Teddy Bear Bees

Under an azure blue October sky, Gus and I have been observing insects. Lately, we've been captivated by the maneuvers of a small militia of carpenter bees at work on the salvia.

These gentle creatures, clad in fuzzy jackets, always remind me of teddy bears. Just a month ago, the swarm was too numerous to count, which didn't stop me from trying, but now, five or six of them at a time seem like a crowd. 

 

Like skilled acrobats, they catch rides on the swaying flower stems, ducking their heads inside the blooms to sip the sweet nectar, then carry pollen from blossom to blossom, humming as they go. 

"How many are your works, Lord!

In wisdom you made them all;

the earth is full of your creatures."

Psalm 104:24

You can read the whole chapter here, and it's truly outstanding!

It's a Girl!

After observing a monarch butterfly chrysalis for 19 days, I almost gave up on a butterfly emerging. But the chrysalis was transparent this morning, and I could see a tiny monarch butterfly inside. That was encouraging. This afternoon, when I returned from a Ladies' Prayer Brunch with four friends (where at least one prayer went up for the monarch), I invited them into the house, hoping to find something spectacular. We were delighted to see a flawless female monarch hanging from her empty, crumpled chrysalis. She had thick black veins and was missing the black dots on the lower wings that identify males. We named her Amelia. She has a treacherous journey ahead.

Life can be tough for a monarch. Of the thirteen caterpillars I saw on the purple milkweed early last month, I only found five chrysalises. A fat lizard lurking a few yards away in the dog kennel was a prime suspect in their demise. The five caterpillars that formed chrysalises suffered a similarly sad fate. None of them made it to maturity. So, when I discovered two more caterpillars on the butterfly milkweed in my raised garden at the end of September, I was happy to have another chance to witness an awe-inspiring transformation. 

I watched the two for a few days. Only one remained when I returned from church on Sunday at the end of last month. I was determined to keep sight of this one. The tiny creature made her way around the raised garden as slowly as a robo vac mapping a room, but with even less certainty, then crawled to the ground and continued her trek. To form a chrysalis, she needed to find an upright form to attach to, but the search was challenging. From a caterpillar's perspective, even blades of grass looked like trees. 

As much as I hate to interfere with nature, I was getting hungry. So by the time she reversed her direction the third time, when she crawled onto a leaf,  I picked it up and carried it to the laid stone structure that holds our birdbath. Another quest ensued before the caterpillar found her spot- a sheltered rock protected from direct sunlight on the structure's north side. There, she stopped and rested. When I checked in on her that night, she had attached her back end with silken strands and hung in a J shape. By the next morning, she had shed her outer skin, and a soft green jewel hung there, decorated with spots of brightest gold.

Our first frost was forecasted for Wednesday this week, so Tuesday afternoon, besides covering some plants and bringing others in, I carefully detached the chrysalis from the stone it had chosen to hang from, brought it inside the house, and hung it from a chain near the window. That's where we found Amelia this morning, a brand-new, perfect butterfly clinging to the chrysalis. She stayed there as I transported her outside on the chain and hung it on the front porch. When I checked on her next, she was struggling on the bricks below. Picking a geranium blossom, I extended it to her. She seemed relieved to discover it and gingerly climbed aboard. I propped it in the geranium plant, and there she rested. When I returned, she had flown away.

Amelia may be staying near the Buffalo River tonight, but I hope it's warmer wherever she stays. And I hope she makes lots of friends in Mexico. Adios, Amelia!

 

The weather has been perfect lately, with warm days and cool, leave-your-windows-open-nights, and as the sun rose this morning, I went to check on the monarch caterpillars in my garden. I located five hanging upside down from the leaves of a large yucca plant, attached by silken threads. I was away for a good part of the morning. When I returned, they had already wiggled out of their exoskeletons, revealing the chrysalises inside. The chrysalises are beautiful jewels of soft green with glittering gold dots, and they provide a perfect home for what will, we hope, emerge as the king of butterflies. 

Stay tuned.

Contemplating Caterpillars

When I found thirteen monarch caterpillars clustered on my purple milkweed yesterday morning, they were pleasantly plump. They had eaten a large portion of leaves and were busy finishing their breakfast. By this afternoon, the number had dropped to eight. Failing a hungry bear or a wasp attack*, five had most likely left the milkweed and were looking for a place to attach and form a chrysalis. I spotted one on a nearby yucca.

By dinnertime, the caterpillar had firmly attached itself to the yucca leaf with silk threads. It hung in a "J" shape, appearing lifeless. If everything goes well, it will hang there for about eighteen hours or longer before forming a beautifully striking chrysalis. I hope to witness this transformation; I'll share it with you if I do.

Incidentally, the purple milkweed probably won't bloom, which is disappointing. It's a stunning native plant. However, anticipating observing a chrysalis and the potential emergence of a new butterfly makes the sacrifice seem worthwhile.

*A few years ago, I watched a wasp pluck a caterpillar off milkweed and carry it away.

 

Chip's Golden Escape

Seeing Gus the Golden Retriever interact with the wildlife in our backyard always amuses me. While he often enjoys watching squirrels out the window...

...they are ubiquitous, and sometimes, he tires of them.

However, there's a chipmunk that frequents the deck (we'll call him Chip). When Chip appears, Gus's attention is riveted by the small, furry ball of energy with his quick, darting movements. I'm grateful for the diversion that the tiny creature provides him.

On a recent pristine morning, I slid the deck door open, unaware of Chip's presence. Gus was out the door in a split second; he pounced and held the panicky fur ball in his mouth. My heart raced as the only sound in the vicinity came from me, yelling at the top of my lungs, 'Gus, drop it!' In that heart-stopping moment, I feared the worst. In retrospect, I shouldn't have let him watch that documentary about lemmings in Scandinavia, their fate sealed by the jaws of wild creatures. But hindsight is 20/20. To my immense relief, Gus let go, and the seemingly unharmed chipmunk made a hasty escape before diving into his hidy hole underground.

I spent the day in anguish, wondering about the psychological aftermath of the attack on Chip. Had Gus lost his primary source of indoor entertainment? But Chip proved to be resilient. Contrary to my expectations, he returned that afternoon, busily stuffing his cheeks with sunflower seeds while keeping a vigilant eye on his escape route. Gus, innocent and carefree, was unfazed by my worries and didn't seem surprised that his furry friend had reappeared.

After the attack, I pictured Chip back in his den, trembling in his recliner for a few minutes, then, determined, picking up the pieces of his day and heading to the cupboard for a bit of chocolate. There are just some things sunflower seeds can't fix.