Kyle is one of those old-fashioned kids who have no apparent interest in the trappings of the modern age. I guess I’ve known him since he was around eight or nine years of age, but it’s hard to tell. Apart from height he has not changed much and is ageless in a very good way. He delights in stomping through the reeds hunting frogs, handling turtles, and fishing. He especially likes fishing – simple fishing with simple gear. In another age he would have been called Tom Sawyer. I could always depend on him to come up with a constant stream of live specimens for the museum. Now that he’s in high school, I can still depend on him.

He and his friend, Huck, (not his real name but it might as well be)  have been spending quite a bit of time engaged in night fishing on the River Raisin in downtown Monroe. Two weeks ago he came in and described a fish that they caught one hot summer night in the riffled shallows. “I think it might have been one of those Madtoms,” he said in reference to another fish I introduced to him some time ago,” but it was kinda yellow and about 8 inches long.”  Recognizing that Madtoms don’t get nearly that big and that if they did they would become Angry Toms, I proposed that it must have been a Stonecat. He looked at the picture and agreed.

Given that I’d never actually seen a Stonecat before, I asked him what became of it. Unfortunately, he said, they put it in a friend’s aquarium and it died. “The dead fish,” I asked, “what did you do with that?” “Threw it out,” he replied regretfully (only in Kyles’ world does such a statement become regretful). I wished him luck on his further fishing adventures and off-handedly suggested that next time he captured one that he bring it in. “Dead or alive, rotten or fresh” I quipped. I should have known better than that.

The following week, “Tom and Huck” walked through the door with a bucket containing a very live Stonecat. Although neither will admit it, I believe the two fished every hot sweltering night for a week in order to get me one of “those fish.” I would have felt guilty except that I know they loved every minute of it!  “Huck” had even photographed the thing on his cell phone to show its true colors in case it died.

At this point, my narrative needs to shift on to the fish itself before I run out of internet cyber space – or whatever you call it. I just wanted you to know that this catfish moment belongs to Kyle.

Stonecats are not terribly rare, but these diminutive members of the cat-fish family, which rarely get over 10 inches in length, are often over looked. They appear to be young bullheads at first, second, and even third glance. Most probably get thrown back without further thought. Like bullheads, they are nocturnal bottom feeders with “taste-sensitive” whiskers and sharp fin barbs.  They are much flatter and pointier than bullheads, however, with pop-eyes and a continuous fin around the entire back end of the body like a tadpole (see below). In reference to this last feature, their scientific name Noturus flavus literally means “yellow fish with a tail over the back.”

Held within my hand, the creature looked and felt strangely frog-like (see here) . Not only was it scale-less, but this cat was extremely slimy and very hard to hold. Also, like any good cat, this one could scratch. It nabbed me without even blinking one of its googley eyes. There is a stout sharp spine at the leading edge of each pectoral, or side, fin. A narrow channel in the spine conducts a mild dose of venom which creates a distinct stinging sensation when injected. This is a predator defense tactic. I was injected, if only slightly, in the process of handling the fish. You can see the tiny blood spot on my hand in the portrait picture below.  Fortunately, this little prick didn’t cause anything other than a short recurrence of Tourette’s Syndrome in this human.   The fish died the next day.

At any rate, it’s good to know that there are Stonecats living in the River Raisin. At Kyle’s fishing location, the river runs very shallow and fast over a bottom of natural rocks and pebbles. This is prime Stonecat habitat. The lower stretch of this river has seen some issues with pollution, especially where it exits out into the waters of Lake Erie, and their presence there is a positive biological health indicator.

Here’s to Kyle, Huck, and the riffling Stonecats of the River Raisin.

In the caterpillar world, hairiness is a means of passive defense. Most birds really don’t like to eat hairy things and for good reason. Some larval moths develop stiff irritating hairs that shed and stick like miniature barbs while others adopt the “birds will not eat a pom-pom” approach by covering themselves with long silky locks that clog up throats. The avian aversion to hair is understandable. I don’t like to eat hairy things either – extremely fuzzy peaches, for instance, are a challenge and I would never eat a whole cat. In some parts of the world where people actually eat caterpillars, they gravitate to the hairless ones such as African Mopane worms. (By the way, for those of you now forming some sort of statement pointing out that insects and peaches don’t have real hair, I wish you to stop right now. I know this and I don’t care this).

Fall webworms are a fuzzy lot, so you’d think that would be enough in itself for a short happy life. These larvae are covered with fine white silky hairs and they eventually become fuzzy white moths. That’s enough mouth-gagging pile to stop any mouth. They collectively know, however, that there are many other agents of death out there that have no aversion to hair such as parasitic wasps and ‘piller pillaging hornets. (For those of you who are now preparing to say that insects don’t really think, I would again ask you to stuff a pom-pom into your mouth). Webworms take the predator defense thing one step further by living in huge colonies surrounded by silken walls. In other words they survive by being a hair ball within a hair house – a furball protected by a firewall of fuzz – a mffffa muffash …(hey, who stuffed ‘tha cat in my mouf!).

Webworm colonies are easy to spot and to contemplate. Their large silken colonies begin to appear in mid-summer and become more obvious as the season progresses into fall (thus the name). The tactic employed by these creatures, from the time they emerge, is to collectively wrap a cluster of leaves in silk and collectively eat those leaves.  There can be as many as 500 individuals in group. As the members of the colony grow in size so too does their required dwelling space. They take up to six weeks to mature, so large clumps of leaves eventually become encased and stripped.

The singular caterpillars never leave the confines of their silken haven until they are just about ready to grow up (they fend on their own during their last instar just before pupating). Therefore they have to live with the consequences of such cloistered living. Their old shed skins and piles of poo (see detail below) accumulate inside the web matrix and make for some pretty untidy house conditions. It’s o.k. for these kids to live in squalor as long as they are safe. Unfortunately, they are not completely shielded against the world. When a rip occurs, wasps and other small predators can still have their way with the web dwellers.

You also may have noticed earlier that I said MOST birds are adverse to hairiness.  There are a few who delight in such treats as long as they can find rips in the colony fabric. There is one instance in which a yellow Warbler was seen literally emptying a colony of it’s residents. Yellow-billed Cuckoos also delight in such fare. I have seen them joyfully, and repeatedly, smack small hairy caterpillars against limbs to pulverize them before eating. I guess that is the trick to eating hairy things. In the case of Fall Webworms, one early naturalist recorded 325 of the dead larvae in the stomach of a single cuckoo. Now, that’s a hair ball! That bird was cuckoo for …mmfho… hey, who stuffed that Pomeranian in my mouf!

To wrap up this discussion, it is necessary to say that webworms are not major tree pests. In spite of their dramatic flare for tent-building and leaf skeletonizing they do not generally cause any lasting harm. Although they seem to have a special liking for Black Walnuts in these parts, they are known to feed on around 90 species of deciduous trees. This is probably one of the largest menus known among the caterpillar world. The rest of the world may be picky about eating them, but they apparently are not picky about what they eat. Or, should I say that they are hairy liberals when it comes to tree food –  fuzzmapolitans who mmph…momph….  Hey, you know, these things don’t too taste bad.

I flushed up a Katydid the other day in my yard. The thing flew up from the grass, took a short St. Louis Arch flight, and landed under the low hanging branches of the almond tree. Yes, even though I live in S.E. Michigan, I have an almond tree but it has yet to produce anything other than leaves.  My Mango and coconut aren’t doing so hot either. Anyway, I pounced upon the critter like a large middle-aged cat and gave it the once over.

This specimen was a pointy headed variety known as a Sword-bearing Conehead. Saturday Night Live jokes aside, the name stems from two very obvious physical traits. Scientifically it is known as Neoconocephalus ensiger which means “New cone-headed sword bearer. I am not sure what the “new” part comes from, unless it pays homage to Dan Akroyd as the original – therefore old – conehead, but the cone shaped head was apparent enough. The tip of the cone itself is flattened and the slightly rounded shape is diagnostic for this species (see beginning picture).  Believe it or not, there are five cone-head species hanging around the state, so it is important to get your coneys confirmed.

Fortunately, because this “Did” was a female, the sword-bearing reference was also made abundantly clear. The cutlass blade sported by this individual was really an ovipositor, or egg laying device (see above and here). It is used to penetrate between grass leaves and convey the eggs into place.  All female crickets and katydids have these structures but none match that of the sword bearer.

I was lucky enough to come upon another species of katydid last month next to the Acacia trees in the other corner of the yard (not really, it was in a cat-tail marsh near my house). This’n was a male Angle-winged Katydid who felt it was necessary to clean his feet before leaving my filthy human hand. You’ll see (above) that it shared the vibrant green coloring of the sword-bearer. Both insects depend upon their inherent leaf-likeness to hide from predators. The conehead will even do a hand-stand in order to appear more leaf-like (see below).

So, in combination, these sightings got me thinking about another thing that all Katys do – which is sing.  They may hide and flee by the light of day but they buzz and trill by moonlight.  I believe only one species actually says “Katy-did” while all the others make a variety of noises. The coneheads conduct a constant series of “lisps” at the rate of ten per second and the angle-wings “Tick-tick-tick” their way through the night.  These sounds are made by rubbing one wing against the other and are usually performed by the males (although some females also engage in music making).

My third Katydid encounter (a close encounter of the third kind, you see) enabled me to show you what the sound producing structure actually looks like. This one was a dead individual already hollowed out by the neighborhood ants. This Katy wasn’t doing anything anymore. I was able to pluck off one of the wings and put it under the scope for some close-up shots of the structure responsible for making all that noise. As you can see (below) there is a very distinct comb like ridge along one of the horizontal wing veins.  It is about the size of the word “GOD” on a nickel (see here). An opposing ridge on the other wing is dragged along it to produce those bold percussive riffs for which the “’Dids” are so famous.

I went out into the back yard late at night to see if my female conehead , or one of her suitors, might be singing. But, Katy–didn’t show up in the soundscape. I am left secretly wondering, however, if the males of the genre resented being called “Katy” and deliberately remained mum in the presence of my recorder.  I think lady bug males have this same identity problem. If you spelled my name Geri, then I too would have reservations about speaking up in public.

The rabbits of the world need to be alert and quick if they don’t want to be dead and still. It is their way to be perpetually frightened of everything because virtually everything is bent on killing or maiming them. When rabbits sit around campfires, they probably tell tales of killer shadows and fatal noises alongside stories about actual flesh and blood or steel and rubber predators.  Given this basic truth, you can understand why I am baffled by the behavior of one of my yard bunnies.

Since early summer, a cottontail rabbit has been hanging around my front door. There’s some good clover and green munchies in that location but not much in the way of cover because it is mown lawn. On top of that, the place is located only a few feet from the door itself. According to the laws of nature, this bunny should be bolting as if his tail were on fire whenever we open the door.  Instead, it chooses to remain in place and allows you to approach to within a few paces before showing any notice at all. Though his eyes are upon you the whole time, he will continue to eat right up until touching distance is reached. Then, only then, will he scuttle away to the shelter of some low hanging spruce branches. It neither bolts nor flees, it just hops.

Perhaps it is infected with some bunnyitis disorder or just “simple in the head,” you might say, but by all other accounts it looks and acts normal. I don’t buy into the St Francis effect either. Some might say that it recognizes my lack of hostility and therefore can be at ease in my presence. My breath doesn’t smell of hasenpfeffer and my whiskers don’t stick straight out from my face so there is no need for alarm. Nonsense – every other bunny on earth runs from me as if I were a screaming locomotive belching steam.   Even the backyard rabbit does that, but he’s got another oddity which I will get to in a moment.

In the absence of any explanation, I was left with a calm lagomorph that sat well for observation and portrait-taking. So, I observed and took a lot of pictures. I even shot a short video sequence of the creature through the door glass.  The video basically shows a rabbit eating, so I won’t inflict it on you,  but does reveal a few essentials of bunny biology. The still pictures say it all (see here, here, and here as well). First of all, you can see the three essential senses – anti predator senses – at work. The eyes bulge from the head and allow for a near 360 degree view (low in depth perception but good for detecting movement). The nose is constantly aquiver to pick up stray scents and the ears are always aswivel .

Cottontail rabbit ears are not as large as some rabbit species, but they are very large by any mammal standard. They are employed independently to scan the sonic environment and are often directed backwards.  You can understand why wild bunnies are so hard to approach – normally.

I was hoping to witness another phase of basic bunny reality as I logged observation time with my un-normal front yard friend, but was disappointed in this regard. Rabbits eat their own droppings in order to fully digest their cellulose content. A photo sequence of a rabbit eating crap right from its own the candy dispenser would have been special, but alas they probably perform this duty in private. This is not something you want to share with the world.

Now, in regards to the backyard rabbit I have a simple story to tell. Some animal had been digging a den in the shed where I keep my John Deere mower. Whatever it was, it was throwing dirt up onto the mower deck and making a mess. In an attempt to find out what it was, I set up my trail cam. Imagine my surprise when I caught the image of a cottontail rabbit sneaking about the shed in the pre-dawn darkness (see below & here). This unlikely place was where the backyard bunny was hanging out. Come to think of it, this would be a great place to eat one’s own poop in secret!

So, I have a slow rabbit in the front yard and a shed rabbit in the backyard. I wonder what kind of cottontail resides in my side yards. Stay tuned.

In the world of sport fishing, a 7 ½ inch sunfish is hardly worth mention. In the world of Dollar Lake, it is. This tiny weedy lake is populated by approximately sixteen trillion micro sunfish, 5 million wiener-sized bullheads (calfheads would be more appropriate), 16 decent perch, five sub-legal pike and a one-eyed bass of undetermined size. We’ve personally hooked nearly every one of those sunfish and bullhead in our quest for something edible, but all takers barely exceeded the size of the bait. So, when my wife finally hooked into “the big one” we were naturally excited. She had managed to reel in one of the largest and most colorful Pumpkinseed Sunfish I had ever seen.

Pumpkinseed Sunfish rarely grow old and long in nature. They are food for everything else, so you could call them the mice of the aquatic world. Some individuals do manage to stay on the right side of the “big fish eat little fish” scenario. In one aging study, conducted in Michigan, a typical two year old fish was about 4 inches long. The lucky 5 years olds they were slightly over 6 inches in length and the wise old 8 year olds were nearly 8 inches long. There were few if any fish older or larger in that particular study, but it is believed that they can get to be 10 years old and 10 inches in length. Those tipping the scale at one pound would be considered fish of legend. Ignoring the laws of nature and fish ecology, I could estimate our whopper sunfish at around 8 years of age.

I suppose it would be expected that I throw the fish back out of respect but frankly that was not the case. It so happened that I caught a few sizable perch and we had the makings of a meal. There is some advantage at being at the top of the food chain. I was not about to let this creature pass into my digestive system without giving it a good look-over, however. It was a beautiful thing there on the cutting board.

Pumpkinseeds are members of the sunfish family – with which they share billing with the likes of bluegill, warmouths, green sunfish, and large and smallmouth bass. I suppose they get their general name (sunfish) from their rounded shape and their specific name (pumpkinseed) from their flat oval squash seed outline. Scientifically they are known as Lepomis gibbosus which is latin for “scaly gilled moon fish”, or something like that. They are the shape of the full gibbous moon and therefore have the heavenly distinction of simultaneously being a sun and moon fish.

The most distinctive feature of Pumpkinseeds are the wavy sky blue lines that cross the cheeks and those scaly gill covers. A flexible flap which extends out from each gill cover is richly marked with a white-edge black spot and a scarlet half moon crescent that has to be seen in order to be believed (see here). There is more design packed into this little flap than over the entire fish. Bright orange and powder blue side spots and a burnt orange belly completed the colorful Poisson palette of this stunning male specimen.

I could find no obvious fault with this fish and hesitated for quite some time before cleaning it. “Cleaning” a fish actually means “messing” it up by rendering it scaleless, headless, and gutless so I wanted to make sure I recorded this creature for posterity. Closer inspection of the long side fins, the pectorals, revealed black dots imbedded in the flesh. These were the resting stages of a parasitic flatworm that use the fish as a temporary home. Their ultimate goal is to find their way into the gut of a Kingfisher where they complete their development.

So, for the sake of saving our local Kingfishers from parasitic infection, I filleted the sunfish and, along with a few of the perch, roasted them to perfection over a wood fire. Complimented with roasted garlic and a few mystery spices, this beautiful sunfish became a beautiful evening meal. There is nothing like eating a sun fish under the glow of a rising moon (even if that moon was hidden behind rain clouds).

It is a sad that the first reference that comes to my mind when the word “Gypsy” pops up is that dismal Cher song “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves.”  I might need to remind you that the chorus went something like “…gypsies, tramps, and thieves that’s what the people of the town would call us….” and end with “but every night all the men would come around and lay their money down.” Ooh, what those steamy suggestive words wrought in the juvenile mind! Anyway, as much as I hate to admit it, this is the perfect lyric to accompany my discussion of Gypsy Moths. These moths are, you see, truly scandalous immigrants who move in and strip our forests of their leaves and turn our yards into bordellos. They give real Gypsies a bad name.

We can blame a Frenchman (ah, those French) named E. Leopold Trouvelot for bringing the initial bunch of Gypsies to Medford, Mass. as part of a silk moth experiment in the 1860’s. It was his desire to improve the breeding stock of native silk-producing moths by crossing them with European Gypsy moths. In 1869 an accidental release (due to storm damage I believe) introduced the creatures to the wild American landscape.

Although Trouvelot’s experiment was a failure, his moths successfully took hold in the hardwood forests of the eastern United States. The increasing automobile travel of the 1920’s spread the population westward and they are still on the move. Cyclic infestations have since resulted in the defoliation of an estimated 1 million acres per year. Perhaps we should call these things French Folly Moths – even though that would be unfair, but who cares. The French are not always fair (I am, of course, speaking of those European French and not my Quebecois cousins).

Last week, the North Country around our Dollar Lake cottage was full of Gypsy Moth activity. This was not a heavy infestation year – around West Branch anyway – so there weren’t a lot of caterpillars in evidence back in June and early July. The emerging adult moths (see above) were everywhere, however. In fact, the male moths were flitting about and “laying their money down” with reckless abandon.

Male Gypsy Moths are the first to emerge from their pupae. Equipped with huge feathery antennae (see here, above, and here) and strong flight muscles, they immediately begin seeking out the females. Unlike most moths they are day fliers. The females emit a stream of seductive perfume into the air called pheromone. This “come to momma” scent will travel for miles on the wings of a light breeze but it works best within a range of a few hundred feet. The males fly an erratic (erotic?) zig-zag pattern as they attempt to intercept a few molecules of this pheromone plume. Once detected, they will follow the scent “upstream” to the source and complete the deal.

Female Gypsy Moths (see beginning photo) look quite different from the brown athletic males. They are much larger and fatter, and possess white wings peppered with dark spots. Oddly enough, they cannot fly. Upon emergence, they simply crawl a few feet away from the pupal skin and begin sending out chemical invitations.

Soon after mating, the rotund female plasters an oval egg mass onto the surface of the tree or building where she emerged. Each mass, containing around 1,000 eggs, is covered over with a weather-resistant matte of fine orange body hairs. The hairs also act as a predator deterrent since they can be nettle-like in their effect.

As I write this blog, there is not an adult Gypsy moth to be seen from my porch. Last week there were dozens of them treading the breeze like so many salmon running upstream. All the adults die after their brief flight period and the local flight time has passed. Like their namesakes, they come and go. Only the egg masses now remain to overwinter. I will attempt to destroy as many of these as I can by next spring (while uttering blasphemous French phrases) but I know it is a fruitless endeavor. These French Follies will not easily retreat or surrender.

One evening as the sun dipped behind the trio of white pines on the far side of Dollar Lake, a lone song sparrow let out a brief chortle before settling in for the evening at 9:30 pm. Just a few minutes before a gang of coyotes engaged in a spirited yipping session somewhere off in the distance beyond the lake. Their high barks echoed eerily through the trees. A single loon let out his plaintive call at exactly 10:05 pm before the crickets finally took over.

The bats began their flight at approximately 9:50 pm and concluded at 10:00 pm. Unlike the sparrow, loon, and frisky coyote pack, their part of the end-of-day show was basically a silent one– only an occasional click descended to human hearing level.  In actuality, however, theirs was the loudest contribution of all. The decibel range of an echolocating bat generally exceeds that of a typical rock concert. Because the screams are delivered in the ultrasonic range they fall as sounds of silence upon our human ears (if only Alice Cooper’s voice was ultrasonic!). With the help of a bat detector I was able to convert the silent scene into 10 minutes of sonic mayhem. The creatures employed an incredible variety of chirps, buzzes, and pulses before moving on into the night.

As on this first night, the bats arrived and departed like clockwork every night. Over the course of four evenings at the lake there was a tight ten minute period when they flitted about the maple trees just off the front porch and out over the still waters of the lake.  From our position sitting under the overhang, the ghostly forms were outlined against the pale blue sky only momentarily before they were swallowed back into the shadows.

There were 5 or 6 individuals -maybe more – but it was hard to keep track in the failing light. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you what kinds of bats were involved but I suspect they were Big Brown Bats (triple B’s for short). Their voice recordings were in the 39 kHz range which is smack dab in the BBB range. I did manage to capture one image after randomly firing off nearly forty shots into the night air (see below and detail here). As you can see, well………… it’s definitely a bat!

The resulting sound recordings were much clearer. Listen to these two tracts (No. 1) and (No. 2) and you’ll get a sense of the sound landscape surrounding a group of feeding bats. The first is a recording of the multiple beasts zipping about close to the porch and under the confined area of the trees. You’ll note that the clicks take on a crinkling or popcorn-like texture as they feel their way between the tree trunks. The second tract was recorded out over the open lake where there are no obstructions. The bursts are much louder and come much closer to the earlier rock concert analogy (the drum solo part). There are also fewer bats in this second recording – perhaps two at most.

It is hard to believe that all these sounds are made by simple larynx or tongue clicks. The resulting sonar waves are sent out to detect, locate, and eventually identify the potential prey around them. Returning sound waves, bouncing off of a flying insect, are picked up by the sensitive ears. Big Brown Bats are beetle specialists, but moths, midges and mosquitoes are also on their menu.

It is hard to tell exactly what is going on at any given time but there are moments within these “silent flights” in which the moment of prey capture is recorded. Listen again to the recordings and you’ll hear a series of ascending zipping sounds. As the bats close in on their quarry, their sonic pulses get closer together until finally ending at the source. The moth’s scream is silent. With a flip of the wing or tail membrane, the insect is gathered in and funneled to the open mouth. That zip is the sound of living bug zapper doing what it does best.

Had I of titled this blog “On Green Frogs and their Manner of Calling” I would have instantly turned away those of you who are looking for light summer reading. It would have sounded far too scientific and, well, far too boring for a good beach read.  Now, the subject of frog nostrils is much more intriguing. The mere fact that frogs have nostrils might be shocking enough to prompt the reader to continue on. O.K., so it’s not that intriguing. I take it that anyone reading this blog is not looking for a light summer read but a deep fascinating insightful look into the world of nature and how she works. What better way to do so than to delve deep into a frog’s nose. O.K., so that’s not true either. So what of it? The frog and his nose is the subject that needs exploring – even if it is in a shallow and superficial way.

The shallows rimming the edge of Dollar Lake are choked with all manner of submerged aquatic plants and floating lilies. Towards dusk, these places begin to resound with the clucking calls of the resident male Green Frogs. The silent sunset scene pictured above lacks the necessary amphibian sound track. These large frogs, second in size only to the portly Bullfrogs, can put out a hefty burp of a call but it fails to carry far. It is has a hollow quality that dissipates like a smoke ring. The calls are random and widely spaced, so they never become irritating to the human ear. I’m sure they are music to the feminine Greens, however.

One especially talkative fellow was located a few feet from my dock and I was prompted to watch him with great interest. Normally watching a stoic green frog is like watching paint dry since they will remain motionless for hours at a time. This one was in a calling mode and performed his task while floating half-submerged on the surface.  His sequence was basically the same each time. The first noise out was the trademark “plunk” – a sound likened to plucking a loose banjo string. This was followed by a series of rolling “bulla-rup bulla-rup” vocalizations terminated by a final terse “tuck”. The last note had the quality of knocking on wood. Watch the video here and you’ll see and hear what I mean (note the competing notes of another green frog nearby).

Green Frogs have paired vocal sacs. Each time a rumble or a cluck is produced, the yellow throat pouch expands forward and around the sides under the ear drums. Air is forced between lung and throat and the whole body is involved in the thrust. The internal pressure even pushes out the ear drums a bit.  Up until now, I had assumed that a single gulp of air was alternately sucked and blown through the vocal chords during this process, but in looking at the video and examining my photos I discovered something interesting (perhaps even fascinating) was happening. During the actual noise production, the frog closed his nostrils and opened them to inhale between notes. Like any good singer, he has mastered the art of breath spacing.

This is not something that would be noticeable without film evidence. Take another look at the video sequence and compare the two calling photos. In the first photo (above and detail here) the frog is inhaling and the tiny nostrils are wide open. In the second photo (below) the frog is in mid-call and the nostrils are pinched shut.

That, my friend is the singular purpose of this blog. If you seek more, you’ll need to haul out a worn copy of the “Biology of the Amphibia” and take it to the beach for a good long read.

Milkweed Tiger Tussock Moths are a gregarious lot when young. From the time they hatch out of the egg mass until they reach what is called the third instar (the skin shedding episodes that mark the growing career of all caterpillars are called instars) they feed, shed, and poop together. They munch along from milkweed leaf to milkweed leaf as a great hairy mass consisting of several dozen individuals – leaving only the skeletal leaves in their path (see below). Most caterpillars join together like this as a defensive tactic, but such doesn’t appear to be the case here.

There really is no need for these fellows to be defensive. By ingesting the cardiac glycosides in the milkweed, they each become immune to predator attack. They can afford to flaunt their noxious nature just as their monarch relatives do. So, you could say they do it because they can.  As one unit they act as a super caterpillar rolling over all that lies before them.

When they get a bit older, and head out on their own, they will flaunt themselves to the world as unedible balls of carpet. The scientific name of this Tussocked Tiger is Euchaetes egle – a name that translates from a combination of Greek and Latin meaning “well bristled shield.”

Their superb individual hairiness, even without their inner toxicity, alone acts as a predator deterrent. They are ornamented with alternating tufts of orange, black, and white hairs with a fairly tight row of bristles along the back (see here). This latter arrangement allies them with other members of the Tussock moth family who all look like bizarre toothbrushes. Personally I think a Milkweed Tiger looks more like one of those legless shaggy dogs that pace at leashes-end across the grounds at one of those fancy dog shows (without the little pink ribbon in the head hair, of course). I would suspect that these little dogs, by the way, would do well if released into the wild since they also are inedible carpet balls. Coyotes would choke on all that hair.

When I encountered this caterpillar feeding cluster they paid absolutely no attention to me as I crouched down to their level. My first few camera shots were executed without a flash and they all smiled appropriately. I used my flash for the final shots, however, and found that half the gang dropped off after the multiple explosions of light. There were but 10 or so left, along with some extremely stunted individuals who had been hiding under the layer of bristles (see below). I had, none-the-less, scattered the herd like a clap of thunder.

Those that abandoned the leaf simply rolled themselves into a defensive ball and plummeted to earth. It is likely that these skittish fellows were already at their third instar and were ready to abandon the security of the pack. As loners they will locate another milkweed, complete their growth, and emerge next spring as prim, lightly furred, gray moths.

In the movie “Fantastic Mr. Fox”, our hero delights in plucking tender squabs from the estate of Farmer Bunce (also chickens & cider from Mr. Boggis & Bean, but that is off my current subject).  Squabs are baby pigeons – the domestic variety in the case of the story – but also the name for all babies of all members of the pigeon and dove family. Very young Squabs are, with the exception of pelicans and naked mole rats, perhaps the ugliest of babies on earth. They do improve slightly with age. Wild doves such as Mourning Doves, therefore, produce ugly squabs and this brings me to the point of this posting.

I encountered a newly independent Mourning Dove squab the other day. I nearly ran it over with my riding lawnmower. It appeared from nowhere and was not there on my first pass by this location. The small fellow made no effort to move out of the way as if resigned to certain death by rotary blade. He made no attempt to escape when I hopped off to shoo it away and even remained stationary when I bent down to engage it in conversation. No, he only held that “dove in the headlight look” and hunkered down next to a yellow Hawkweed as if pretending I couldn’t see him (see above). I felt that it would allow me to pick it up and indeed it did (see below).

I placed the creature on a tree limb in order to get it out of the way, although it looked uncomfortable and unbalanced even there (see here). “You are a bird,” I told him, “and you must perch with more authority than that.”  It shifted its feet a bit after that remark and convinced me it would not fall out as I continued my mowing duties. “I’ll have to cut down your Hawkweed,” I remarked but saw no change of expression or position so returned to my tractor to do the deed. Later in the afternoon I snuck up on the mysterious squab and saw that it was raised up on its legs, actually perching rather than squatting, and fully asleep (see below). It looked more like a bad taxidermic mount than a sleeping wild thing but at least it was acting “normally.” By evening time the dove was gone and I was left contemplating what had just happened.

While the bird may have been out of sorts, it was not obviously sick or injured. I believe I can chalk up the whole thing to the fact that this was a squab still dazed by independence and yet un-wise to the ways of the world. Had I of been Mr. Fox, his little life would have ended before any further education was received. This bird was already at full size and possessed of most of its adult features. The scalloping pattern on the feathers and the presence of pin feathers about the face were the only remaining features that indicated youth (see here).  There was that behavior thing too.

Hatchling year Mourning Doves, those who have already left the nest, are notorious loafers. They are known to spend nearly 20% of their day doing absolutely nothing. During this time, usually in the mid-afternoon, they will sit for an extended time in a squatting position with their head drawn in. Loafing and sleeping are two different things in this case. While the young birds will engage in cat-napping while loafing, they actually are just zoning out (which explains the” dove in the head light” look). It is believed that this behavior conserves energy but if you ask me it is risky business.

I, of course, am never consulted on Mourning Dove affairs.  If I were, apart from doing away with this squab stupor stuff, I’d also send them all to nest building school and road crossing school. Mourning Doves build the flimsiest of nests and all hold the belief that they needn’t fly up from the road until a vehicle is within three feet of their location. Because doves are one of the commonest birds in North America, my advice is obviously not needed. I can only hope my little squab will get to the point where he or she can raise more ugly but successful squabs that will loaf their way into the future.