the bird to release, and that she had seen people pass out from the grip of talons. It was removing the blanket that ended the crisis. The owl jumped and made a hopping run for it. Hope performed the capture and took it to her Seaforth shelter for examination. It turned out the wing was badly bruised but not broken. “Adam”, as she called it (another Great Horned that came to her on Christmas Eve had already been labeled “Eve”), had broken tail and primary feathers. If they re-grow, he will recover.
And Steve Mitchell? He went to hospital for a tetanus shot. Owl talons are not kind to hands, or new winter gloves.
For me, the question remains: why was this owl so passive when Steve first captured it? The rescue was almost over before it showed its real power. Was it in shock? Too much in pain to protest? In love with the warmth of an Eddie Bauer down vest? We’ll never know.
I’d like to think an injured Great Horned Owl knew someone was trying to help it, restrained its instincts, and let him do it. Of course, this is just a wild animal we’re talking about, so we all know that’s impossible.
“This really brought Steve to his knees,” Mary Leigh said. “Actually, I think he had his forehead in the gravel and was rocking back and forth, all the while trying to relax his hand while the owl tightened its grip.”
Hope kindly related that they could not force the bird to release, and that she had seen people pass out from the grip of talons. It was removing the blanket that ended the crisis. The owl jumped and made a hopping run for it. Hope performed the capture and took it to her Seaforth shelter for examination. It turned out the wing was badly bruised but not broken. “Adam”, as she called it (another Great Horned that came to her on Christmas Eve had already been labeled “Eve”), had broken tail and primary feathers. If they re-grow, he will recover.
And Steve Mitchell? He went to hospital for a tetanus shot. Owl talons are not kind to hands, or new winter gloves.
For me, the question remains: why was this owl so passive when Steve first captured it? The rescue was almost over before it showed its real power. Was it in shock? Too much in pain to protest? In love with the warmth of an Eddie Bauer down vest? We’ll never know.
I’d like to think an injured Great Horned Owl knew someone was trying to help it, restrained its instincts, and let him do it. Of course, this is just a wild animal we’re talking about, so we all know that’s impossible.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Mother Nature Lawn Pest Control Company
What is it with humans that makes us so smug about our stewardship of the world we live in? I’m not talking about the planetary issues politicians and scientists scream at each other, leaving you and me to recycle a bit, think about buying a hybrid car, and in general hope for the best.
No, it’s that little band of green that surrounds many of our homes that concerns me. It’s called a yard.
We think we know what’s out there, but that is becoming increasingly untrue.One good example was the late summer “who’s been in my back yard?” conversations with friends, neighbours, and complete strangers at the garden department of Canadian Tire.
A post-tropical weather event had soaked our part of the world, and everyone was complaining about holes and ripped up sods that magically appeared over the following few days in their lawns. There was a lot of blame flying around. If everything accused had actually been ripping, shredding, boring, and plucking, the villains would have included flickers, chipmunks, skunks, racoons, squirrels, and starlings. And those are just the ones I overheard.
The irony was, no matter who did the digging, the lawn owners were themselves the real cause. The critters were simply Mother Nature’s messengers, telling them they hadn’t been looking after their lawns.
Perhaps it isn’t really all the property owners fault. Chemicals have for the most part been banned in these parts. The message is to “Go Green” and tend your lawn the natural way, but unfortunately that means, for many people, do nothing except cutting it.
Pay attention. Here’s what happens when we get a heavy rainfall on an in-vogue “natural” lawn. All those creepy crawley little things that like to nibble on grass roots, but have gone deep to escape summer dryness, are drawn toward the surface by new moisture. These are delicacies for skunks and racoons, who seem to know the moment they arrive and start grubbing for supper.
You can name your problem by looking at the nature of the digging. If the lawn is full of conical holes about four inches across, it’s a skunk after white grubs (June bug larvae). If the sod is ripped off and rolled back in strips, it’s a racoon, after the same meal.
Those two, and those two only, were to blame for all the post-rainfall damage last summer. Anyone blaming other creatures was badly off target. If you see flickers, a type of woodpecker, feeding on your lawn, you’ve got ants, lots of them. They form about 45% of a flicker’s diet, supplemented with white grubs and leather jackets (crane fly larvae). Flickers peck, they don’t rip. So do starlings, which can come down on you in huge flocks. They love leatherjackets, not surprisingly since both crane fly and starling are European imports with a very long relationship.
As for squirrels and chipmunks, they hide stuff but not in a way that requires ripping up sod. Just don’t let them in your house. That’s where they do their real damage.
If you don’t want critters, furred or feathered, bothering you and your back yard, don’t invite them. As Hope For Wildlife Director Hope Swinnimer of Seaforth suggested recently, if Mother Nature’s yard crew is at work on your lawn, they are helping you, whether you realize it or not. Don’t treat them as the enemy. What they’re eating is the enemy. Understand they are doing something that is natural to them, and consider that if you want your yard maintenance done “naturally”, this is part of it.
No, it’s that little band of green that surrounds many of our homes that concerns me. It’s called a yard.
We think we know what’s out there, but that is becoming increasingly untrue.One good example was the late summer “who’s been in my back yard?” conversations with friends, neighbours, and complete strangers at the garden department of Canadian Tire.
A post-tropical weather event had soaked our part of the world, and everyone was complaining about holes and ripped up sods that magically appeared over the following few days in their lawns. There was a lot of blame flying around. If everything accused had actually been ripping, shredding, boring, and plucking, the villains would have included flickers, chipmunks, skunks, racoons, squirrels, and starlings. And those are just the ones I overheard.
The irony was, no matter who did the digging, the lawn owners were themselves the real cause. The critters were simply Mother Nature’s messengers, telling them they hadn’t been looking after their lawns.
Perhaps it isn’t really all the property owners fault. Chemicals have for the most part been banned in these parts. The message is to “Go Green” and tend your lawn the natural way, but unfortunately that means, for many people, do nothing except cutting it.
Pay attention. Here’s what happens when we get a heavy rainfall on an in-vogue “natural” lawn. All those creepy crawley little things that like to nibble on grass roots, but have gone deep to escape summer dryness, are drawn toward the surface by new moisture. These are delicacies for skunks and racoons, who seem to know the moment they arrive and start grubbing for supper.
You can name your problem by looking at the nature of the digging. If the lawn is full of conical holes about four inches across, it’s a skunk after white grubs (June bug larvae). If the sod is ripped off and rolled back in strips, it’s a racoon, after the same meal.
Those two, and those two only, were to blame for all the post-rainfall damage last summer. Anyone blaming other creatures was badly off target. If you see flickers, a type of woodpecker, feeding on your lawn, you’ve got ants, lots of them. They form about 45% of a flicker’s diet, supplemented with white grubs and leather jackets (crane fly larvae). Flickers peck, they don’t rip. So do starlings, which can come down on you in huge flocks. They love leatherjackets, not surprisingly since both crane fly and starling are European imports with a very long relationship.
As for squirrels and chipmunks, they hide stuff but not in a way that requires ripping up sod. Just don’t let them in your house. That’s where they do their real damage.
If you don’t want critters, furred or feathered, bothering you and your back yard, don’t invite them. As Hope For Wildlife Director Hope Swinnimer of Seaforth suggested recently, if Mother Nature’s yard crew is at work on your lawn, they are helping you, whether you realize it or not. Don’t treat them as the enemy. What they’re eating is the enemy. Understand they are doing something that is natural to them, and consider that if you want your yard maintenance done “naturally”, this is part of it.
In The Dark Of Night
Once, they were very plentiful in Nova Scotia, and people kept them as pets. Then we humans decimated the climax forest, and their numbered dwindled. Today, they are still around, but even people who spend large portions of time in the woods seldom see them. That’s because you need to be in old growth forest, at night.
This is a great shame, because of all wild creatures I have met, my favourite by far is the silent, gentle flying squirrel. Before I moved to a pine-covered point off Waverley Road twelve years ago, I had only occasional glimpses of them, wisps of grey and white silently gliding through shadows. Now, surrounded by mature pines, I am greeted every night at dusk as they sail in to take sunflower seeds from the feeders facing my kitchen window.
Joanne and I have marveled at how dissimilar flying squirrels are from their red cousins. They are nocturnal, gregarious, gentle, silent, and have those lovable big eyes of night things. Put two red squirrels on a feeder and you will hear a lot of noise and see fur fly. Flying squirrels? The more the merrier! I’ve never seen them fight. Nor have I heard a threatening voice. In fact, if one is at the feeder and another shows up, room is made for the newcomer. In a tiny wooden alcove feeder, I have seen four peacefully wedged in for a winter night meal.
Flying squirrels require climax forest, preferably intermixed conifers and hardwoods. They mostly den in tree holes, often those made by woodpeckers. This requires large, usually dead, trees. They eat the seeds of mature trees. Another favourite food is fungi, which needs rotting logs of an old growth forest.
Off course, they don’t really fly. They jump from one tree and glide to the next, sometimes up to 100 feet away. A fold of skin called the patagium connects ankle and wrist, and when they spread themselves out, they become tiny grey kites, their flat tail acting as a balance and rudder. Nothing I know of in nature equals the silent, ghostly beauty of a flying squirrel sailing across my driveway in the moonlight.
The reason I brought up this topic is a conversation recently with Hope Swinimer of Hope For Wildlife.
“We’ve got a little flying squirrel coming in from Liverpool,” she said. “I wonder if it’s northern or southern?”
The squirrel had been badly mauled by a cat (We also have that problem at our house. More on it in a later column) and only survived a few hours in Hope’s care. But she brought up something that few people know. There are actually two types of flying squirrels in Nova Scotia. By far the most plentiful is the northern flying squirrel. If you abide in a decent expanse of old forest, you likely have them. Its smaller cousin, the southern flying squirrel, is quite rare. Officially, it is only found in Kejimkujik National Park and my old stomping ground, the Gaspereau River watershed in Kings County.
I understood Hope’s question. Liverpool is down-Mersey from Keji, which gave her hope (no pun intended) of a rare patient. However, the cat had fractured its pelvis and added internal injuries. It never had a chance.
Flying squirrels are protected species in Nova Scotia. They are too friendly and trusting for their own good. It is normal to have one or two of them clinging to the bark of a pine while I fill the feeder only a foot away. This docile nature, and their cuddly look, once made them popular pets, especially to early residents.
Before renovations started, there was a large painting opposite the foot of the formal staircase at Government House in Halifax, the traditional home of Lieutenant Governors. It was of Lady Wentworth, the wife of our first Governor, Sir John Wentworth, and she had with her a pet on a long blue ribbon. I once asked several staffers what it was, and got only shrugs. I even stumped then-Lt. Governor Myra Freeman. Few of them, I suspect, had spent much night time in Nova Scotia’s almost-gone old growth forest.
My guess is that it has been very many years since anyone recognized that Lady Wentworth had a pet flying squirrel.
This is a great shame, because of all wild creatures I have met, my favourite by far is the silent, gentle flying squirrel. Before I moved to a pine-covered point off Waverley Road twelve years ago, I had only occasional glimpses of them, wisps of grey and white silently gliding through shadows. Now, surrounded by mature pines, I am greeted every night at dusk as they sail in to take sunflower seeds from the feeders facing my kitchen window.
Joanne and I have marveled at how dissimilar flying squirrels are from their red cousins. They are nocturnal, gregarious, gentle, silent, and have those lovable big eyes of night things. Put two red squirrels on a feeder and you will hear a lot of noise and see fur fly. Flying squirrels? The more the merrier! I’ve never seen them fight. Nor have I heard a threatening voice. In fact, if one is at the feeder and another shows up, room is made for the newcomer. In a tiny wooden alcove feeder, I have seen four peacefully wedged in for a winter night meal.
Flying squirrels require climax forest, preferably intermixed conifers and hardwoods. They mostly den in tree holes, often those made by woodpeckers. This requires large, usually dead, trees. They eat the seeds of mature trees. Another favourite food is fungi, which needs rotting logs of an old growth forest.
Off course, they don’t really fly. They jump from one tree and glide to the next, sometimes up to 100 feet away. A fold of skin called the patagium connects ankle and wrist, and when they spread themselves out, they become tiny grey kites, their flat tail acting as a balance and rudder. Nothing I know of in nature equals the silent, ghostly beauty of a flying squirrel sailing across my driveway in the moonlight.
The reason I brought up this topic is a conversation recently with Hope Swinimer of Hope For Wildlife.
“We’ve got a little flying squirrel coming in from Liverpool,” she said. “I wonder if it’s northern or southern?”
The squirrel had been badly mauled by a cat (We also have that problem at our house. More on it in a later column) and only survived a few hours in Hope’s care. But she brought up something that few people know. There are actually two types of flying squirrels in Nova Scotia. By far the most plentiful is the northern flying squirrel. If you abide in a decent expanse of old forest, you likely have them. Its smaller cousin, the southern flying squirrel, is quite rare. Officially, it is only found in Kejimkujik National Park and my old stomping ground, the Gaspereau River watershed in Kings County.
I understood Hope’s question. Liverpool is down-Mersey from Keji, which gave her hope (no pun intended) of a rare patient. However, the cat had fractured its pelvis and added internal injuries. It never had a chance.
Flying squirrels are protected species in Nova Scotia. They are too friendly and trusting for their own good. It is normal to have one or two of them clinging to the bark of a pine while I fill the feeder only a foot away. This docile nature, and their cuddly look, once made them popular pets, especially to early residents.
Before renovations started, there was a large painting opposite the foot of the formal staircase at Government House in Halifax, the traditional home of Lieutenant Governors. It was of Lady Wentworth, the wife of our first Governor, Sir John Wentworth, and she had with her a pet on a long blue ribbon. I once asked several staffers what it was, and got only shrugs. I even stumped then-Lt. Governor Myra Freeman. Few of them, I suspect, had spent much night time in Nova Scotia’s almost-gone old growth forest.
My guess is that it has been very many years since anyone recognized that Lady Wentworth had a pet flying squirrel.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Rescuing A Great Horned Owl
“This owl certainly has an attitude,” Hope Swinimer told me.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to pick that bird up” said a friend, looking over my shoulder at a picture taken by passerby David Chaisson of Ketch Harbour.
We were discussing a Great Horned Owl, so I was not surprised. What I found fascinating is the courageous manner in which this most dangerous of all Canadian owls came to be at Hope For Wildlife’s shelter.
The Great Horned Owl is large, powerful, and known to be aggressive towards humans. Its talons have a crushing power of 500 lbs. per square inch. Compare that to 60 for the hand of the average adult human male. It will defend its territory aggressively against any creature of any size.
Of course, all predators are territorial to some degree, and this protective instinct doesn’t make the Great Horned Owl a woodland monster. It’s just an owl being an owl, with its own manner of doing it.
However, it also makes the Great Horned the only owl in North America to have killed a human. Granted, it was a slash to the neck of someone trying to check eggs in a nest, but a fact is a fact, which is why Hope’s story of how the owl she dubbed “Adam” was rescued on Cole Harbour’s Salt Marsh Trail on New Year’s Day past has a special edge in the telling.
The hero of the story is Steve Mitchell of Lawrencetown. He, with dog Geisha and partner Mary Leigh Petersen, was walking about half way across the Cole Harbour dykeland when they found the large owl, obviously with an injured wing.
Their first reaction was to call Hope, but there was no answer so they left a message, and thinking that would take care of it, resumed their walk. Immediately a mob of about 50 crows began circling, so the trio returned to the owl.
A rescue appeared to be needed, so Steve, using Mary Leigh’s down vest as a wrap, softly captured the injured owl. It was then, according to Mary Leigh, that they realized their situation.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to pick that bird up” said a friend, looking over my shoulder at a picture taken by passerby David Chaisson of Ketch Harbour.
We were discussing a Great Horned Owl, so I was not surprised. What I found fascinating is the courageous manner in which this most dangerous of all Canadian owls came to be at Hope For Wildlife’s shelter.
The Great Horned Owl is large, powerful, and known to be aggressive towards humans. Its talons have a crushing power of 500 lbs. per square inch. Compare that to 60 for the hand of the average adult human male. It will defend its territory aggressively against any creature of any size.
Of course, all predators are territorial to some degree, and this protective instinct doesn’t make the Great Horned Owl a woodland monster. It’s just an owl being an owl, with its own manner of doing it.
However, it also makes the Great Horned the only owl in North America to have killed a human. Granted, it was a slash to the neck of someone trying to check eggs in a nest, but a fact is a fact, which is why Hope’s story of how the owl she dubbed “Adam” was rescued on Cole Harbour’s Salt Marsh Trail on New Year’s Day past has a special edge in the telling.
The hero of the story is Steve Mitchell of Lawrencetown. He, with dog Geisha and partner Mary Leigh Petersen, was walking about half way across the Cole Harbour dykeland when they found the large owl, obviously with an injured wing.
Their first reaction was to call Hope, but there was no answer so they left a message, and thinking that would take care of it, resumed their walk. Immediately a mob of about 50 crows began circling, so the trio returned to the owl.
A rescue appeared to be needed, so Steve, using Mary Leigh’s down vest as a wrap, softly captured the injured owl. It was then, according to Mary Leigh, that they realized their situation.
“We found ourselves back on the causeway with an owl wrapped in an Eddie Bauer vest, cradled like a baby in Steve’s arms, with its talons encircling his fingers and its beak six inches from his face,” she later wrote to Hope. “I must add here that Steve was wearing his new MEC, good to -17 degrees, gloves. The label said nothing about carrying owls. We were over three kilometers from the car, with really only one choice. We headed to it.”
It took about half an hour. Hope called and said she would meet them at the other end. The owl stopped the warning clicking and hissing, and, according to Mary Leigh, “seemed to enjoy the ride”. However, it kept an eye on the dog, and Steve could no longer feel his fingers.
It took about half an hour. Hope called and said she would meet them at the other end. The owl stopped the warning clicking and hissing, and, according to Mary Leigh, “seemed to enjoy the ride”. However, it kept an eye on the dog, and Steve could no longer feel his fingers.
Hope was waiting in the trail-end parking lot, expecting a Barred Owl. The site of a Great Horned surprised her. She placed a blanket over it, a calming move for most wild creatures, and had Steve extend his owl-clad arm into a basket. The owl, which had already been relaxed, now brought all its tremendous crushing power to bear for the first time.
“This really brought Steve to his knees,” Mary Leigh said. “Actually, I think he had his forehead in the gravel and was rocking back and forth, all the while trying to relax his hand while the owl tightened its grip.”
Hope kindly related that they could not force the bird to release, and that she had seen people pass out from the grip of talons. It was removing the blanket that ended the crisis. The owl jumped and made a hopping run for it. Hope performed the capture and took it to her Seaforth shelter for examination. It turned out the wing was badly bruised but not broken. “Adam”, as she called it (another Great Horned that came to her on Christmas Eve had already been labeled “Eve”), had broken tail and primary feathers. If they re-grow, he will recover.
And Steve Mitchell? He went to hospital for a tetanus shot. Owl talons are not kind to hands, or new winter gloves.
For me, the question remains: why was this owl so passive when Steve first captured it? The rescue was almost over before it showed its real power. Was it in shock? Too much in pain to protest? In love with the warmth of an Eddie Bauer down vest? We’ll never know.
I’d like to think an injured Great Horned Owl knew someone was trying to help it, restrained its instincts, and let him do it. Of course, this is just a wild animal we’re talking about, so we all know that’s impossible.
“This really brought Steve to his knees,” Mary Leigh said. “Actually, I think he had his forehead in the gravel and was rocking back and forth, all the while trying to relax his hand while the owl tightened its grip.”
Hope kindly related that they could not force the bird to release, and that she had seen people pass out from the grip of talons. It was removing the blanket that ended the crisis. The owl jumped and made a hopping run for it. Hope performed the capture and took it to her Seaforth shelter for examination. It turned out the wing was badly bruised but not broken. “Adam”, as she called it (another Great Horned that came to her on Christmas Eve had already been labeled “Eve”), had broken tail and primary feathers. If they re-grow, he will recover.
And Steve Mitchell? He went to hospital for a tetanus shot. Owl talons are not kind to hands, or new winter gloves.
For me, the question remains: why was this owl so passive when Steve first captured it? The rescue was almost over before it showed its real power. Was it in shock? Too much in pain to protest? In love with the warmth of an Eddie Bauer down vest? We’ll never know.
I’d like to think an injured Great Horned Owl knew someone was trying to help it, restrained its instincts, and let him do it. Of course, this is just a wild animal we’re talking about, so we all know that’s impossible.
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