Prairie Dogs

 

Okay, so I'm on an animal kick lately. Colorado does that to me. Among other animals, we saw coyote, deer and marmots on our trip there a couple of weeks ago. And, of course, we saw prairie dogs. When Lewis and Clark first explored the area in 1806, they described them as barking squirrels. The French trappers, however, had already named them chien de prairie and that name stuck. If you're from Colorado or that part of the country, prairie dogs aren't a big deal. They sometimes call them sod poodles or chiselers. If you're not from the area, however, they're fascinating, industrious little critters. Rodents … but cute … in a hamster, bunny sort of way.

It's hard to miss them. The ones we saw were black-tailed … one of the five known species. They set up their towns with elaborate burrow systems in almost any free, open space that sports a little grassy vegetation. Though humans constantly encroach on their turf, prairie dogs are very resilient and forgiving. They just move on and find new digs … literally. Dog towns are found even in urban areas … mostly vacant lots.

They kind of remind us of the meerkats we saw in Africa. They stand guard at the entrance to their burrows and then bark and whistle to alert the rest of family and town when a predator approaches or onlookers get a little too close. They all pop their heads out of their burrows when there's an unexpected noise or event.

In actuality, the whistles and barks have been found to be a rather sophisticated system of communication describing specific predators... not only what they are are, but how big, how close and the perceived level of threat.

We used to use the term “prairie dogging” at our company when we all worked in cubicles. Whenever there was a noise or distraction, everyone would poke up their heads to see what was going on.

We've seen the world's biggest prairie dog in Cactus Flats, South Dakota.

And a coterie of white prairie dogs in South Dakota, too.

If you're a rancher, these guys are considered pests. They make so many burrow holes that your cattle and horses trip on them or get their feet stuck. If you're a farmer, they can damage your crops. They don't usually eat the crops, they just clear all the vegetation around their burrows which tends to include your lettuce. They're varmints and considered not only expendable, but provide target shooting entertainment … like rats at the dump. They schedule prairie dog shoots as local events in some areas. There are actually recipes on line for prairie dog. I guarantee they won't be included in the Nine of Cups Cookbook. There's even a prairie dog video game you can download which seems much more fun to me than killing a live one.

Unfortunately, these guys are also susceptible to the bubonic plague aka the Black Death (from fleas) and tularemia aka rabbit fever (from ticks and deer flies), bacterial diseases which can spread to humans if they handle diseased animals or get bitten. My reading indicates that the chances of getting either disease from a prairie dog are about as likely as getting struck by lightning. According to the Mayo Clinic, the risk of contracting the bubonic plague worldwide is 1 in 3 million. The CDC indicates an average of only seven human plague cases are reported in the US each year.

Prairie dog numbers have declined significantly since the days of Lewis & Clark. What a surprise, huh? Ecologists consider them to be a keystone species. That is, they're the primary diet for ferrets, fox and eagles among others. They make tasty snacks for some snakes as well. Additionally, their burrows are borrowed by some birds like plovers and burrowing owls for nesting. An additional 117 wildlife species likely benefit from prairie dog colonies to meet their biological needs.

There's even a Prairie Dog Coalition that, in conjunction with the American Humane Society, has stepped up to provide some protection for these guys. I'm more inclined to writing blogs and taking photos than standing on a soapbox, but you gotta wonder about us humans sometimes ...

Elusive Mooses

 

Only because we've just been to Colorado and drove through tiny Walden, the self-proclaimed Moose Viewing Capital of Colorado, did I start thinking about moose. We didn't see any moose there except on the wall at the Moose Creek Cafe, nor did we see any in Kremmling when we ate breakfast at The Moose. And you'll remember we currently live near Moose Hill Sanctuary here in Massachusetts where we also have seen no moose. Elusive mooses.

As the largest member of the deer family, we call them moose in North America, but they're called elk in Northern Europe. Confusing because we have elk in North America (wapiti), but they're a totally different animal. Another one of those “two nations divided by the same language” situations.

We've seen them several times in our travels particularly in Alaska, Wyoming and Colorado. They're diurnal and huge, so they're easy to spot. Ungainly looking, tall and shaggy, they can run at about 35mph. That's pretty fast for such a klutzy looking animal. And they're good swimmers as well. These shy herbivores browse in deciduous forests and we've often seen them in streams and ponds, knee-high in water, passively eating pondweed. Sometimes they've surprised us (and vice versa) when we've been hiking in the woods or taking early morning walks.

They estimate there are roughly 300,000 moose in the US and maybe a million in Canada. I recently read an article in the New York Times describing unprecedented high death tolls among moose recently. That's a worrisome thought.

Here's a little moose trivia for you...

• The flap under their chin is called a bell. (I dare you to ring it).

• Moose have 32 teeth like humans, but no upper front teeth (akin to some humans), hence the reason they cannot whistle.

• Their upper lip is prehensile to help them grasp food.

• They're usually loners and do not form herds.

• Moose have 27 chromosomes. Humans have 23.

• The word moose was borrowed from the Native American Algonquian vocabulary and means “twig eater”. It's been used in the English language since 1606.

• The plural of moose is moose … or mooses (considered antiquated and irksome?) … or humorously, meese.

• There's the fraternal organization, Loyal Order of the Moose. Teddy Roosevelt belonged to the Bull Moose Party. And don't be confused with mousse for either hair care or dessert. David's favorite moose/mousse is chocolate. Mine is Bullwinkle J … with or without the squirrel.

The Gannet

 

Sometimes when we're at sea for awhile, my imagination works overtime. Here's an example ...

A gannet came by this morning at dawn. He flew very close to the boat ... to get my attention, I’m sure.

If you’re not familiar with a gannet, it's one of the larger sea-faring birds … not as large or as hefty as an albatross, but stately enough with a 4-foot wingspan. The underside of this guy's body was white, but the wingtips and tail were mottled black showing a sort of checkerboard effect when he banked sharply left or right and you could see his topsides. His black webbed feet were tucked neatly beneath him during flight like compact landing gear. His head feathers, a bright yellow, looked carefully coiffed as if pomaded sleekly back to keep his feathers out of his eyes. His bright blue eye ring gave the impression that he was a flying, blue-eyed blonde.

A gannet's body is streamlined and culminates in a sleek, tapered tail which completes a fine aeronautic design for efficient plunge-diving. When he makes a plunge from what appears a dizzying height, his whole body morphs from a graceful, soaring bird to a well-aimed arrow and down he comes, splitting through the water with barely a splash. You’d expect a broken neck (hence the term break-neck speed), but up he bobs, mouth empty and with barely a moment to recover, he ascends for another try. Tough way to make a living. We had seen them diving while we were at anchor one time and it was quite the show.

This fellow nearly startled me. He appeared out of nowhere it seemed and there he was not ten feet from my nose, slowing down to match our 5 knots of boat speed. He hovered in a wind draft, hanging in the air as if suspended on strings from a phantom puppeteer sitting on our boom. I immediately introduced myself and told him I needed to go below and get my camera. I know it sounds crazy, but several days into a passage at sea while on watch, I find myself addressing the moon, the rising stars, petrels and dolphins alike in the most familiar terms. So, talking to the gannet was nothing out of the ordinary. Seeing a gannet so far from land was pretty odd though.

He must have thought me rude or misunderstood my intentions because he flew away. He must have reconsidered, there being so few opportunities for visiting out here, and gave me a reprieve. Some minutes later he returned, politely flying by, showing off this side and that for the benefit of my camera.

Though some of these sea birds are considered to be dolts (like boobies, for instance), this fellow looked pretty intelligent as he gracefully rode the air currents, expending minimal energy to stay aloft… a wing flap here, a wing flap there. I thought perhaps he was looking for a landing spot to rest a bit, but he never attempted it. He flew around for about 30 minutes and entertained me so sufficiently that I forgot the 0700 ship’s log entry. Then he was gone like most fleeting relationships formed at sea.

Another uneventful half hour crawled by and I heard distinct loud squawking. Not the radio, not those siren voices you hear at sea, but definite squawks. My buddy had returned, bringing around the relatives for a look-see. Two more gannets had joined him, alternately eyeing the boat and the sea beneath them.

A squid had gotten caught up in the scupper during the night and I thought they might enjoy the treat. I tried in vain pointing out this fine delicacy on the side deck, using subtle hand signals, so as not to frighten them away. No amount of signaling, however, got the message across and so the squid lay there, rigor and foul fish smell setting in.

The threesome dove and performed elegant aeronautic feats, chatting in fluent gannet as they maneuvered the flyovers in perfect sync. They didn't seem to be catching anything and hence did not allow photographs. Just as suddenly as they appeared, all were gone once again.

Not for long this time, however. On their return they were joined by yet another gannet! Now four were surveying Cups in a most discriminating manner, as if the fourth had to be convinced we were really there. They soared over, around, back and forth…sometimes together and sometimes individually. It made me dizzy. I’m not sure if four constitutes a flock, but it was a good start anyway.

After these frenetic observations, they flew off and never did return. It is my contention (and who can dispute it?) that the fourth fellow was the boss bird, squadron commander, as it were. He was non-plussed and certainly unimpressed by a sailboat in the middle of the ocean which had wasted the precious feeding time of his minions and he hurried to get them back on track.

For me, end of watch and a well-deserved nap plus a little something to write about later.