A Moveable Feast

They say necessity is the mother of invention — I guess that’s why spiders found a clever way to order in, long before Kroger and Amazon began to lug customer’s grub. Not even a Costco cart is big enough to satisfy arachnid appetites but spiders rule when it comes to home food delivery. You see, it’s all about the web.

I don’t mean the Internet.

The menu of ingenious spiderweb designs includes: the classic spiral cobweb with its orderly silk scaffolding; messy 3D tangles rigged between available attachment points; carefully woven sheets scattered like picnic blankets across a lawn; funnels and trapdoors; and even a minimalistic single thread and sticky ball baited with pheromone-mimicking chemicals.  Gourmet or generic, webs deliver the vittles.And spiders are a hungry lot. They have to eat approximately 10% of their body weight in prey, each and every day.  Humans, by way of comparison, consume on average only 2–3% of our body weight—2.5 to 4 pounds of food per day. Now, I can already hear you bellyaching, “Not so fast, Kieran! Sure, 10% may sound like a lot at first but spiders don’t weigh very much. This hardly qualifies as extreme eating.” True, even the 12-inch Goliath Bird-Eating Tarantula is significantly smaller than most people. But, believe me, 10% can add up fast.

Based on published spider censuses (yes, I assure you there are people who do this for a living), there’s an average of 131 spiders for every square meter of land on Earth. Here’s a handy visual for metrically-challenged Americans:  Think of a square kitchen table that seats 4 people. Now imagine that table top covered with 131 peckish spiders. Next, see a vista of spider-covered kitchen tables, placed edge to edge like tiles across the entire landmass of our planet.

Remember, 131 is an average so in less hospitable regions the tables will have only a few patrons, while in other parts of the world each table may have up to 1,000 spiders patiently waiting for dinner to arrive. All told, there are approximately 27 million tons of spiders hanging out in the Earth’s forests, grasslands, plateaus, and deserts, our basements, attics, garages, and kitchen tables.

Before you shudder in horror, remember that insects are the spider-snack of choice and, consider for a moment, how buggy the world would be without these arachnid carnivores.

Scientists Martin Nyffeler (University of Basel, Switzerland) and Klaus Birkhofer (Lund University, Sweden) did just that.  They decided it would be fun to compute the global spider grocery bill and possibly add a peer-reviewed paper to their CVs in the process. They reviewed the work other researchers had done on the metabolic needs of spiders, assessed field reports on the number of prey captured and eaten by spiders, threw it all in a statistical blender, and published their calculations in The Science of Nature earlier this year. According to their recipe, spiders catch and eat 400–800 million tons of prey annually.

Let’s put that number in context, shall we?

  • Seabirds (all species) consume 70 million tons of food annually.
  • Whales (all species) consume 280–500 million tons of food annually.
  • Human beings consume approximately 400 million tons of meat and fish each year.

Still not impressed? Every year, the combined weight of insects consumed by spiders is greater than the total biomass of every person on Earth:

                      7.4 billion people x 130 lbs (avg. weight) = 400 million tons

There’s no doubt spiders play a significant role in managing insects, especially in forests and grasslands. The mere intimidating presence of spiders has been shown to limit the feeding behavior of some insects, reducing plant damage.

Spider prey includes insects that are of interest to humans due to their role as pests or disease vectors, but they’re not particularly helpful in managing agricultural pests.  Nyffeler and Birkhofer hypothesize that cultivated lands have less insect diversity and fewer insects overall than undisturbed lands, making them almost as unappealing to spiders as grocery stores.

Grocers must adapt to modern shoppers, though, and spiderweb technology could help capture the home delivery market!


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© 2018 Next-Door Nature. Originally published in Pest Control Technology Magazine (February 2018). Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author. Thanks to the following photographers for making their work available through the Creative Commons license: Tibor Nagy, Christopher, varmfront.se, Katja Schulz, and Marcus.

Spineless Samurai

When the annual cicadas emerge each summer their tymbals vibrate at arboreal drumming circles all over town.  The beats bounce and reverberate against hard city surfaces; during a crescendo, I swear I can feel the buildings and sidewalks pulsing like wings, like a heart. Yet, despite the percussive nature of this invertebrate orchestra, to my ears the cicada’s summer song evokes the kokyū—a traditional Japanese string instrument played with a bow.

This may be due to the fact that I imagine cicadas as miniature ronin, masterless six-legged samurai, stoic and single-minded, clad in intricately constructed armor of lacquered plates and scales. Of course, several beetle species call to mind this 12th-century warrior class, and I’m not the only one to see the resemblance. Rhinoceros beetles (Allomyrina dichotomy), for example, are known in Japan as a kabutomushimushi, the Japanese word for insect, and kabuto, which refers to the helmet worn by samurai (and the inspiration for Darth Vader’s visage).

It don’t know if it’s an example of the sincerest form of flattery or an unconscious imitation, but biomimicry—biological features or processes used as inspiration for beneficial products and practices— is an old technique that’s experiencing resurgence. Humans have long taken cues from the successful strategies of other animals. Indigenous cultures incorporated the characteristics of nonhuman animals into hunting tactics and rituals; composers have used all manner of musical instruments to simulate birdcalls and other nature sounds; superheroes like Spider-Man and Batman are pretty shameless about co-opting the special powers of their totem animals.

Then there’s warcraft. It’s hard to miss the resemblance between certain insects and the body armor worn by human warriors. From my perspective, there’s a natural synergy between invertebrates, who need a rigid external sheath for support and protection due to the absence of an internal skeleton, and Homo sapiens, who need prosthetic exoskeletons to protect our vulnerable bodies from the increasingly deadly technology imagined and fashioned by members of our own species—first flint arrowheads, then copper maces, bronze spears and daggers, iron javelins and swords, cannons and shrapnel, steel rifles and handguns, and eventually weapons that make any kind of armor irrelevant.

Chemical warfare is common in the insect world, and humans have readily adopted the same strategy against both macroscopic and microscopic opponents. In human enterprises, poisons do generally deliver short-term success; however, the initial win is usually followed by long-term health and environmental losses. This is particularly true when chemistry is used against presumed enemies with high reproduction rates… for example, insects and bacteria.

In most biological populations, there will usually be at least a few members strong or lucky enough to survive the application of toxins. Those individuals become the progenitors of the next generation, passing along their protective genetic code and, over time, rendering the chemical weaponry powerless. That’s how natural selection produces organisms well suited to their environment, and that’s why chemical deterrents always have a limited shelf life… against insects and bacteria, anyway. Less than 150 years after the introduction of antibiotics, hospitals and medical personnel are fighting resistant bacteria, including methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) and multi-drug-resistant Mycobacterium tuberculosis (MDR-TB), and attempting to do so with a limited alternate arsenal.

As a result, biomimicry is shrinking to nano-scale. Researchers are investigating new ways to protect human bodies from bacterial enemies, and certain insects have proven to be adept at mechanical antibacterial warfare. Think samurai on a microbial level.

In 2013, a team of researchers from Australia and Spain discovered that evolution has armed the clanger cicada (Psaltoda claripennis) with an elegantly simple defense against infection worthy of a kendo master. Clanger wings are covered with nano-pillars—aka tiny spikes.

Initially, it was assumed this pointed texture worked like a bed of nails—a hapless bacterium lands on the wing, stretching and sagging into the crevices between the spikes, and as gravity does its thing the pathogen’s skin tears, rendering it incapable of reproduction. Earlier this year, though, a group of Australian and Nigerian researchers proposed that truth is, once again, stranger than fiction… or at least as inventive as a movie villain.

Bacteria adhere to surfaces and each other by secreting finger-like structures called extracellular polymeric substances (EPS). These natural polymers allow the organisms to form biofilms on plant roots and fruit, fish and boat hulls, teeth and gums, plumbing pipes and medical catheters, even hot alkaline spring waters and glaciers—in other words, nearly any surface we know of except a nano-textured insect wing.

If the bacteria on a clanger cicada wing would stay put, they would likely deform but survive. If they move, though, those pillars subject the EPS to shear forces, ripping the external membrane and causing the bacteria to deflate like a balloon due to fatal leakage of the cell’s contents.

Regardless of how these nano-textured surfaces (NTS) kill, their potential as models for developing chemical-free, non-toxic antibacterial materials is undeniably exciting.  One of the first proposed products to utilize NTS was a coating that could be applied to countertops, doorknobs, railings, bus straps, subway poles, sinks, commodes, and even money. An Australian manufacturer of medical implants has acquired the patent, seeing potential for using this technology to reduce the chance of post-surgical infection. Since the killing mechanism is mechanical, devices coated with nano-textures could bypass the clinical approval processes required for chemical treatments, reducing the time and cost to bring these products to market.

Additional research has revealed that clanger cicadas aren’t the only winged insects armed with antibacterial nano-patterns, nor are they the most efficient.  The cicada’s NTS only kills gram-negative bacteria, but the wings of a fiery skimmer dragonfly (Orthetrum villosovittatum) have an NTS that is equally effective at killing both gram-negative and gram-positive pathogens. 

The nano-scale needles formed by black silicon have been tested in the lab and appear to have antibacterial properties similar to those of dragonfly wings. However, scientists aren’t yet sure why nano-patterned wings provides such a powerful defense, or how to replicate it for commercial use. That should come as no surprise given the nature of warfare, on any scale. It’s the Way of the Sword, and a samurai never reveals all of his secrets.

Every summer, people complain about cicadas but if insect wing nano-pillars become the next penicillin they may change their tune. Personally, I find the droning soundtrack soothing. I like knowing that, aided by sodium-yellow streetlights, spineless samurai are keeping watching through the night. Their kokyū lullaby floats past the gingko tree leaves, slips through my window screen, and into my dreams.


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© 2018 Next-Door Nature. First published at the Center for Humans and Nature’s City Creatures blog.  Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author. Thanks to the following photographers who made their work available through the Creative Commons license: Boaz Ng, Walters Art Museum, NFG photo, Mike BitzenhoferPaul Balfe, and tami abigador pearson.

Vice Squad

I was just trying to help, I swear.

In fact, the primary directive in wildlife rehabilitation is: First, do no harm. But the indignant male northern cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis) I had just lifted out of a shoebox clearly interpreted my attempts to do a thorough but gentle intake exam as disrespectful. He spat a curse at me, and before I could blurt out an apology, he clamped that bright orange vice-like beak down on the webbing between my thumb and forefinger with more force than seemed plausible for a creature that weighed less than 2 ounces (57 g). 

There we stood—me holding him and trying not to squeeze, him holding me and trying to squeeze with all of his might. I watched a blood blister forming beneath his pincer but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Any attempt to pry him from my hand risked adding to his injuries. I could only try to remain as still as possible, take deep breaths, and wait for him to let go… even though he appeared firmly cemented in place.


Cardinals are year-round residents in much of the continental U.S., from the East Coast westward into Nebraska, Kansas, Texas, parts of New Mexico, Arizona, and southern California. Familiar and conspicuous, with an easy-to-recognize crest and stop-light bright plumage, even in winter, this species is a perennial favorite of backyard feeder enthusiasts and beginning birders. This species is known to be a courageous defender of both offspring and territory, which may be why it was chosen as the mascot for a couple of national sports teams, and for seven different states.

Songbird beaks often provide a clue, or a blatant disclosure, of the owners’ food preferences, especially if the species is a fussy eater—for example, primarily nectar, or meat, or in this case, seeds. There’s more than one way to crack a hard shell and evolution has equipped other granivores with distinctive but equally effective beak shapes. Even so, the cardinal’s short, thick, cone-shaped bill is typical of an avian seed-eater.

Which is not to imply that these black-masked bad-ass birds demand a solely grain-based diet; approximately 10% of their calories come from fruits, flowers, maple sap, and invertebrates. Moreover, their young are fed insects almost exclusively until they’re old enough to leave the nest and digest seeds.

Hatchlings cardinals don’t start life equipped with the same vice-grip their elders wear on their faces (rather than in tool belts at the waist). Given the sibling rivalry for Mom and Dad’s attention whenever they bring home groceries, it’s probably for the best that the youngsters don’t have access to pinching pliers until after they fledge; pushing and shoving are dangerous enough when the nursery is a twig cup perched precariously in the crook of a tree branch.

Eventually, the baby redbirds bills do morph into their final adult size and shape, although for a while the their adolescent nose may look out of proportion to the rest of their head. Hey, being an awkward teen is all part of growing up. It builds character, or so they say. 

With daily compulsory practice (at least if they want to eat) it doesn’t take long before those gawky bills are wielded like a finely crafted tool that quickly converts a feeder full of sunflower seeds into a pile of empty shells… or, very nearly brings a well-meaning wildlife biologist to her knees.


Back at the rehab center intake desk, the good Samaritans who had handed me the shoebox—a young mother and two small children—watched as I stood stock still, a bright red songbird pretending to be a pair of locking forceps stuck to my hand, struggling to hold back tears of pain (and four-letter words).

It’s been 20 years since I worked at the TWRC Wildlife Shelter in Houston, Texas. I’m not at all sure how long it took for the cardinal to release his grip… what feels like least a half-hour in memory was probably less than 3 minutes in real time. Luckily, there’s no scar on my hand, but my cardinal encounter did leave a lasting mark; the memory of that fierce feathered vice is riveted to my brain.

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[Thanks to the photographers who granted permission to use their photos, and to those who made their work available through the Creative Commons license: John Flannery, Fred Faulkner, Sasha Azevedo, Kenneth Cole Schneider, and John Flannery© 2017 Next-Door Nature. Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author.]

Treehuggers

I’ve been called a treehugger more than once in my life, and while I know the comments weren’t intended as such, I always take them as compliments. As a sobriquet it’s both true and false: true, because I do spontaneously hug exceptionally handsome or venerable trees; and false, because compared to the practiced professionals who scamper up and down tree boles every waking hour of their lives, my embraces are too amateurish to qualify as authentic hugging.

Sure, as a kid I would climb trees and hang from the larger limbs by my knees. We had several sturdy silver maples in our yard and I loved spending time in these leafy hideouts. But there’s more to being a treehugger than practice. I simply don’t have the body to become world-class, or even marginally proficient. To compete with the Eastern gray squirrels (Sciurus carolinensis) in my neighborhood, whose arboreal acrobatics would make a Cirque du Soleil gymnast green with envy, I would need a significantly different anatomy.

For example, I would need to lose enough weight (and height) to allow the friction created by the pressure of my paws gripping a small branch to overpower gravity’s bullying attempts to push me rudely onto the ground.

A better sense of balance would also be necessary if I were to have any success as a legitimate treehugger. I’m not saying I trip over myself on a daily basis but, as friends and family can attest, when I do fall it’s Charlie-Brown spectacular… and usually on my face.

Tree squirrels, in comparison, are masters at controlling their center of gravity. This can be attributed, at least in part, because they can hold on equally well with both hands and feet.  Here again I’m disadvantaged, and I place full blame on evolution, my DNA, and whichever hominid ancestors of mine, after climbing down from a tree on an African savannah, decided that standing upright and using feet almost exclusively for the precarious task of bipedal perambulation was a much better way to go than remaining quadrupedal.

My filed and brightly polished toenails would have to go, replaced by strong, sharp claws that could easily pierce porous bark or hook onto an uneven edge (completely impractical for someone who wears socks and sleeps under a blanket, though). Whereas humans, including me, need at least three points of attachment when climbing, this adaptation allows squirrels to secure their position with only two attachment points, and to grasp new surfaces at angles most animals would find impossible.

Most important of all, I would need feet that can pivot on a swivel joint, allowing my ankles to rotate backwards so I could hang from nearly vertical surfaces.

If I’d been born a flamboyantly fluffy-tailed rodent then maybe, just maybe, I could latch on to a wrinkle in the tree rind and hang by my toenails while enjoying a leisurely acorn snack. Alas, ’tis the fault in my stars to peer ever and enviously skyward, my feet with their simple-hinge ankles planted on the firmament at the base of the trunk, and looked down upon with curiosity and pity (I assume) from the higher-ups.

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[Thanks to the photographers made their work available through the Creative Commons license: Mr.TinDC, Artful Magpie, JoeInQueens, and Jed Sheehan.  © 2017 Next-Door Nature. Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author.]

Virtuosity

Maybe Bobby McFerrin was a house wren (Troglodytes aedon) in a previous life.

This thought popped into my mind when, after listening to On Being’s Krista Tippett interview the singer, I went out for a walk with my canine companion. We hadn’t made it too far down the sunny trail when we were suddenly drenched by a deluge of liquid notes. That vocal tsunami, pouring forth from an entirely disproportional feathered Dixie cup, stopped me in my tracks.

Like McFerrin, who is known for fluid, polyphonic singing and quick, oceanic octave jumps, the wren’s song bounced around like raindrops on pavement. I suppose that’s why the synapses in my brain connected the two muscians.

There are definite differences between these gifted songbirds, though.

For example, wrens and other passerine birds produce vocal sounds using an organ called the syrinx, positioned where the trachea splits into two bronchial tubes. Each side of the syrinx operates independently, so songbirds can produce a sweeping range of notes in fractions of a second, or two different pitches at the same time, or simultaneous rising and falling notes, all without stopping for a breath. Humans, by contrast, make vocal sounds by sending air from the lung into the windpipe, through folds (aka vocal cords) in the larynx, and out to the throat, nose, and mouth.

Admittedly, McFerrin often sounds as if he has a syrinx but, hard as it is to believe, he’s making all of those notes with the same equipment you and I have. It’s just that he’s playing every instrument in the orchestra, and we’re barely pecking out “Chopsticks.” His ability to switch pitch is inarguably stunning; however, even this virtuoso can’t match the speed of a wren running through the scales.

McFerrin has a rich and ever-expanding repertoire that includes pop, a capella, choralclassical, spirituals, and movie scores. Like any jazz artist worthy of the title, he is a master of improvisation; always learning, always expanding his technique, consistently creative and ready to try something new. Wrens, on the other hand, may sound like they’re jamming but they’re actually shuffling 12-16 stock syllables… kind of like a classically trained musician who learned to play according to the rules of the conservatory but wants to sound cool enough to swing.

You see, passerines begin their musical education when they are barely out of the egg, during a development phase known as the critical period. Listening to the adult birds around them, the youngsters tune in to the songs and calls of their own species. Once young wrens have left the nest they practice, over and over and over, dialing in the sounds until the song matches the memory. With the exception of mimicking species (e.g., mockingbirds, catbirds, and thrashers), there will be no extemporization. That’s because wrens choose a mate based on the ability to cover “their song” note for note. Some bird songs have geographic variations, sort of like regional accents, but chicks want a boy who sounds like he’s from the neighborhood, and will pass over anyone who sounds too exotic or experimental.

I’m much less discriminating, at least on that score. Bubbling, effervescent singing, whether it’s an improv by McFerrin or a house wren standard, always helps me tune out my worries… and that makes me happy.

[Play both videos at once so Bobby and the house wren can duet!]

 

[Thanks to the following photographers for making their work available through the Creative Commons license: Dustin Gaffke, , Todd Van Hoosear, and Rachid H.  © 2017 Next-Door Nature. Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author.]

Slender in the Grass

[photo: josh more, ccl]

But never met this Fellow, Attended or alone, Without a tighter Breathing, and Zero at the Bone.

 

Unlike Emily Dickinson, ophiophobia isn’t an issue for me. I like snakes and know them to be upstanding ecosystem citizens… umm, ok, upstanding probably isn’t the best descriptor for creatures without legs but you get my drift.

Of course, I offer an extra measure of obeisance for any and all animals who engage in chemical warfare but their numbers are relatively few here in North America. Of the over 125 snake species endemic to my home continent, for example, only 21 are venomous. All 18 of the vipers have a distinctive triangular head, and the 16 rattlesnakes in this group are armed with an unmistakable warning system. The 2 coral snakes species found in the U.S. wear a color pattern that’s easy to recognize from further than arm’s-length, and since Blacksburg, Virginia, isn’t anywhere near the western coast of Mexico I don’t have to watch out for yellowbelly sea snakes.

[photo: greg schechter, ccl]

So if I happen upon a small garden hose that unexpectedly untangles and slips into the lawn I’m not chilled to the marrow. On the contrary — when I spot a green grass snake (Opheodrys spp.) passing by I’m likely to lean in cordially and say, “Well, hello gorgeous!”

And what comely creatures these colubrids are, with large, round eyes and a red tongue tipped in black.  Bright, nearly neon green above, accented with sunny yellow and ivory below, their color scheme is positively tropical despite the fact that they’re only found well above the equator.  Both the smooth (O. vernalis) and rough (O. aestivus) are slight and lithe. For this genus “rough” refers raised scale keels along the back and sides but, like all snakes, the skin of both grass snake species is satiny, not slimy.

Contrary to what the name implies, grass snakes don’t limit themselves to turf and terra firma. They are great climbers, moving with grace and prudence as they stalk insects and small amphibians through brambles, bushes, and trees. The many regional names given to this species testify to this fact, including: magnolia snake, huckleberry snake, vine snake, bush snake, and green tree snake. Grass snakes are also known to mimic small breeze-blown branches to blend into the surroundings while waiting for prey, or while attempting to avoid becoming prey to birds, mammals, and other snakes, including the eastern racer (Coluber constrictor) and the eastern king snake (Lampropeltis getula).

Grass snakes are good swimmers who are often found near water, in and around moist meadows and marshes, in riparian habitat as well as open forests and woodlands, as well as cities and suburbs.

Their willingness to live in developed areas puts grass snakes at risk of being persecuted by house cats, run over by cars and mowers, and they appear to be susceptible to pesticides as well.  These docile beauties haven’t gone unnoticed by the pet trade, sadly. Although Smooths are protected in some places, few states in the U.S. regulate reptile harvest.  Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of grass snakes are collected from the wild each year, making them one of North America’s most exploited snakes. This practice is particularly tough on Roughs because they are easily stressed and don’t do well in captivity.

Seems to me Emily’s reaction to spotting a snake is more appropriate and understandable from that narrow fellow’s point of view… don’t you?

[photo: greg schechter, ccl]

© 2017 Next-Door Nature. Reprints welcomed with written permission from the author.

 

Baby Blues

Fledgling blue jays begging Dad to make a pizza run [photo: christian lanctot, ccl]

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Identifying songbirds by their calls is not my forte.

Sure, I can distinguish most common backyard residents with distinctive voices, including mourning doves (Coo…. coo, coo), Carolina chickadees (Fee-bee-fee-bay or chickadee-dee-dee), American robins (Cheerily, cheer-up, cheer-up! Cheerily, cheer-up!!), red-winged blackbirds (Conk-la-ree!), and the northern cardinal (Birdie, birdie, birdie! Cheer, cheer, cheer! — no wonder the St. Louis baseball club chose this mascot). I can usually tell when a mockingbird is singing a cover tune because I realize the familiar song has a new arrangement.

The further afield I stray from my audio comfort zone, or the built environment, though, the more I rely on my eyes for ID.  That said, I have a niche talent, developed in the late 990s while I was running a large wildlife rehabilitation center in Houston, Texas: I can easily identify a wide range of bird species by the sounds their nestlings and fledglings make when a parent (biological or a stand-in human) arrives with food.

[photo: smilla4, ccl]

That’s how I found out it’s baby blue jay season here in southwest Virginia. I haven’t done hands-on rehab for a long while but as soon as I heard those competitively pitiful “Feed ME! Feed ME!” cries, I knew. Young blue jays used to come into the center by the shoebox-full so that particular call for attention is burned on my brain.

Adult blue jays aren’t the most popular wild neighbors. Jay parents will actively, even aggressively, defend their offspring and, well, there are always people eager to criticize the way others raise their children. Jays also have a reputation for eating the eggs and nestlings of other birds… true, but relatively rare. An extensive study observed this behavior in only 1% of jays. They certainly aren’t the only feathered folk who will help themselves to a snack from an unattended nest but jays, with their signature sapphire, white, black, and gray plumage plus that jaunty crest, are so recognizable they receive more blame than is warranted.

What’s less well-known is that blue jays are always on sentry duty, and when they spot a predator or other threat they shout an alarm call the whole avian neighborhood understands.

[photo: duluoz cats, ccl]

Mom and Dad have PR problems but their offspring are undeniably endearing. Jays are an example of true co-parenting. The female incubates a clutch of eggs for 17-18 days, and during this time and for the first 8-12 days after the nestlings hatch, the male provides all of the family meals. Blue jays can carry food in their gular pouch, an area in the throat and upper esophagus. Acorns are a favorite (which makes my throat hurt just to think of it!).  Once ambient temperatures are warm enough, and the kids are old enough to thermoregulate, the female will join her mate on grocery runs.

Every summer, young jays arrive in wildlife rehabilitation centers, veterinary offices, kitchens, and grade school classrooms across the species’ range. They’re an abundant urban bird so it isn’t surprising blue jays would account for a large number of rehab intakes, but there are other factors at play as well. Nestling jays often venture out of the nest and onto nearby branches several days before they fledge (take their first flight). Sometimes a storm or strong breeze will give gravity a helping hand and the branchers end up on the ground sooner than expected.

Mom and Dad aren’t going to give up on Junior just because s/he made an ill-advised decision. They’ll continue to feed and monitor their children — both the wanders and the cautious ones who wait for their feathers to grow a bit longer before taking the plunge — for up to 2 months after the nest is empty. While the fledglings learn to fly they’ll be left alone at times, albeit usually within watching distances of their keen-eyed supervisors. The young ‘uns don’t mind but well-intentioned humans may find it harder to accept. One of the downside of looking winsome is that when people see you sitting on the ground or perched on a low branch, seemingly abandoned, they really, really want to help.

You’ve may have heard this Good Samaritan tune before but I’ll sing it again…

First, do no harm.

If you find a baby bird and think it might have been abandoned:

  • Wait and watch for the parents to return. In the case of a blue jay, an adult may actually dive bomb before you get very close to their precious child but not all species or individuals are that confident so be sure to give everyone plenty of room to feel safe.
  • If the bambino is well-feathered, bright-eyed, and looking around curiously, give the parents at least 60-90 minutes to return.
  • However, if the little one is clearly injured, or very young (naked or barely feathered, eyes closed), then it’s time to take action.

[photo: katrina j houdek, ccl]

Permitted wildlife rehabilitators will never be able to match the skills of a wild parent but they are trained to provide the proper nutrition and environment wild kids need to grow up healthy and strong, knowing they are blue jays (or Cooper’s hawks, or squirrels, or deer, or whatever they are) instead of people, and capable of living in the wild once they’ve been released.

The International Wildlife Rehabilitation Council website can help you access assistance, and if you’re based in the U.S. there’s a free app for iPhone and Android called Animal Help Now. You don’t even know be able to identify the bird, by sight or by sound, to make the call.

 

© 2017 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work  but please ask).