Toad goes biblical on Bet.
September 21, 2014
This afternoon my wife stepped out the back door with a steaming plate of sockeye Alfredo only to have a tree toad fall ten feet off the roof and hit the heap of penne noodles dead centre. No damage to the toad from the hot airbag, apparently, though he took some time to contemplate his adventure before moving on.
Bear!
May 12, 2014
Gee, the Canadiens – Bruins game is about to come on. I hope this isn’t an omen.
This evening I looked up while walking to the garage and there it was, placidly grazing on grass in a wet spot in the field, happy as a clam. It was upwind of me and didn’t seem to have a care in the world, though it moved very quickly when startled by a noise on the road on one occasion.
After a long while it made its way over the fence and into the neighbour’s quarry at the top of the drumlin.
This was a first. Bear spray is now on the shopping list and night-time perambulations will require caution for a while.
Regarding the omen: my wife pointed out that this bruin went away, so maybe things are now looking better for the Canadiens. We’ll see.
7:43. Les Habs just scored. Bet called from the kitchen, “What did I tell you?”
UPDATE: 13 May, 8:13 a.m.
I examined the area of the field which had held such an attraction for the bruin last night. The grass didn’t amount to anything there, and it didn’t touch the ripe cranberries on the bushes nearby. But there were thousands of dandelion buds. Picking them one-by-one would produce the grazing action I watched from some distance away. The one I tried didn’t taste bad.
So our fierce, scary bruin was picking dandelions in the field.
But a dogwood growing along the fence likely wouldn’t share my Winny-the-Pooh treatment of this fellow. Apparently it’s mating season, so the torn bark on the bush might be a valentine to any sows in the vicinity.
Emily in hot water
September 9, 2012
The afternoon buzzed its way along. Martin was in the wood shop with a trailer-load of pine to machine into baseboards for his house renovation. I think he had the shaper running at the time of the event.
Charlie was next door in his garage, the red Porsche half-up on the hoist, seats disassembled and scattered around the floor while he installed a roll bar.
Every light in both buildings was on and all doors were open. Of course.
That was when Emily the wolf finished her afternoon meal of ripe pears and trotted up across the yard, only to encounter her beloved Ranger, the bearer of dead squirrels and fish heads, and a strange human making loud noises in the building. She looked in, then continued on to the next building she hadn’t seen open before. So she stuck her head in for a look, satisfied herself that there was nothing of value to her there, and continued on out to a secure spot in the middle of the adjoining field.
Just then I happened to walk up the driveway to see Emily stage her trot-by of the artisans’ alley. I didn’t know it was she. The hairs on a wolf’s muzzle are a lot like a Monet painting: they show different colours at different distances and angles. Up close Emily didn’t seem to have any white on her muzzle at all. I assumed this was a new wolf, and a bit of a threat.
Prodded by my wife (“She’s not a pet. She’s a wild animal.”) and Martin (“There’ve been a whole raft of people killed by them down east!”) I reluctantly got the rifle and headed out into the field to deal with the rogue.
The wolf had lain down in the middle of the field behind the garage to sleep off the effects of all of those sugary pears. She looked up as I approached in the Ranger. From the accustomed line of sight I realized immediately that this was Emily, not a stranger. Still, she had crossed the line in alarming family and friend, so I had to take action.
From a hundred yards, offhand, I took careful aim with the rifle and shot … the dirt three feet to the right of Emily’s left paw. She bolted up, ran twenty yards, turned and looked at me: “What are you doing? Are you sure you want to do this?” I sent another 180 grain 30 calibre Emily’s way. Another direct hit on the spot three feet to the right of her left paw. This time she took the hint and galloped away, mouthing a vile imprecation back over her shoulder. Nothing can curse like an angry coyote.
But where was she to go? This was her field, her home. She has defended it against all comers for three years now.
The rifle again locked up and order restored, Martin took the Ranger with two oil drums of sawdust back to the pile, only to drive back with the barrels unemptied. Seems Emily had stood her ground against this interloper, sitting by the path and defying him to come any closer. Martin turned tail. He unlocked his fancy automatic shotgun, loaded up, and asked me to ride shotgun if I expected him to get rid of the sawdust he had generated over the afternoon.
Emily met us back around the sawdust pile, but acted less resentful when I spoke to her, even though I scolded her for her walk through the yard on a busy afternoon. Reassured that I was there, she retreated to the fence row where she peeked out at us from concealment. Martin dumped his sawdust without bloodshed.
Charlie’s reaction to Emily’s visit was visibly less aghast than Martin’s, but then Charlie grew up with dogs. He knows how they think. Martin seemed a little spooked by the large and overly familiar canine examining his woodworking project.
I hope Emily thinks it over and decides to leave off the lawn visits for a while. Otherwise I may have to improve my aim with the rifle.
Now I know what writers mean when they say that if you feed a wolf, it’s a death sentence for the wolf.
UPDATE:
It’s been two weeks since I educated Emily with the .300 Savage. She’s become a good deal more discreet in her movements since. A couple of days later she came upon us in the field but took herself to the other side and cover as soon as Cagney barked at her. Emily’s still around, and still makes her visits to the orchard. She’s just more careful with the scheduling now. An old wolf can unlearn a dangerous habit, it seems.
FOOTNOTE: October 27, 2013
Emily’s been gone since early spring. We kept hoping she’d come back for the pears in the fall, but we haven’t seen her or any wolves, for that matter. I miss her. She was a good neighbour.
Emily-the-wolf’s family reunion
August 25, 2012
My mother walked out the lane to the flower beds this afternoon only to discover Emily*-the-wolf asleep on the deck halfway between the house and the road. Mom thought it was our dog Cagney and walked up to her and said hello. Emily woke up, stretched, yawned mightily, stepped off the deck and wandered across the field. I guess she appreciates shade and breeze as well as anyone else. Emily’s getting pretty tame in her old age and expects us to make way for her. She likes pears and visits the orchard regularly at this time of year.
In return she catches vast quantities of rodents and leaves the cat alone, so we tolerate her eccentricities.
* I just looked back at earlier posts about Emily and discovered that another creature had the same name: the first Emily was a grotesque cross between some Lupus strain and what was likely a bull terrier. She was no beauty, early Emily. She faded from the scene when the current Emily and her family moved onto the farm. New Emily had a very large, even tempered mate and they raised three pups in the 20 acre field below the house. One of these was Erin, the boldest/tamest who played games with my head all that fall.
BTW: I call this critter a wolf because she has a relatively short nose, white face, and large body. I bought a book on the eastern coyote and realized she looks nothing at all like the photos in that book. She’s the height of a medium-sized Labrador retriever, though she’s quite short in the body and wouldn’t weigh that much. Her mate two summers ago when she had a litter looked very much like a German shepherd, but both had (have) tails which hang down like a wolf’s. She has had the farm to herself for the last year, but that changed suddenly this week when her “pack” arrived.
Next morning a pair of “coyotes” came to the pear trees as soon as I came in with the dog from her morning walk. I’d seen the one with the black spot on his/her tail one time earlier; the black-tailed one was new to me. They look young and extremely light in body weight compared to Emily. Hyper-alert, they move in, grab a pear and retreat out of sight in the orchard, taking turns in the danger zone. In cross section their faces and limbs are thin like those of a deer, and they seem barely to touch the ground when they move. The black-tipped one spotted a mouse while selecting a pear from the ground and in a blinding series of motions the mouse was a meal which concluded with the “coyote” sitting down while he/she chewed. This creature makes small movements so quickly I can’t follow them. It’s just a blur.
Another update:
This morning Bet and I watched a wolf who might be Erin, the pup from two years ago which played catch with me in the orchard (I threw apples at her from the lawn mower and she caught them), relax in the field with a smaller “coyote” with her. Maybe the small ones are her pups. Haven’t seen her in over a year, but she seems to have come back for the pears.
A bit about the orchard: There are a dozen trees in three rows on the gentle slope away from the south side of the house. The first row is about thirty feet from the elevated rear deck. At the centre are two pear trees, bearing the only fruit this year during the drought. The wild apple crop has failed this year as well, so there’s a good chance we’ll get to meet all of the local wolves and coyotes over the next couple of weeks until they have the fruit picked up.
Early morning rain
July 26, 2012
It’s been dry and hot on the farm for as long as we can remember this summer. The clear weather was not without its compensations: fishing has been good, even with dropping water levels, and bugs were few. The dearth of wet days meant fewer trips to Kingston and fewer impulse buys at Princess Auto. Dr. Bill has had his best haying year in memory, with the whole crop cut and baled without a rain, though he complained yesterday that the bales are fragile because of the extreme dryness and the short grass in one field.
But when a well went dry two weeks ago on the next drumlin over, Bet grew concerned about the water table and budgeted the allotments to flowers, trees and veggies. From then on we were on rain watch. I chose not to mow the weeds around any trees out of concern that a struck stone might ignite a fire. With all of the extra time I fished crappies every evening and eventually decided to replace the aging floor on my mother’s verandah. The only suitable dry wood turned out to be black walnut, but hey, the stuff does grow on trees. I’ll cut another this fall and have George slice it up. In the plastic palace it dries nicely in a year.
This morning at 5:30 I awoke to a sound I’d almost forgotten. Could it be rain? Yep, just starting, a gentle drizzle, coming straight down. I toured the upstairs windows, feeling the sills. The south-facing ones were a bit damp. Closed them. Then came the others. As I walked around the yard with my coffee, raincoat, and a bemused dog (spaniels normally don’t like the rain), we watched a puddle slowly form and then dissipate on the driveway, only to form again.
My 3pt hitch dump box was sitting in the trailer field. Water was 1″ deep in one corner. When I leveled it prior to overturning the implement to prevent rust, I estimated about 1/4″ of rain had fallen to that point. We continued our walk into the orchard. No apples to speak of this year, and the pears on one tree look very small. But the other pear tree has normally sized fruit, turning red, though still very firm. Cagney accepted the bitten pear from me gingerly, then took a bite. As I continued my tour of the orchard alone, the tail-wagging spaniel devoured her kill, greatly impressed with her new discovery. Then she checked out the fallen apples under another tree, but didn’t find them to her liking.
Back in the house the dog stood riveted to the mat until I had dampened her towel with a rubdown. Then she was still reluctant to leave the mat, despite my assurances. Eventually she marched over to her cage and curled up on the dry, warm bed inside.
“Pink” Mulberry?
June 28, 2012
On the farm in Leeds County, Ontario we have a lot of red mulberry trees growing wild among the black walnuts. One large white mulberry grew below the house, but it was so large and intrusive that I cut the thing a couple of years ago and burned it for firewood. While I enjoy mulberries to eat off the tree, the whites were deceptive: I couldn’t tell from the colour if a berry was green, ripe, or rancid. So off with its head.
Today I came upon a mulberry growing at the side of the upper garden. After it survived a run-over by the lawn mower last year I decided to let it live and see. Its extremely sweet fruit doesn’t resemble either the red or the white mulberry, so I guess it must be a hybrid. My mother and I agree that the berries are superior to those of both parent species, so we’ll have to see how the small tree develops.
More critters and kooks on the Chaffey’s Locks Road
June 14, 2012
In an earlier post I mentioned an intrepid woodchuck who had built a den on the edge of the Chaffey’s Locks Road. No doubt the chuck thought it would be a good location, now that the speed limit on this stretch has been reduced to 60 km/hr. But the maintenance crew has trumped him with a few shovelfuls of asphalt. When I drove by today there was a neat, round hole there, filled to the brim with cold mix asphalt. Take that, you wascally woodchuck!
Every time I have driven on that road recently I have come upon cars stopped on the driving lane. Last trip it was a pair of cars loaded with birdwatchers who had abandoned their vehicles in haste. This time it was some chick in a VW who stopped immediately on a corner to answer a cell phone call. That cell phone law may end up killing somebody if people unfamiliar with roads without shoulders don’t learn to bend the rules and find a safe place before stopping.
On the Clear Lake Road I stopped (in the driving lane, but I put my flashers on) to watch a ruffed grouse which was standing in the middle of the pavement. I shut off to watch. She didn’t seem inclined to leave. Soon a chick burst out of the vegetation and raced across the road. Then another, and so on until five had made the frantic sprint. Then came a straggler who stopped to peck a bit of gravel on the narrow shoulder, then sauntered away from cover, only to panic and dash for safety on the other side. I waited in case there were others. At length a much larger chick emerged, about half grown, and dashed across to join the flock.
Could the older chick be from an earlier nesting of the mother? Do grouse adopt plus-sized orphans? It was definitely a ruffed grouse, though advanced enough in age to have a visible black comb.
Morels, 2012
May 2, 2012
My latest theory involving the morel hunt: you don’t find them. They find you. These were around the roots of a couple of young elms which were cut out of the flower beds last year after they subsided to blight.
If some brilliant biologist or organic chemist would isolate the chemical released by dying elms which triggers morel growth, I would like a litre of it.
the Walnut Diary 