wildlife

Opossum Etiquette

What’s the proper protocol once you’ve trapped an opossum?

Is there a rural edict regarding relocation? If you release one, are you passing the nuisance to someone else? Is it liken to dumping your lawn clippings over a neighbor’s fence?

Earlier this week, we found ourselves in the company of another Oh Possum.

Periodically, we have trouble with nocturnal critters, who treat the barn cat food like a buffet bar.

“You stop feeding those cats, you wouldn’t have these problems,” an animal control guy once said, when a raccoon was loitering around the house.

It’s true, cat food temps the wildlife. But solving one problem would create another: without cats, there’d be a rodent revolution. They keep the mice to a minimum.

Back to the opossum conundrum. The last time we pulled a critter from the buffet line, we deported him.

To Virginia.

Remember this guy?

But Monday, we didn’t have time for a road trip. So I texted our local marsupial wrangler, Liz, for advice.

Last fall she caught one in her barn.

And picked it up.

By the tail.

Liz’s little friend

But as I learned, she set him down nearby since her barn is sealed tight at night.

Our structure, on the other hand, has nooks, crannies and crawl spaces. Critters can hide in the daytime, and emerge to party like rockstars at night.

Last Sunday, one particular rockstar refused to leave the feed room area. (He parked in plain sight, and played possum.)

So out came the trap, and we discovered him, contained the next morning. Then Martin and I pondered how far was far enough, to prevent his return.

Google wasn’t very helpful. I did stumble on a forum discussion entitled, “Dispatching with a captured opossum humanely.” Some person caught one, using a Havahart trap, then debated whether to shoot it with a .45 pistol, a .22 rifle, or a .17 bolt-action rimfire rifle. Which to use? And will the shot ricochet off the cage?

The answer was never revealed but suffice to say, that critter is in marsupial heaven.

Our opossum was transported to the river’s edge and set free. Apparently, he did not enjoy his Gator ride — imprisoned, and jouncing along at 20 mph, with 3 gleeful, raucous children.

When Martin released Oh Possum, he couldn’t flee the scene fast enough. That crazy ride might’ve put him off domestic living for good.

To Kill a Mockingbird

glendale_arizona_northern_mockingbird_10-04-10

In the summer months, birds chatter and chirp all day long and mostly, it’s pleasant background music. White sound.

I hardly notice our barn swallows twittering as they commune on the telephone line. (Though they kick up a clamor when a crow swoops into the barn or a cat slinks by.)

And I don’t mind the bird-brained cardinal who head-butts the hallway window for hours at a time. (The kids call him “Crazy Bird.”)

They’re all fine. It’s the mockingbird that I despise.

Because he never shuts up.

You might believe that a mockingbird sounds nice — trilling through his repertoire of tunes.

And it’s ok… in small doses. But our bird sounds off nonstop, nearly 24 hours a day. With my sleep issues, I’ll often wake to hear his shrill songs. His choice perches are the trees that flank the house. He’s raucous at sunrise, midday when the sun is high, and all through the night.

It borders on noise pollution and some mornings I can’t stop myself from yelling, “Shut Up!” as I cross the yard. He doesn’t miss a beat.

“He sounds like he’s imitating different car alarms,” Martin said one evening, as the bird blared from our magnolia tree.

Apparently, this behavior — unfettered singing all night and day — is normal for unmated males. Females also sing, but they are quieter and less vocal.

Mockingbirds also are intelligent, territorial species. One study found that they can recognize and remember individual people whom they perceive are a threat. They can identify a face in a crowd. (I sure as hell couldn’t tell two mockingbirds apart.)

As for their vocalizations, one website notes that they can imitate more than 30 bird songs in succession, but they also branch out to copy cats, dogs, frogs, squirrels, squeaky brakes, and yes… car alarms.

Apparently fruit is a dietary stable and in those rare moments when our bird isn’t belting out his greatest hits, he’s stuffing his beak with our black raspberries.

Once a male mockingbird finds a mate, his simmers down a bit. I wish this guy would hook up already.

Or take song requests… maybe, “The Sound of Silence.”

The latest update: I sat on this material for 7 to 10 days before publishing it, and since then, our mockingbird has found a girl. He’s now just another bird around the barnyard, and is most vocal when he perches on the telephone line and scolds the cats as they saunter near his nest. 

Racing Homer

Kit of flying pigeons

Last Friday was a weird wildlife day. First, there was the raccoon encounter.

Then a few hours later, the pigeon showed up.

Not a typical pigeon, perched atop the barn cupola or fluttering inside our silo. This one was loitering in the driveway, gazing expectantly at the house. A pigeon with purpose.

Martin and I were packing for a weekend away and were running late, thanks to the raccoon episode. As I snatched the kids’ toothbrushes from the bathroom, I spied the bird out the window. He didn’t appear to be injured; he was standing there, occasionally pacing back and forth in sentry-fashion. Waiting.

“Hey, what’s the deal with that pigeon out there?” I asked Martin.

He watched for a moment. “No idea, but if he stands there much longer, he’s going to be cat food.”

We all headed outside and approached the bird. He wasn’t particularly frightened. He cooed and held his ground until we were in arm’s reach. When we retreated, he’d follow. “Look, he’s got a bracelet,” Brynn said, pointing to the tiny red band around his leg.

I called Chet, our neighbor and local birder. (Poor Chet, he’d already received a dozen calls from us concerning the raccoon.) Regarding the bird he proffered this: “Try to catch him — he probably won’t peck you — and read the number on his band. Then throw him in the air to help him fly away.”

I relayed these instructions to Martin who stared blankly at me. “You want me to do what? Are you serious?”

“Come on,” I said. “After roping a raccoon, catching a pigeon’s a piece of cake.”

As you’ll see in the video below, efforts to collect said pigeon were unsuccessful. And since we left shortly thereafter, I don’t know what happened to him. But the banded bird spurred my curiosity and yielded the following trivia:

Did you know that pigeon racing is a sport, with supporting organizations like the American Racing Pigeon Union and the National Pigeon Association? I’ve never heard of such a thing.

A “Racing Homer” is a pigeon selectively bred for speed and homing instinct, both critical to pigeon racing. Competitions range from 100 to several hundred miles in distance, and “good” homers can sustain 60 mph for hours and reach speeds of 110 mph. Those who breed them are called “pigeon fanciers.”

Want to learn more? I’m sure you do. Schedule a visit to the American Pigeon Museum in Oklahoma City. Really, it exists.

Our winged visitor might’ve been a race participant who lost his (or her) way. Or perhaps he was taking a breather from his charted course.

Who knows? He gave us the Heisman when we tried to help.

 

(For you email subscribers, if the video does not appear in your blog post, copy this link into your web browser: http://youtu.be/s9VIUfN3ukE)

 

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