Wanted, Dead or Alive, and Preferably Dead

The British are using poison to combat the invasion of the non-native gray squirrel, but what if the squirrels decide to fight back?

It’s another British invasion, but this time it is from the USA to Britain, and the invader is the gray squirrel. Gray squirrels were introduced into Britain sometime in the 19th century, and there have been many deliberate and accidental releases of the squirrels into the environment. Unfortunately, gray squirrels have flourished in the Old Country and have crowded out the native red squirrels, whose population has declined seriously. This has become such a problem that the British government is in the midst of a campaign to kill off the invaders.

Sad to say, this is only one tale of non-native species creating havoc in their new environment. The USA has plenty of similar problems, from zebra mussels and fire ants, to africanized bees and Burmese pythons. Asian carp, imported into the USA for the purposes of aquaculture, have long since escaped into native rivers, most notably the Mississippi, from which they have moved north. Not only do they crowd out native species, but these "jumping carp" have injured people, as well. In 1778, the european rabbit made its entry into Australia, where it proceeded to drive some native species into extinction. The virus myxomatosis was used to kill off the rabbits, but soon the long-eared rodents had developed a resistance and made a comeback.

With the spread of global trade and travel, the end of the invasions of non-native species is nowhere in sight. Many countries have tried to fight back through hunting, trapping, poison, electrocution, and use of sterilizing drugs. Most of the efforts have failed. And what if the invasive critters start fighting us in return? Python at two o'clock!

My Wetland

There used to be a wetland much like the one pictured here on the way from the parking lot where I park at SUNY Oswego to the building where my office is located (Mahar Hall). The parking lot, which is a staff/faculty lot that at some point must not have been paved, is generally known as "the mudlots," even though it has been paved for as long as I can remember.

One on side of the parking lot is Lake Ontario, and on the other side, you walk on a paved path up a small incline to the street, Rudolph Road (or County Route 89). Across the street are classroom buildings (Mahar Hall, Lanigan Hall) and Penfield Library. Close to the parking lot there is a utilitarian building that is some kind of waste water treatment plant. There is an unpaved, i.e. footworn, path up the slope between this plant and what used to be my wetland.

A couple of years ago, the college spent quite a bit of the state's money to build a new campus center, which includes a hockey rink. This new building, which connects to a couple of existing buildings on campus, is across the narrow parking lot from Penfield Library and roughly across the road from the mudlots. Campus folklore has it that my wetland spoiled the view from the new campus center to Lake Ontario. Whatever the true reason might be, my wetland was removed.

To be accurate, one-half of the wetland was removed. The part on the right hand side of the paved path up to the road is still present and flourishing. It is the part on the left side, that bordered on the parking lot, that is gone. That is the part that I thought of as "my" wetland, because it was close and I could look into it and see what was going on. This consisted of a low-lying area at the bottom of a wooded slope. The low spots filled with water that mostly didn't drain away, so there was standing water in among the trees. The trees were somewhat shabby maples, alders, a couple of elderly oaks, some dead trunks, and a lot of brush, brambles, and wild grape vines. You might call it a thicket or a scrub woodland. But it also had standing water, so I have always thought of it as a wetland.

Anyway, it was a delight to walk by this thicket and hear the birds singing, watch the squirrels and rabbits scoot in and out, and follow the life course of the many wildflowers that flourished at the margins of the wetland. There was a nearly constant hammering as unseen woodpeckers worked on the trees. My favorite plant was a kind of wild monarda called purple bergamot. I was always struck by the intense blue of the wild chicory flowers on their ugly, spiky stems. No matter how often they mowed the grass verges on either side of the asphalt path, the bergamot and chicory flowers would come back, now close to the ground and with only a very short stem. There were also pink and ivory-colored cornflowers, a couple of flowers whose names I don't know that looked like little orchids, one of them bright yellow, and the usual daisy-like flowers, probably including wild chamomile. There were, of course, less glamorous plants, such as thistles and the common milkweed, which is so important for monarch butterflies. Among the many birds that lived in and around my wetland was my favorite, the red-winged blackbird. Its song is indelibly associated in my mind with summer, that and the humming of cicadas, and you could hear both when you passed my wetland.

To make it plain, my wetland was an eden. It was not quite unspoiled, because from time to time trash would blow or be thrown into it, but it wouldn't have taken much to wade in once or twice a year to fish out the plastic bags and McDonald's wrappers. Beyond that, it was self-sustaining and maintenance free. I can't say the same for the lawn that has taken its place. To begin with, they had to cut down most of the trees and brush and haul it away. When one of the big trees toppled, an enormous woodpecker was seen flying away. Then they had to fill the hollow, grade the slope, and seed it. They ended up putting in drainage systems twice, because they couldn't seem to grasp the notion that water naturally collected in the hollow. Finally, they planted some evergreens and a few small decorative trees. Three of the evergreens have already died, damaged when hit by lawnmowers, I believe. The grass has to be cut, and when it was dry during the summer, gallons of water were sprayed on the grass. It is not a pretty lawn, because much of the gravel and other fill used to regrade the slope protrudes through the relatively thin layer of soil spread over it. Even the Canada geese, which graze in great numbers on nearby lawns, don't bother with this one.

It has been two years, but I still mourn the loss of my wetland and resent the pinheads who destroyed it in favor of a scrubby lawn. A scrubby wetland is fine and natural. A scrubby lawn is a disgrace, and those people deserve it.

A Dog of Property

My dog Peterkin has a lot of possessions. I did a brief inventory yesterday, and I counted the following: 2 dog beds, 1 traveling crate, 2 everyday water bowls (plastic), 2 ceramic water bowls, one small and one large, 6 feeding bowls, consisting of 5 small white Corelle bowls and 1 ceramic dog dish with a tasteful pattern of bones on the outside (His cousin Monique the poodle has an identical bowl. They were received as Christmas presents a few years ago.), about a dozen dog toys, mostly stuffed, with at least 2 soft plastic toys, 1 collar (with dog license, rabies tag, and ID tag), a harness and 2 leashes (4-foot and 6-foot), combs, brushes, and other grooming tools, shampoo and conditioner from Drs. Foster & Smith, cans and packages of dog food, pills (he takes a small dose of phenobarbital twice a day), tooth brushing paraphernalia that he refuses to use, several towels, including the infamous "green towel" that lives near the back door and is used for feet wiping, and an inexpensive fleece throw from Walmart that is known as his "nesting material." The nesting material is usually in a heap on "his" chair in the living room. I have probably missed a few things, but Peterkin is definitely a dog of property. Yorkies have their own laws of property, by the way, which it is well to know and obey.

Now, a dog of property is a legal conundrum. In law, dogs are property, so they can't own property. Only "persons," real (people) and artifical (corporations), can own property. Peterkin does not like being thought of as property, although he can't deny the fact that he was purchased from a breeder for the sum of $650.00 plus tax. Plus tax! Yes, I had to pay sales tax on him, so Peterkin is most certainly property. When I told my mother about this, she made two observations: 1) She never would have bought Peterkin because he was a boy, and everyone knows boy dogs are dirty. She was certainly right about that. 2) She never would have paid $650 for any dog. That is outrageously expensive. It is expensive, but there are plenty of dogs that cost more, and if I had bought one of Peterkin's sisters, I would have had to pay more for her.

I rarely think of Peterkin as property, although I am aware that I have to have him licensed every year and I am legally responsible if he bites the plumber. I generally think of Peterkin as something between a buddy and a child. I think he considers me to be his mother. I got him when he was only 10 weeks old, and a boy needs a Mommy when he's that young. So I am his mommy as well as his owner. I do everything for him, and in return he gives me loyalty, affection, companionship, and plenty of aggravation. I wouldn't be without him for the world.

Not too long ago, property tycoon Leona Helmsley left her considerable estate to her pet Maltese, named Trouble. Since then, Trouble has been a lot of trouble for Leona's surviving relatives. People have made a lot of jokes about Trouble as heiress, but I can see Mrs. Helmsley's point of view. Dogs are nice to you, even if you're not very nice. They don't care if people call you the "Queen of Mean." A dog like Trouble will give you the big hello when you get home from bossing people around and doing whatever it is that tycoons do. A dog doesn't care if you did time for income tax evasion. Dogs are nicer than people. Leona Helmsley knew that, and Trouble became an heiress. I imagine Peterkin expects to inherit a packet one of these days, too, but he may have to settle for dog chews and that lengthy list of possessions cataloged at the beginning of this message. Poor thing.

My Short Career as a Feeder of Birds

My mother had birdfeeders for years. She loved birds, and she employed a variety of feeders. In the winter, and winter lasts a long time in Fulton, New York, she had many colorful birds at the feeders-- cardinals, blue jays, evening grosbeaks, purple finches, goldfinches, as well as chickadees, nuthatches and my special favorites, the juncoes. Naturally, not only the celebrity birds benefited from the feeders. Dozens of sparrows, not to mention starlings, grackles, and other proletarian birds, also got many meals at my mother's expense, not to mention squirrels, chipmunks, and, much as it pains me to admit it, the occasional rat. And I'm sorry to say, some cats and predator birds also profited from my mother's largesse, but it wasn't so bad that it ever discouraged her from her charitable works on behalf of her feathered friends.

My next-door neighbor has a couple of feeders in her back yard, and I love to see the cardinals and other colorful birds at her feeders. I don't have any feeders myself, because so much snow collects in the back yard during the winter that I doubt whether I could get out there regularly to replenish the feeders, and it seems unfair to attract the birds during the better weather and then abandon them when they need it most. There are also enough cats in my neighborhood that I have misgivings about helping them to get an easy meal. Nevertheless, I enjoy watching the birds at my neighbor's feeder and look forward to watching her bird visitors during the winter.

When I was in law school, I lived in an upstairs apartment in a house in the city of Tonawanda, New York. One winter I got the idea of putting a bird feeder on the flat roof outside my kitchen window. The feeder was nothing special. It consisted of a large aluminum pie plate filled with bird seed from the grocery store, and the birds who took advantage of it weren't special either, being only sparrows, and a great many sparrows, at that. I never realized until then how many different kinds of sparrows there were, and I loved to watch them.

Unfortunately, I wasn't a feeder of birds for long. One day, my landlady informed me, somewhat apologetically, that she wanted me to take the bird feeder down. According to her, the birds on the roof made too much noise. I did as she wished, but I was very sorry about it, because I had enjoyed watching the birds from close up. So there I was, even though involuntarily, a faithless feeder of sparrows. I still regret it, but there's no reasoning with landladies who have decided that somehow the birds must be damaging the roof, which is what I'm sure she did believe. Spoilsport!

Beano before . . . .

I have been trying to eat healthier lately. In July, I had a complete physical. I don't like to have a physical, but my sister, my aunt, and my therapist nagged me until I made an appointment and kept it. Okay, so I hadn't had one in a while, but what's ten years?

The exam was preceded by bloodwork a couple of days before, then the physical itself. First, of course, I had to get weighed. Not good. Then I had to give them a urine sample. No problem. Like most women my age, there's no time when I can't pee a little. Then I had to get undressed and wait until the doctor was ready for me. Why are those paper gowns so dreadful? I'm not a fashion plate, but really! We'll skip the internal, the breast exam and the Pap smear. I'm hoping maybe I'll have some male readers some day, and I don't want to turn them off, even though I'm getting pretty tired of watching TV ads about ED and BPH (caused by a wonky prostate, if you don't know) myself. The worst part actually, was having to discuss the fact that my blood pressure and blood sugar were a little high, as was my cholesterol level. And really, according to the numbers, they were only a little high, but along with being overweight and having arthritic knees, things weren't good. So I said, "Do I need anything other than to lose weight and exercise more?" and the doctor said no.

So I went on a diet. I did eight weeks of Nutrisystem first, hoping to lose 20 pounds at one fell swoop. Not exactly, but I did lose 15, so that was good. Then I started a homemade version of Weight Watchers, because right now I am feeling too cheap to pay them a lot of money for what I already know. Been there, done that; just don't ask how many times I have been there and done that. It's working, albeit slowly, but I've got time. At least I hope I've got time. If I could average one pound per week of weight loss for the next year, I would be svelte enough to satisfy any doctor. Really. As Anna Russell used to say, "I'm not making this up, you know."

And I really am working at it. In a not unnatural reaction to processed foods (sorry Nutrisystem), I have been eating lots of vegetables, lots of fruit, lots of whole grains, very little red meat, and so on. Very healthy. The only problem is, very gassy, too. And that's the whole problem. Why should a healthy diet involve so much tooting?

Well, it's natural. I imagine our forefathers tooted a lot, too, but it has become uncool to toot, just as it has become uncool to have body odor and bad breath. I have it on good authority that halitosis (bad breath to you) was invented by people who wanted to sell mouthwash, and I imagine our concern with BO has the same sort of history. Maybe that's bad, but it's the way we feel about things these days, and there's no escaping it.

They say that chewing parsley is a good solution for bad breath, but if there is a reliable home remedy for excessive gas, I'd like to hear about it. For now, any time a toot escapes in public, I look up at the ceiling or search the room to see if there's a dog to blame.

Ravens and Rituals

I love crows and related birds. They're noisy creatures, but they're very smart, and they seem to be everywhere, city or country. In that way, they remind me of sparrows, another of my favorite birds. True, they're not particularly gorgeous, and they're anything but rare, but it's comforting to know that you can find them almost anywhere, even the parking lot at McDonald's.

I bet you didn't know that blue jays are members of the crow family, but they are. They're such beautiful birds, but their raucous cries betray their corvine origins. Corvine means "crow-like," if you haven't guessed already. I have crows, ravens and blue jays in abundance at my house in Oswego. They may be of humble origin, but it's nice to hear them in the mornings and know that at least some of nature's creatures have survived another day.

Crows are extremely intelligent birds. Here is a link to an article about the intelligence of crows, and recent studies have shown that crows can recognize human faces.

The photo above is of three ravens having a meeting in the snow. They look to me as if they're having a good gossip, or maybe they're complaining about the weather. There are ravens in my neighborhood, too. One morning a few weeks ago, a raven was perched on the roof of my garage, shrieking at some smaller birds sitting on the backyard fence. Then the raven swooped down into the yard, picked up one of Peterkin's dog cookies and left. Peterkin is my dog, a 6.3 pound Yorkie, who's pretty raucous himself. Ever since, I've been keeping watch to make sure that the raven doesn't come back looking to pick up Peterkin!

In 2004, I wrote the poem below, which seems to go pretty well with the picture, even though the poem refers to crows instead of ravens. Birds of a feather, and all that.

RITUAL

Three black crows greeted me today;
they flew all night from Babylon to get here.
I watch for them as soon as winter comes;
God only knows why they come back again.
Next year I'll watch for them once more,
like Dido waiting for her lover.

Crow-eyes follow me to sleep at night,
like black and shiny beetles on a twig.
Their evil faces leer at me, eyes full of spite;
I wish they'd stop. They make my dreams
too hard and sharp, like pins under my pillow.