Trail Cam

On a foggy morning last month, we tried out our new Browning Strike Force Trail Cam.  

 

The camera has infrared, which seemed to intrigue the deer.

 

They were mesmerized, like kids watching Saturday morning cartoons... 

...until the breakfast bell rang.

My attention was elsewhere.

 Don's office was between secretaries, so I've been acting as the temp. 

Good thing somebody was taking pictures at our house.

It's good to be back.

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Hummingbird Addiction

A north breeze brought cooler temperatures this morning and may have sent a signal to the hummingbirds that their time here is short. Or maybe they've known it all along. Their noisy drone at the feeders morning and evening has diminished, their chirps are spaced out, and the sugar water is going down a little more slowly.

I think they'll miss this beautiful place. After all, we have some of the cleanest air in the country, and this year, they have found a new addiction in the flowerbed, the dark blue/purple blossoms of Agastache 'Blue Boa'.

One female has taken possession of the plant; she dangles from the blossom like a Christmas ornament, sipping the nectar with her long tubular tongue...

...and attacking any other bird with the audacity to challenge her territory.

Fortunately for the others, she can't watch it all the time. 

When they're gone, we'll miss them, too, but at least, the vacuum left by their departure will be filled by a variety of migrating birds.

The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.

May the name of the Lord be blessed.

Job 1:21

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

and Saturday's Critters

Pigmy Rattler

It was pleasant out early this morning when I walked down the hill to the lake, touched the edge of the dock and started back. A few strides up from the dock, I jumped backwards with a small, involuntary scream. Stretched out in the road just ahead of me was a pigmy rattler, about 15" long and an inch in diameter, warming himself in the sun. I had just passed him on the way down, without even noticing. He coiled and shook his rattle at me. I didn't hear the rattle. Those who have heard the sound liken it to the faint buzz of an insect, and there were plenty of insect sounds this morning to compete with it. But I saw him rattling, and the message was clear; he wasn't one to be trifled with. I quickly retreated to a safe distance.

High water in the lake this summer has sent many snakes to higher ground, and this may have been one of the evacuees. There were plenty of rocks around, so I picked up a couple of large ones, weighing my options. I had killed larger copperheads with rocks, but this was a full grown rattlesnake, and he had a certain glint in his eyes that made me think that this might not be a war I wanted to wage.

Pigmy rattlers are the only rattlesnakes we see much around here, and though they are the smallest member of the rattlesnake family, they still pack a powerful punch. Only two days ago I had talked with a friend who had been bitten by a pigmy three weeks earlier, and she was still feeling the effects of the poison. "I have good days and bad days," she said. I thought she was putting a brave face on it.

The snake looked like a target that couldn't be missed, but my history with copperheads had taught me enough to know that what looked like an easy shot might not be so easy under pressure. Even if the percentages were good, I hated to take a chance. I pulled out my cell phone and called Don. "I'll be there," he said, "keep an eye on him." "I will," I assured him.

As I waited, the snake uncoiled and slithered slowly away from me into the brush at the side of the road. This snake redefined camouflage for me; when he stopped moving, I could hardly believe he was there. Fearing that my hit man would be too late, I glanced up the road. Big mistake. When I looked back, the snake was no longer in sight.

Don arrived moments later, his revolver loaded with snake shot, but there was nothing to shoot. We carefully peered into the weeds and brush and decided not to wade in after the rattler. Don drove back home, and I continued my walk, jumping every time a weed moved.

Thankful as I am that I didn't get bit, I was sorry the snake got away, but Don assures me that it was still a good outcome; I didn't miss with a rock, and he didn't miss with a revolver.

Linking with Weekend Reflections

Mother Hen

From the other room, I hear a good tone in Don's voice as he alerts me, "Turkeys!"

"How many?", I ask.

"Nine", Don answers.

I breathe a little easier. 

For now. 

Seems I've turned into a mother hen lately, 

counting beaks whenever the brood appears out the window.

There are a lot of obstacles out there to keep little turkeys from getting big, and if one gets attached to them, a certain amount of anguish seems inevitable. At this point, I guess you could say I'm attached. When we first saw this clutch of turkey poults, eleven fluff balls with legs scurried after their mother. Before long there were nine, growing fast and learning to fly. They preened under her protection and dozed at her feet.

Then there was one awful day when seven frightened jakes and jennies appeared without the hen. Since then, the missing two have grouped back up with the others, but sadly, the hen has been gone for a couple of weeks and she is almost certainly dead. We wondered what chance the little ones would have to survive without their watchful mother.

Young turkeys are on the menu of many predators in this area. 

At this stage of growth, they could be taken by an owl or hawk, 

and they are often targets for eagles, bobcats and coyotes. 

They are not always aware of what lurks in the shadows. 

The little ones have tried to join up with two hens that frequent the area, 

and though we see them together occasionally, 

they are often running from the hens, 

who make it clear that they don't want the young birds competing for their food.

So, when they're not on their own, the jakes and jennies hang out with the crows and deer. It's a pretty good symbiotic relationship; the deer, with their keen sense of smell, pick up warnings that the turkeys wouldn't notice, and the turkeys, with their sharp eyes, warn the deer of danger.

They don't know, of course, about their adoptive mother hen watching from behind the windows.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday
and Saturday's Critters