D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
July 2009
When Animals Attack
Welcome to "Wild Kingdom." Cue the Mutual of Omaha ads.
In the early days of this column, a friend referred to these deathless musings as "that what-I-saw-in-my-backyard column." It's true, our relocation to southwest New Mexico inspired no small amount of awe at the critters that we suddenly lived next door to. We still haven't quite gotten over one memorable near-miss of an owl that swooped in to snare the bunny we were blithely admiring out back. And there have been summers when I'd swear you could walk across the backyard on the massed feathers of the feeding quail without your feet ever touching the ground.
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An oriole, a bee and a hummingbird share the feeder. (Photos by Lisa D. Fryxell) |
But over the years I've become, if not exactly blas about our ever-changing backyard menagerie, at least less compelled to share my amazement. We no longer email photos to our daughter every time a hawk perches on the gate or a jackrabbit moseys in for a snack.
Still, this summer has rekindled some of that original shock and awe. Partly it's the profusion of wildlife, despite our bone-dry springtime; partly it's their boldness. It reminds me again that we're infringing on their world, not the other way around.
The hummingbirds arrived with the warmer weather, of course, and maybe in slightly greater numbers than last year. But certainly they have been, shall we say, more forward than I remember. The hummingbirds have all but flown up to the front door and rung the bell to demand sugar water, dammit.
Orioles came close behind, shocking in their orange garb. They don't seem to discriminate between the feeders designed especially for them, with a different sugar-to-water ratio, and the hummingbird feeders. The bees, which can more easily access the oriole feeders, don't seem to understand the "Orioles Only" message, either.
But it's the birds that start singing about six in the morning that most command our attention. Naturally, they favor the trees close to our bedroom. A mockingbird seems to lead the chorus ("often sings at night," says the Audubon guide — great). In the mornings, we'll see the mockingbird raucously flying up from its perch, displaying its barred wings, then landing and repeating the whole performance ad infinitum. These things have no "pause" button, I've noticed.
On the decibel front, back in May I made the mistake of remarking that, after a brief explosion of cicada singing, we'd stopped hearing them. Since then the bugs have been screaming nonstop — that high, electrical whine, like some sort of shortwave-radio signal emanating from the trees. Next year I'll keep my mouth shut and just savor the silence.
We've had plenty of deer visitors over the years, too, of course, but this year they seem especially startling. In the spring we had a few surprise visitations from a pair of female deer. We'd look out the back and there they'd be, as though teleported by "Star Trek" ("Beam us down, Bambi!"). Weeks would pass without a deer sighting and then, boom, they'd be back.
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A "water feature" becomes
a deer drinking fountain. |
More recently we've had a spate of visits from a trio of what we think are all young male deer — a teenage gang problem, as I call it. Not that we're really complaining — they repay us by the spectacle of their presence — but they've chomped the roses, trimmed the apple tree and (when we weren't watching) eaten all the fruit, ripe or not, off one side of the dwarf cherry tree. One morning as I was sweating on the elliptical exercise machine, trying to will the timer to move faster toward my release, a large shadow appeared against the window blinds: A deer (one of our "gang" members, I'm sure) was nibbling the roses right outside the window.
The deer have also discovered the "water feature" that my wife built out of recycled satellite-TV dishes. (Building these may be her next career, as everyone who's seen them wants one.) It's the perfect deer drinking fountain — no need to even bend down to lap up the water!
Let me make clear that, with the exception of this accidental deer "bubbler" (as they call drinking fountains in certain Midwestern burgs), we're in no way deliberately feeding or attempting to attract the deer. We're well aware of the dangers of trying to lure deer to your backyard as a sort of live-action Disney show. Certain residential streets in Silver City and one notorious stretch of Hwy. 90 near White Signal vividly demonstrate the folly of such efforts — unless, of course, you operate an auto-body repair shop.
My wife discovered the most notable addition to the menagerie at Rancho Fryxell a few weeks ago. Not far beyond the lip where our backyard gives way to a steep, untended hillside of brambles, scrubby oaks and manzanita bushes, she spotted an animal burrow of some kind. A rough mound of raw dirt topped a hole excavated into the hillside.
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A foxy visitor to the backyard. |
Naturally, the next time our Ramblin' Outdoors columnist, Larry Lightner, came over, we asked for his expert opinion on the likely inhabitant of the burrow. Could be a coyote, Larry said. Or a bobcat. Or a badger. (Don't they live in Wisconsin?) Or a fox.
Well, heck, we thought (suddenly seeing visions of a bobcat pouncing on us as we flipped burgers at the grill), can't you narrow it down some more? OK, we've ruled out polar bears — great, thanks a million. What about wolverines? Could it be a wolverine? We've seen the X-Men movies; we know what they're capable of.
The identity of our furry new neighbor had to wait a couple more weeks to be revealed. One afternoon, a quick glance out back turned into a long stare and a scramble for the camera: There was definitely a fox out back. My wife was surprised at how small it looked; I, still picturing myself as the pouncee while innocently grilling burgers, was surprised at how big.
In any case, the fox appears sleek and healthy — no suggestion of the rabies epidemic that inflicted so many local foxes last year. So we're fine with our new neighbor, thankful at least it's not a badger, which Larry had warned was probably the worst-case scenario. (That is, since he'd ruled out a T. Rex roaming the backyard.)
The fox might also help explain this year's paucity of rabbits. (Or maybe we're infested with owls and just don't know it yet.)
At least, I thought we didn't have rabbits. Then, just this morning, as I was sleepily making coffee and trying not to pour the freshly ground AIR Coffee beans where the water's supposed to go, I looked up and saw a silhouette bounding across the backyard. Definitely a rabbit. Maybe even a jackrabbit.
Terrific. Tomorrow morning I fully expect Bugs Bunny to come knocking at the door, demanding carrots.
David A. Fryxell edits Desert Exposure while keeping one eye out for wolverines.