Hops-itality

pacific tree frog (photo: jacki dougan, creative commons license)

Frogs, including this Pacific tree frog, could use a little help as they try to survive in the 21st Century (Photo: Jacki Dougan, Creative Commons license)

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Fifty years ago, Rachel Carson asked the world to consider a simple question: imagine springtime without birdsong.

Silent Spring addressed an unlikely subject for what was to become a best-selling book—the effect of DDT and other pesticides that persist in body tissue, becoming more and more concentrated as they move up the food chain (a process known as biomagnification). Yet nearly everyone could easily understand that their own quality of life would be diminished should they step outside one sunny May morning to find the dawn chorus had been replaced with a deafening stillness.

green treefrog (Photo: sarowen, Creative Commons license)Thanks to Carson’s courageous stand—and the subsequent public outcry—songbirds and other avian species dodged a bullet.* Now there’s another set of wild voices in the spring choir who could use a hand—the amphibians.

More specifically, frogs.

There are now over 1,800 threatened amphibian species. At least 168 species have gone extinct in the last two decades due to factors such as habitat loss, water pollution, disease, climate change, and invasive species. Additionally, many areas in the U.S. have recently experienced severe drought, and England is currently experiencing its worst drought in decades.

Many frog species depend on ephemeral (temporary) water sources for breeding since they don’t support fish that would eat the eggs and tadpoles. If the ephemeral pools dry up before the young amphibians have time to metamorphose, or if there isn’t enough rain to create pools in the first place, it can result in a missed generation… and a fragile future for frogs.

Poison Dart Frog Sitting on a Leaf (Photo: MoleSon2, Creative Commons license)Kermit the Frog spoke from experience—it isn’t easy being green… or yellow, or red, or black, or blue.

Frogs are essential to the health of wetland, riparian, and coastal ecosystems. Tadpoles feed on algae, preventing blooms that can reduce oxygen levels. Frogs consume millions of insects each year, including mosquitoes and ticks carrying diseases that threaten the health of humans, their companion animals, and livestock. A wide variety of wild mammals (raccoons, opossums), birds (herons, hawks, geese), and reptiles (snakes) rely on frogs as part of their diet.

April 28th was the 4th Annual Save the Frogs Day, established to raise awareness and funds for amphibian conservation. Since many frog species are comfortable living in cities and suburbs, I thought I would pass along suggestions for homeowners who would like to offer some hoppin’ hospitality, courtesy of yesterday’s event organizers:

1.    A Wet Welcome Mat

Fall and spring are the best times to create a permanent oasis for frogs. Kits are available at many garden and home improvement stores, or simply use a container or dig a hole that is deep enough (at least 1 foot at one end) and line it with sand or a flexible plastic liner before adding water.  Keep in mind, you must provide a sloped ramp so the frogs can get out easily.  Slope the liner or build one out of rocks to gradually allow the frogs to get to ground level or out of the pond. (Some nurseries also have floating devices for swimming pools that can allow amphibians who might jump in a way out.)

Don’t clean the water. In fact, add floating plants such as lily pads or leaves to provide cover. Refill slowly and carefully if water levels get low.

Don’t put fish in your pond, as they will munch on your tadpoles and frogs.

2.    Shade & Shelter

Place your pond in a shady spot, preferably surrounded with native plants to attract a tasty bug feast of ladybugs, bumblebees, and other pollinators to also help beautify your yard. You can stack some rocks or turn over a half of a flowerpot beside the rim of the pond to give your frogs a place to sit and eat their lunch as it flies or crawls by.

glass frog (Photo: Josiah Townsend, Creative Commons license)3.    Go Organic

Don’t use pesticides or weed killers. Amphibians absorb water—and any chemicals in it—through their skin. Pesticides and weed killers can run off from land into water and can be lethal to amphibians. Certain weed killers also can alter hormones, changing male frogs into females and reducing the potential of frogs to perpetuate thriving populations.

4.    Patience, Grasshopper

Don’t be tempted to relocate frogs from other areas or stock your pond from pet stores. You may introduce diseases or invasive species and domestically raised frogs will not necessarily adapt to wild habitats. If you build it, frogs will come.

5.    Look & Listen

Become a frog watcher. You will appreciate these wonderful animals more if you can see them in action, and you can help their conservation in the process. The National Wildlife Federation’s Wildlife Watcher program allows citizen scientists to contribute to a growing database of North American wildlife, learn about the animals living in their region, and build a printable checklist of sightings.

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* Although the focus of this post is frogs, wild birds still face many challenges and threats to their long-term survival. You can check out one such hazard here. Others will be addressed in upcoming NDN posts.

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© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: [from top to bottom] Jackie Dougan (Pacific tree frog in rose); sarowen (green treefrog); Sascha Gebhardt (poison dart frog); ucumari (bullfrog); Josiah Townsend (glass frog).

Bright-eyed and brushy-tailed

common brushtail possum (Photo: David Midgley, Creative Commons license)

Common brushtail possums know how to work the cute (Photo: David Midgley, Creative Commons license)

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Consider, if you will, the sartorial importance of tail attire.  To bare, or not to bare… that is the question.  The answer might seem to be of little consequence, but for marsupials living in cities and suburbs some strategically placed fur can make all the difference.

That’s because naked tails make people nervous. I blame this bias on the Black Death. Of course, now we know the true culprit in that famous pandemic of 1347 was not the rat, but the infected fleas that hitched a ride on those hapless rodents. Since standards of human hygiene at the time were rather… haphazard, shall we say, there were plenty of opportunities for the insects to hop onto a handy human. We may not remember why rodents make us uneasy but the bias remains to this day.

How else do you square our acceptance and even advocacy of squirrels and chipmunks, for example, with our abhorrence of rats and mice? As Carrie Bradshaw of Sex and the City fame so wisely observed, “A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit.” Clothes make the man and the mammal.

The same could be said of the common brushtail possum (Trichosurus vulpecula) and its cousin the Virginia opossum (Didelphis virginiana). Both are omnivorous marsupials of similar size and weight. However, the former has a hirsute terminus while the latter’s prehensile appendage is as furless as a snake. Brushtails are the source of much frustration among Aussie homeowners who, nonetheless, demonstrate great fondness for this plush-toy wannabe. The North American model does not enjoy a similar degree of affection from its human neighbors (to put it mildly).

Is this inequity mere coincidence? I think not—if you ask me it’s blatant bare-tail bigotry!

Personally, I find the adult Virginia opossum to be a handsome creature and their young ones winsome and endearing.  But—let’s face it—we only have one marsupial here in the U.S., so there’s no competition for best in show.

It’s a different story in Australia, where possums* and the closely related gliders account for approximately 30 of the continent’s 140 marsupial species. Brushtails are attractive animals by any aesthetic standard, with thick, luxurious fur that ranges in color from silver-gray to cream, brown, black, and even red, depending on the subspecies.

As the name implies, the common brushtail is a familiar resident along much of coastal Australia including the major metropolitan areas such as Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, and Perth. Suited to a wide variety of habitats, from rainforests to semiarid regions, this semi-arboreal (tree-dwelling) possum has adapted readily to urban life, trading traditional tree cavities for a home under the eaves.

brushtail mother and child (Photo: mugley, Creative Commons license)Brushtails can breed at any time during the year, but there are two peak seasons—from September to November (southern hemisphere spring) and from March to May (Australian autumn). Following a 16-18 day gestation, the female gives birth to a single blind and extremely underdeveloped child who scrambles unaided up to her pouch. Once inside, it will attach to a teat and remain there for another four or five months, after which it will either stay home at the den while Mom goes out to forage or ride along on her back, sharing any groceries she finds while learning what and where to eat. Male possums are not involved in child-rearing.

Human or non-human—if you want to succeed in the urban jungle, it sure doesn’t hurt to have a pretty face. Brushtails have large ears perched on a rounded head, a pink nose and dark liquid eyes… and they don’t seem at all shy about working their assets to full advantage. They may have learned a thing or two from eastern gray squirrels (Sciurus carolinensis), introduced to Australia sometime between 1900 and the 1930s—there’s just something about watching a furry creature nosh while holding the treat with two hands that people find irresistible, apparently, because hand-feeding fruit treats is a popular past-time.

attic brushtail (Photo: play4smee, Creative Commons license)There’s a down side to this Down Under hospitality, though. With warm, dry sleeping berths and plenty to eat, brushtails haven’t found it necessary to step lightly on the Earth… or in the attic either.  Their heavy-footed nocturnal comings and goings and loud vocalizations are responsible for plenty of sleepless nights and lost tempers. Brushtails often wake the neighborhood dogs as they wander through the neighborhood via utility poles and fencing, creating the same kind of hard feelings directed at Virginia opossums on the other side of the globe, for the exact same reason.

When not snacking on handouts from the produce section they will munch on magnolias, roses, and other selections from the flower garden as well as on eucalyptus and other trees—Aussies do not consider this one of the brushtail’s more appealing qualities. And, like their northern hemisphere kin, brushtails will dumpster dive and help themselves to the back porch pet food smorgasbord, resulting in much hair-pulling and teeth-gnashing by Homo sapiens.

Yet, somehow, brushtails seem largely immune to the vilification of their less charismatic cousins. To the cute (and furry-tailed) go the spoils, I guess—it’s an all too familiar tail and decidedly unjust. But as my mother (and probably yours too) always said, “Who told you life is fair?”

One thing’s for sure, it wasn’t a ‘possum.

[This one is for Barb at Passionate About Pets and People. Thanks for your support and encouragement!]

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* Although both are marsupials, it is commonly accepted that the Americas have opossums (colloquially referred to as ‘possums) while Australia has possums. Yes, it is confusing. No, I don’t know why or how this came to be. Even in the 21st Century there remain great unsolved mysteries.

Start your day with a little Next-Door Nature—click the “subscribe”  link in the upper right-hand corner of this page and receive notifications of new posts!
© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work. Just ask.). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: David Midgley (brushtail eating an orange); mugley (mother and baby); and play4smee (attic brushtail).

Urban development

Raccoons by John Biehler, Creative Commons license

Just hangin' on the corner with the homies... smart, bored, and looking for trouble (Photo: John Biehler, Creative Commons license)

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World War II had barely ended when researchers began to notice a major migration under way in North America, from undeveloped and agricultural areas to cities and suburbs.  Now, in the early 21st Century, the urban population is over 20 times that of the early-1940s—in some places, more than 50% higher than the surrounding rural landscape. With growth has come all the problems that naturally occur as a community becomes overcrowded: housing shortages and squatting; dumpster diving; increases in theft and property damage; sanitation-related public health concerns. sometimes, we all need a little help getting through the day... by jmtimages, creative commons licenseAll of this has a tendency to make established residents less tolerant of immigrants, even when the new neighbors are clever, ambitious, hard-working, good parents, and undeniably cute as all get-out.

Raccoons (Procyon lotor) may be new to the urban scene, but… wait a minute. You thought I was talking about people?

That’s understandable, I suppose. Just about everything I’ve said to this point could apply to humans as well. There’s no denying that Homo sapiens is now an urban species. The tipping point (>50% of humans living in areas of high population density) came around 2007. Each year, more of us are lured by the promise of better-paying jobs, more housing options, access to social services and chain restaurants, bigger shopping malls, a larger dating pool, and high-speed Internet connections. In other cases, concrete tentacles sprawl past the city limit signs to grab up and devour surrounding countryside, forcing rural residents to choose between relocating to land that hasn’t yet caught developers’ eyes and becoming accidental townies.

urban raccoons by liz west ccThe “built environment” is intended to meet the wants and needs of our own kind, but raccoons may be better suited for what we’ve constructed than the target real estate market.

Raccoon Nation, a documentary shown recently in the U.S. on the PBS “Nature” series, and in Canada on the CBC News Network series “The Nature of Things with David Suzuki,” makes a strong case in support of that thesis.* As filmmakers follow the furry urbanites in their native North America (including Chicago and Toronto—known as the “raccoon capital of the world”), as well as in Germany and Japan (where they were intentionally introduced), it’s hard not to notice the similarities between those who construct cities and those who exploit them and their work.

How alike are we? Let’s build this case from the ground up.

raccoon paw and human handFeet—humans and raccoons are both plantigrade. In other words, we walk with the entire foot planted firmly on the dirt… make that asphalt. There are other examples (elephants, kangaroos, and pandas come to mind), but the majority of mammals walk on their tippy toes (more on this in a future blog post).

Hands—okay, technically raccoons don’t have hands, they have two more feet. That’s semantics. Look closely and you’ll see one reason it’s so hard to invent a raccoon-proof container—a paw that looks a lot like a palm and a digit that’s as close to the functionality of an opposable thumb as it gets for non-primates.

dumpster raccoons by zeetz jones ccStomachs—the best way to avoid starvation long enough to pass your genes along to the next generation is to cultivate the ability to eat anything and everything you can cram in your mouth that contains a calorie. The human diet is astonishingly diverse, and urban raccoons gobble up everything we leave on our plates and toss in the trash… plus a lot of stuff we would rather not eat. Some researchers suggest that omnivory played a crucial role in human development—by providing a more consistent and more nutritious diet, and because finding potential new foods, determining whether they are edible, and figuring out how to eat them pushed our brains to create new neural pathways. Which brings us to…

Brains—raccoons and people also share a high level of behavioral plasticity, a term that implies the ability to change. Flexibility, adaptability, and life-long learning (well… we both have that capacity; whether we use it or not is another issue). With no email to check, no AYSO games to attend, no need to commute, and only one significant predator (those commuting automobiles), raccoons have plenty of time for learning. Each day is devoted to DIY personal growth, lifestyle enhancement, and honing useful skills, such as…

  • how to turn a garbage can or dumpster into a convenience store;
  • how to tight-rope walk a fence (great for avoiding the neighbor’s dog);
  • how to shimmy down a tree branch onto a rooftop;
  • how to turn a loose shingle on that roof into an attic entrance;
  • how to turn that attic into a cozy, rent-free nursery.

Whether you find these critters endearing or exasperating, it’s never fun to clean up refuse that’s strewn across your yard, and there’s no denying they can and do cause damage to property. Ironically, our attempts to outwit them are molding these savvy metropolitan mammals to better fit the world we built for ourselves. And here’s the other reason I will never invest my hard-earned money in some inventor’s guaranteed raccoon-proof fill-in-the-blank: because no human being will ever have as much time to devote to keeping a raccoon out of something as raccoons, often working in teams, are willing and able to devote to cracking the code. By trying to thwart them, we’re simply selecting for the traits that make a more worthy opponent and a better urban animal. An über-coon, if you like.

bipedal raccoons by David~O ccBefore you know it, they’ll be standing upright in line right beside us at Starbucks, waiting for a Venti Caramel Macchiato to help them wake up for the night shift.

Urban raccoons share another, disturbing commonality with their human neighbors—the toll exacted by easy access to a plentiful, high fat, high sugar, high calorie diet. Diabetes, hypertension, and cardiovascular disease may do more to limit their numbers, in the long run, than all the Hav-A-Heart trap-toting home and business owners, urban wildlife biologists, and nuisance wildlife control operators combined. Cleverness and dexterity are no match for the fearful symmetry of a predatory heart attack or kidney failure.

No wonder they call it the urban jungle.

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* The full hour-long episode of Raccoon Nation, along with interesting behind-the-scenes extras, can now be viewed online.

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NOTE:  As many of you know (or have figured out), I started this blog a little over a year ago because I’m committed to reconnecting people with the natural world, starting with the wildlife in their own backyard, neighborhood, county, and city or town.  My goal for 2012 is to increase the number of subscribed readers from ~150 (through both WordPress and Facebook) to 1,000.  To that end, Next-Door Nature is a new member of the Nature Blog Network (NBN), a wonderful resource for finding writers on just about every green topic you can imagine.

Want to help me reach my goal (and share your passion for wildlife at the same time)?

  • First, tell everyone you know about Next-Door Nature—by email, on Facebook, LinkedIn, Stumbleupon, Google+, and any other social media platform that comes to mind.
  • Second, go to the NBN site and submit a review (hopefully glowing) of Next-Door Nature.
  • Third… you tell me! If you have an idea for how to get the word out about this blog, please share. Leave a comment, or send an email. Thanks!
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© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: John Biehler (3 sepia raccoons); jmtimages (mother & child); Liz West (supper club); Stuti Sakhalkar (human handprint); Jon Stogner (raccoon pawprint); Zeetz Jones (dumpster ); David~O (bipedal).

Us against the world

coyotes by larry lamsa creative commons license

Coyote couples are as destined to misfortune as any literary star-crossed lovers, but a lot more reproductively successful (Photo: Larry Lamsa, Creative Commons license)

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Boy meets girl.

It’s such a familiar story I probably don’t need to spell out the rest.

Ah, but folks like stories to have a beginning, a middle, and an ending, don’t we? Ok, ok… so a male and a female find one another.  They “meet-cute” (the classic contrivance of romantic comedies), or through the efforts of micro-managing parents (the historically classic approach), or online, or in one of a million completely unremarkable everyday ways—the “how” doesn’t matter (to anyone else).  A spark catches. A bond is formed—over time, at first sight, or by rite (mating or marriage rituals, depending on one’s religion, politics, or species). They find a home, start a family, and live happily enough ever after (fairy tales tend to gloss over the details of that last part).

It’s a comforting, feel-good saga. But it’s not the stuff legends, of Pulitzer Prize novels, or Oscar winning dramas. No, for that we need a star-crossed couple, thwarted by outside forces. We need Romeo and Juliet. Catherine and Heathcliff.  Edward and Bella. Or a pair of coyotes.

coyote in grass by trey ratcliff, creative commons licenseWyle E. and the Mrs. may not be icons of romantic literature, but one would be hard pressed to find couples more destined to misfortune than those of the Canis latrans clan. It’s all here—blood, poison, class, caste, honor, artifice, cruelty, revenge… and then some. After all, the persecution most luckless lovers experience only lasts three Acts, or about 100,000 words. Coyotes have been wearing a target since shortly after European settlers, and their livestock, came to North America in the early 15th Century.

Many species have disappeared into extinction under far less pressure yet, despite hundreds of man-hours and billions of dollars spent annually to wipe coyotes off the face of the Earth, as a species they continue be fruitful and multiply, to survive, and even thrive.

urban coyote by ken slade creative commons licenseUnlike their close relative the wolf (Canis lupus), their range has expanded in response to human development (and programs to exterminate wolves, a key natural competitor). Prior to 1700, coyotes were creatures of the prairies and deserts of the central United States and Mexico. Now they can be found as far west and north as Alaska, in all but the northernmost reaches of Canada, across the entire “lower 48,” and much of Central America, and in habitats as diverse as protected wildlands and urban centers.

How is this possible? Chalk it up to intelligence and adaptability. Behaviorally, coyotes are as flexible as a yoga instructor about everything from where to live, what to eat, and even family size and composition.

By 12 months of age—and there’s about a 60% chance they’ll survive their first year—coyotes are old enough to start looking for a mate. They don’t always leave home or settle down right away, though. Adults may live alone (for at least part of their life), in pairs, or in packs comprised of an alpha male and female and their offspring from previous years.  Once mated, they form perennial, monogamous bonds; however, on average, “till death do we part” is only a couple of years. In captivity, coyotes can live about as long as domestic dogs (Canis familiaris)—13 to 15 years—but in the wild few live to see their third birthday. Dying young is a familiar theme for the romantically doomed, be they canid or primate.

coyote pups by zac garrett creative commons licenseEveryone in the family unit—Mom, Dad, and any older sibs who haven’t left home—pitches in to rear the current generation of pups; it takes a village to raise coyote kids, too. Litters average four to seven pups, although—and here’s another example of that flexibility I mentioned earlier—coyotes can adjust their litter size based on the how much food is available and how many of their brethren live in the neighborhood. In other words, if humans remove (almost always by some lethal method) coyotes from a particular area, the population density falls, and during the next breeding season the number of pups per litter will rise. In the case of a pack, the loss of an alpha pair may cause the other members to disperse and find mates, so the area ends up with more breeding pairs than before any effort was made to reduce their numbers. One could argue that, however counter-intuitive it may first appear, extermination programs are a great way to increase your coyote crop.

last laugh by matt knoth creative commons licenseWell, what do you know? Play your natural selection cards right, and it’s possible to turn the tables on those who try to sabotage your relationship and have the last laugh—talk about a plot twist!

Perhaps the folks who try to control coyotes would find it helpful to read a few Victorian romances. Then again, anyone who’s tried to keep besotted teenagers apart should understand that when it comes to ill-fated lovers, where there’s a will, there’s a way. Come to think of it, maybe Cyrano and Roxanne, Tristan and Isolde, and Jack and Rose should have taken a lesson or two from a couple of cunning characters dressed in fur. They may not have cheated death, but they might have managed to leave behind generations of children, and grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to tell their tale.  From Once Upon a Time to…

The End.

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EPILOGUE:  Lest anyone think I’m unfairly choosing sides in the war against coyotes and other wild predators, readers should know that I understand the narrative presented above is not the whole story. I used a literary device to focus attention on a particular aspect of the coyote’s natural history—pair-bonding and social structure—and I intend to return to this and other species featured on this blog again and again over time, as is necessary to flesh out these complex and fascinating creatures.

While I may not always agree with their production practices, I don’t begrudge farmers and ranchers their right to make a living and protect their investment. I’m an omnivore who depends on the plant and animal foods they produce. However, I do find it strange that many who own livestock will point to the fact that coyotes, wolves, and foxes kill cows, sheep, and chickens as proof of their inherent cruelty, and as justification for implementing lethal control measures—even though many, if not most, of these domestic animals are being raised for food and will eventually be killed by the same humans who cry foul when the grim reaper appears on four feet in a pasture instead of on two at the processing plant.

As a biologist, I know that life feeds on other life. That’s the way of the world and I don’t see it changing any time soon. I just think we should be honest about our motives (and I’m aware that I risk offending some readers with what I’m about to say). It’s not that we don’t want that lamb or calf to be killed and eaten, it’s that we want to be the only ones who get to eat. That strikes me as fundamentally wrong-headed, because it perpetuates the idea that people are somehow removed from the natural world.

Here in the U.S., we’re already paying to have both livestock and predators on our public and private lands, and have done so for a long time.  But the true cost of tonight’s meatloaf or coq au vin isn’t visible on the grocery store receipt, in the form of the higher meat prices livestock producers might charge to pass along the cost of losses to predation (or non-lethal prevention methods). Instead, part of the price of our food is disguised, hidden as taxes that support inefficient, ineffective, and often brutally cruel control programs. Personally, I prefer to know how much my dinner really costs, financially and ecologically.

You may disagree, as is your right.

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There’s nothing quite like finding a little Next-Door Nature in your email inbox—click the “subscribe”  link in the upper right-hand corner of this page and receive notifications of new posts!
© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: Larry Lamsa (two coyotes and a pup); Trey Ratcliff (coyote in grass);  Ken Slade (coyote on the street); Zac Garrett (coyote pups); and  Matt Knoth (last laugh).

Snow birds

snowy owls (Photo: winnu, Creative Commons license)

Record numbers of snowy owls have ventured south this winter, creating a not-often-in-a-lifetime opportunity for bird-lovers in Canada and parts of the U.S. (Photo: winnu, Creative Commons license)

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Sometimes you just need a change of scenery.

Most years, snowy owls (Bubo scandiacus*) are homebodies, satisfied to stay put in the sweeping, flat, treeless tundra, even as calendar pages flip past the holidays and into a new tax season.  Most of their snowbird neighbors take off each winter to visit second homes in warmer latitudes, but snowy owls prefer staycations. What’s not to like? The mosquitoes, midges, and biting flies disappeared with the first snow. You’ve got the place all to yourself so there’s less competition for a table at the best places to eat and hang out. Not to mention, traveling can be such a headache these days—choosing your route, navigating national borders, weather delays. By the time you reach your destination you’re more exhausted than when you left!

And yet…

snowy owl in flight by pat gaines cc

… every now and then there comes a year when the snowies watch with those enormous cadmium-yellow eyes as everyone else heads for the flyways, and beneath that placid, nearly expressionless exterior, wanderlust begins to stretch its wings… then flutter… flap… and soar.  Big Pharma claims to have the prescription for cabin fever (aka, seasonal affective disorder, the winter blues, February funk), but it’s a lot more fun to head south in search of adventure, and some landscape variation definitely provides relief.

Let’s not forget, the opportunity to try some new regional cuisine alone must be a huge tourism draw when you’ve been eating lemmings, day in, day out. I mean, just because everyone else is happy dining from the same menu all year long doesn’t mean you have to run with the crowd… right over the cliff. So to speak. Not when there’s bacalhoada in Baltimore, sushi in Seattle, oie rôtie in Quebec,  fagiano alla contadina on The Hill in St. Louis (my own hometown), hasenpfeffer in Philadelphia… the possibilities are vast as the Arctic landscape.

Whatever the reason, the travel bug spread through the snowy owl population this year like a flu epidemic. Thousands of these large, unmistakable owls have been observed from coast to coast in the U.S., and as far south as Oklahoma, delighting bird fans who never dreamed of adding this species to their lifelist.

snowy owl on a telephone pole (Photo: Todd Radenbaugh, Creative Commons license)If a snowy owl visits your town, word will likely spread fast. Weighing in at 3.5—6.5 lbs (1.6—2.9 kg), 2 ft (0.6 m) tall with a wingspan of about 5 ft (1.5 m), this heavy, northernmost North American owl is instantly recognizable and easy to spot. For one thing, it’s diurnal, meaning active during the day (most, but not all, other owls are nocturnal or active at night). Secondly, snowies aren’t shy and retiring, preferring to spend most of their time on a prominent lookout, waiting patiently for their next meal to make a move. Of course, if the surrounding countryside is covered in a blanket of white, they aren’t as conspicuous as when the ground is bare. That’s because snowy owls are a charcoal sketch on a clean, gessoed canvas—their eyes are the only deviation from grayscale. Even their legs and feet are feather-covered, not yellow or orange as is the case for many other avian species.

snowy owlet (Photo: Steve Brace, Creative Commons license)Snowy owlets begin life resembling human toddlers packed into warm down snowsuits, and they’re just as wobbly. As they develop, a heavy mantle of barred dark gray, taupe, and white feathers emerge. Females retain some of this dark scalloping even as they mature. Males, on the other hand, grow lighter with each molt until, while stoically seated, they resemble a snowman (not the three-perfect-spheres kind you see in cartoons and moviesthe fireplug-shaped ones made by real kids). Their demeanor changes dramatically when they take flight, however, from cuddly stuffed animal to sleek, efficient hunter.  Silent, too. Their primaries—flight feathers along the outer edge of a bird’s wing—look as if my hairstylist sister had textured the edge with her razor, so they don’t slice through the air with the same sharp-edged, audible signature of a hawk or eagle.owl vs hawk feathers

The 2011 breeding season produced a bumper lemming crop and, subsequently, larger owl clutch sizes and owlet survival rates. Biologists suspect this may explain why so many of these normally non-migratory birds have hit the road.  The Owl Research Institute  says the irruption (a sudden, unpredictable mass migration) of 2011-2012 is “unbelievable” and “the most significant wildlife event in decades.”

During my undergraduate days I did an internship at the World Bird Sanctuary, where I had a chance to work with snowy owls and other birds of prey. Sadly, I don’t expect to see any snowies myself this year unless I travel back home to Missouri in the next month or so. I live too far south now, even during an irruption of epic proportions, for snowy owls to darken my door. But if you live or travel in North America anywhere above the Mason-Dixon line (that’s the 39th parallel north for all you non-Southerners), keep your eyes peeled for snowmen perched on telephone poles.

Seeing is believing.

[Want to know if snowy owls are spending the winter near you? Check out this range map from eBird.]

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* The International Ornithological Union (IOU) once considered snowy owls the only member of a unique genus, Nyctea scandiaca, but DNA analysis, published in 2002, revealed they are closely related to the great horned owl and other members of the Bubo clan, so their official name was changed.

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Start your day with a little Next-Door Nature—click the “subscribe”  link in the upper right-hand corner of this page and receive notifications of new posts!
© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: winnu (identical owls); Pat Gaines (owl in flight); Todd Radenbaugh (owl on telephone pole); Steve Brace (snowy owlet);  BastienM (long-eared owl  feather, public domain); and David DeHetre (hawk feather).

Stick in the mud

red-eared slider by Charles Lam cc

Red-eared sliders take a less extreme approach to winter survival than hibernation (Photo: Charles Lam, Creative Commons license)

The holidays are well behind us now. Shorter days and Jack Frost nipping at your nose have lost their novelty. It’s the start of a more serious season, filled with snowplows, tire chains, and 10-pound sacks of litter that will never feel a kitty’s caress.  In many parts of the northern hemisphere, it’s a long slog through snow, sleet, and freezing rain to get from January to jonquils.

Understandably, we look to Nature for role models. Native people aren’t unique in their ability to draw a connection between human and non-human animals—Madison Avenue is especially canny at choosing charismatic creatures to impersonate our enviable and endearing (or at least humorous) characteristics.  Particularly at this time of year, when the mercury can’t seem to bootstrap its way past 32°F, you’ll find a lot of furry salespeople pitching warm and cozy wares in magazines and newspapers, on television and online. I assume the general idea behind this trend is that raw, gray days bring out the hibernator in all of us mammals.

Not to split hairs, but that’s not technically correct. Humans don’t hibernate. That’s not to say we don’t go through some behavioral changes at this time of year—we do (at least so far as jobs, school, and the other routines and rituals of modern life allow)—but those cold weather coping strategies look strangely… reptilian.

times square blizzard by Asterio Tecson ccSee for yourself—next time the Weather Channel predicts a cold front, with or without a “wintery mix,” ask yourself if the people peeking out from fleece hoodies, swaths of scarves, turned up coat collars, and balaclavas as they hunch toward the warmth of home look more like bears… or tortoises.

Now, there’s a bit of Class warfare at play here, because homeothermic (body temperature largely uninfluenced by the surrounding environmental) hominid mammals aren’t often flattered by comparisons to scaly, poikilothermic (body temperature influence by the surrounding environment) cold-bloods.  Knowing this, and well aware that my claim will face considerable skepticism, I’ll use an example to back it up: a familiar and easily identifiable semi-aquatic turtle called the red-eared slider (Trachemys scripta elegans).

r-e slider hatchling by M.W. Fisher Jr. ccEven nature neophytes will immediately recognize this species, a common resident of lakes and ponds in urban and suburban parks, as well as in pet stores. Shell, legs, head and tail are inscribed with stripes and nested ovals of green and yellow, the “elegant script” referenced in its Latin name (although the vibrant colors do tend to fade somewhat with age and a thick coat of algae). The red “ear” on either side of the head distinguishes the slider from all other North American turtle species and allows for a quick and definitive ID as they sunbathe on stones and logs. “Quick” being the operative word here; sliders don’t hear well, but they are very sensitive to vibrations that alert them to the presence of potential predators, and they can slip back into the safety of the water with surprising speed.

In the wild, the slider’s life cycle begins with courtship and mating as early as March or as late as July, depending on the region and the weather. Subsequently, the female heads for dry land to deposit a clutch of eggs, excavating with her hind legs to create a nest in the soil. Then she turns for home with nary a backward glance, and the turtles-to-be she leaves behind are on their own from that point forward. Two or three months later, depending on the average ambient temperature, hatchlings emerge from the nest and set out to conquer the world.

Most of them don’t make it past the first year—such is Testudine life… and death. Those who live to see their 2nd birthday, however, can reasonably expect a couple decades of celebrations, getting bigger with each passing year (females reach 10-13 in (25-33 cm), while males max out at 8-10 in (20-25 cm)).

In addition to predation, winter is one of the biggest barriers to longevity that young turtles must navigate in the wild (HA! I’ll bet you thought I’d lost my original train of thought, didn’t you?).  No one expects to see a slider in a snowstorm, so it’s natural to assume they use sleep as a survival strategy.  Hey, it works for two of the most diverse Orders on Earth—Chiroptera (bats) and Rodentia (rodents), so why not?

sunning r-eared sliders by Alan Vernon ccBut reptiles take a different road. Brumation is a period of decreased activity, but it doesn’t involve the extreme metabolic changes that occur during hibernation. ‘Round about October, as temperatures dip below 50°F, sliders begin to settle in at the bottom of their preferred body of water, or in some cases under stream banks and tree stumps, and just… hang out. They’re less social, they move a little more slowly, sleep a little later, watch more television (I’m sure there must be a turtle equivalent), and generally feel lethargic and unmotivated. On warmer days, they’ll drag themselves up from the depths to stretch their limbs, have some lunch, and catch some rays with a few friends… but as soon as old Sol goes into hiding they follow suit, retreating into their shells to become stick-in-the-muds until spring.

Social commentators have come up with any number of marketable catch phrases to describe the human desire to turn our backs on a less than hospitable world—cocooning, burrowing, vegging out, even hibernating. The admen (and women) may argue that it doesn’t have the same sizzle, but what we’re really talking about here is brumating.

Sound like anyone you know?

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Start your day with a little Next-Door Nature—click the “subscribe”  link in the upper right-hand corner of this page and receive notifications of new posts!
© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license: Asterio Tecson (blizzard people); M. W. Fisher, Jr. (hatchling); and Alan Vernon (sunning sliders).

Winter haven

Ladybugs (and their gentlemen) are good at finding building cracks and crannies, and will move indoors for the winter when they can (Photo: Brian Collette, Creative Commons license).

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Old Man Winter finally blew into my town earlier this week. I like sleeping with the window open slightly and he slipped silently past the softly snoring mini-blind sentry, fanning out across the bedroom carpet as a layer of gelid air ready to catch my bare feet off guard as they carelessly kicked back toasty covers and dove overboard to greet the day.

Talk about a rude awakening!

I felt the lurking chill in the knick of time. Knees pulled back, feet hovering just above the floor, I weighed a long to-do list and a wide-awake wire fox terrier, eager to empty his bladder and chase a ball, against the possibility that on this day, at least, the better part of valor might involve a temporary (but hasty) retreat. Not out of cowardice, mind you. No, no… I just needed a little time to regroup and marshal my endothermic resources while I searched for the socks I’d peeled off while snoozing. I figured it shouldn’t take more than an hour or so before I’d be ready to do battle with my frosty intruder.

Mulling over my options, I stared blankly at the bed linens… then suddenly my eyes flew open! I was seeing red, literally, and I felt the room grow instantly warmer. Turns out, Spring had snuck in on Winter’s coattails in the form of about a dozen cheery round beetles scattered across my brown and turquoise paisley comforter, each wearing a shiny cherry waistcoat strewn with black confetti.

We humans are a terribly fickle lot, aren’t we? Especially when it comes to insects. As a biologist and not completely reformed tomboy, it’s slightly embarrassing to admit this, but if I’d awakened to find nearly any other kind of beetles on my bed, I wouldn’t have dithered about whether to get up—I would have been in the next room before a thought could snake its way through my synapses.  But ladybugs? They’re as welcome as the Tooth Fairy!

It’s a completely arbitrary preference… one shared by many members of my species, but still. I don’t know why people like one kind of basically harmless bug and abhor most of the others. Maybe it’s their round, smiley-face shape, or perhaps it’s the wardrobe. Can you imagine wearing anything less threatening than polka-dots?

Apparently, it’s an almost universally appealing sartorial statement—the 5,000 species of coccinellids, as they’re known to entomologists, are found, and in most cases welcomed, around the globe. Cute can go a long way to win over a hominid, but if you really want to stack the deck in your favor, you should also spend most of your time snacking on a major agricultural pest. During their 3-6 week lifespan, a single ladybug can consume up to 5,000 plant-draining aphids, and suck up to farmers while they’re at it.

But humans aren’t the only threat this world has to offer, and there’s more than luck to that crimson coloring. Red means the same for both VW and biological beetles:  STOP! Some coccinellid species can spray a substance that’s venomous to other insects and some mammals. That’ll spoil a predator’s appetite! Or pop a ladybug in your pie-hole (after all, they do look like candy) and you’ll get a mouthful of alkaloid toxins and a bellyache to remember. This kind of learned aversion is called aposematism, and it’s one of several chemical warfare strategies employed by the insect nation against each other and all other comers. Sometimes, I guess, polka-dots are just a ploy.

Ladybugs come in other hues—yellow, orange, and pink, to name a few—but the palette is always conspicuous because, for negative reinforcement to work, you need to be easily and immediately recognized by your no-longer naïve predator. Bright colors work like a charm—for the population if not for every individual insect. Sure, ladybugs lose some percent of their brethren to the learning curve, but the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one. Mr. Spock said it, so you know it’s true. Trekkie references don’t do it for you? Then how about Lord Tennyson, who eloquently described Mother Nature as:

So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life

This is not a one gender species, of course, but you wouldn’t know it by their handles—ladybugs, ladybirds, lady beetles, lady flies. In several countries they’ve even been granted a kind of exalted status, such as the Netherlands (“lieveheersbeestje” or “dear Lord’s animal”), France (“bête à bon Dieu,” same translation as the Dutch), and Ireland (“bóín Dé,” which means “God’s little cow”).

ladybug development stagesMetamorphosis is the name of the game among the six-legged set, and ladybugs are no exception. They start life as small, yellow, rice-shaped eggs usually deposited on the underside of leaves. When they hatch… well, I’m sure their parents are very proud, but these are not pretty babies. They don’t take after mom and dad until many awkward molts and a shrimp-like pupa stage have passed. But they do make themselves useful to humans even at this young age by chowing down on aphids, scale (Coccoidea), and mealybugs (Pseudococcidae).

Knowing this, I carried each and every winged ruby from my bedroom to my office and tucked them into the topknot of a 6’ dracaena plant near the window, out of sight and reach of a trouble-making terrier-boy.  I’m not a bug, and there are times when I’m not much of a lady either, but I know a safe harbor when I spy one—and how to stay warm when Blue Northers, Nor’easters, Alberta Clippers, and other cold winds blow.

I also know that in many cultures the appearance of this appealing little tank of an insect is considered to be good luck. Waking up to ladybugs in January? If there’s a better omen for a great New Year, I can’t imagine what it could be.

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Would you like to find a little Next-Door Nature when you open your email? Click the “subscribe”  link in the upper right-hand corner of this page and receive notifications of new posts!
© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license:  justmakeit (telephone cord); The Real Estreya (multicolors);Kim Flemng (eggs); Jack Wolf (larvae); Gilles San Martin (pupa); and Juergen Mangelsdorf (fingertip).

Happy happy joy joy!

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Are you pulling my leg?

 

 

At first, I didn’t believe it. I certainly wasn’t expecting it, and it seemed too good to be true.

But there it was, in black-and-white.

 

 

 

Steph at Ink Chromatography nominated Next-Door Nature for a Liebster Blog Award!

Am I dreaming?

As Steph explained it on her blog, the Liebster Award “celebrates up-and-coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers. The aim is to spread the word about exceptional blogs that deserve more readership, by having each recipient of the Liebster Award highlight five blogs that he or she feels stands out in a crowd.”

It’s true, it’s true!

Out of of all the posts on all the sites in all the world, she somehow stumbled on to mine… and liked it enough to pass along the Liebster. What an honor! What a fabulous way to begin 2012! What better way to spread the word that there’s wildlife to be discovered and enjoyed right outside your very own door?

Even better, now it’s my turn to share the love (and readers) with some of my own favorite bloggers..

Rules of Liebster Award Etiquette

  • Link back to the blogger who gave you the award as a way of saying “thanks ever so much!”
  • Pass along the positive vibes to 5 deserving participants in the creative arts. List your nominees and leave a comment on their blog.
  • Post the award on your own blog.
  • Walk around feeling like you won the lottery.

Tag–you’re it!

Although I enjoy reading blogs on many different subjects, in keeping with NDN’s focus I have chosen other bloggers who address aspects of  the human-wildlife (broadly defined) interface.

And the Liebster Award nominees are…*

NATURE IN THE ‘BURBS

Written by a non-biologist, non-botanist, non-entomologist, non-ecologist, and non-politician who has a 50′ x 50′ backyard and enjoys glimpsing “those little slices of nature that thrive alongside the more than 10 million people who live in the Central NJ area.” You will, too.

THE FREE QUARK

Don’t be fooled by the name. There are no black holes here. Just Ingrid Taylar’s stunning  photography of two great loves: wildlife and urban things. She is a strict advocate of the ethics outlined in the North American Nature Photography guidelines, and proof positive that the shot doesn’t suffer when the welfare of your subject is your top priority.

BUG GIRL’S BLOG

It’s always a joy to find other scientists who made it through a PhD program with their passion for the subject matter intact. Chock-full of helpful information, from how to inspect your hotel room for bedbugs to how you can try entomophagy without actually consuming bugs. This blog is a veritable hive of insect data.

OUR URBAN JUNGLE

Adventures in urban wildlife and sustainability by a PhD candidate and graduate lecturer who lives in Washington, D.C.  Her research focuses on human-wildlife conflict, and one of my very favorite species… the poster child of adaptability and survival despite the odds: coyotes. But there’s more to this blog than good ol’ Wile E. It’s an Acme catalog for living in the built environment.

CROWDED CREATURES

911 Wildlife is an urban wildlife control company based in Texas that uses the most humane techniques available to resolve urban wildlife conflicts—techniques are endorsed by the Humane Society of the United States. They don’t post often (solving human-wildlife conflicts is a time-consuming endeavor) but when I find people who are doing this work as both a vocation and a passion-driven avocation, I like to spread the word..

One last note: Ink Chromatography is a new discovery for me, and I love Steph’s clever and fascinating take on all-things-science. She already has her Liebster, so I have not included her in my list of nominees, but be sure to stop by and check out her blog for yourself!

*It’s not always easy to figure out how many people are following a blog. I did my best to meet this Liebster criteria, but in most cases I’m just guessing.
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© 2012 Next-Door Nature—no reprints without written permission from the author (I’d love for you to share my work; all you have to do is ask). Thanks to these photographers for making their work available through a Creative Commons license:locket479 (skeptical fox); Tim Carter (dreaming fox and joyful fox); and Pat Gaines (tag foxes).