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.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
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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