The Return of Big Smoky

I was awakened this morning by the repeated, anxious-sounding vocalizations of my cat Otis.  All three of my cats have a surprising repertoire of sounds, most of them not even remotely resembling the classic kitty “meow.”  This morning Otis was in full song, throwing out churrs, soft yowls and things that can only be described as somewhat squeaky grunts.  It was a familiar pattern, but one that I listened to with some disbelief since, in my mind, Otis had no reason to be making it.  He is a persistent little guy though, and when he came to the window right next to the bed and continued his vocal alarm I finally relented and looked outside.  What I saw made the words, “No way!” escape involuntarily from my mouth.

The sounds Otis was making have always been associated with his seeing another cat outside.  More specifically, he makes the sounds when he sees a cat that is waiting to be fed.  Otis’s own story is intimately tied to a group of lost feline souls that were abandoned when a senior citizen cat hoarder that lived in the alley behind us was taken away to live in a retirement home.  The story is filled with pain and tragedy, but is interspersed with occasional happy endings.  I will tell it some day, but for now you need only know that after the cat hoarder left, my wife and I awoke to a yard filled with 16 cats.  We spent the next four years trying to correct the wrong that had been done to these animals.  At the end of those four years, many of the cats had been captured and adopted out to loving homes, some had been killed by cars, some were trapped and euthanized due to disease and some simply disappeared.  The only cat that remained was a huge tom that we call Big Smoky.  He is the toughest cat I have ever met, but this has had the unfortunate consequence of simply prolonging his suffering.

Otis arrived in our yard before the cat hoarder was taken away.  We thought he was simply a neighbor’s cat that was wandering through until we got a good look at how thin and sickly he was.  We started to feed and attempt to tame him.  He responded slowly, and we were finally able to touch him after 5 months of constantly building his trust.  It was because of the food supply that we were leaving out for Otis that the 16 cats converged on our yard after the hoarder was gone.  Otis had just moved inside with us when the convergence occurred, and it was then that we first began to hear him make the vocalizations I heard this morning.  It was also when we learned that Otis will not stop vocalizing until we take care of the cats that he sees outside.  We have risen from bed many hours earlier than planned countless times in the past four years to feed the hungry at Otis’s insistence.  Before this morning, it had been more than a month since we last heard him use his “hungry cat alarm call.”

As I mentioned, Big Smoky is the last of the cats that came from the hoarders house.  He is not the only cat from the group that was too wary to enter a trap, but he is the only one of the trap-shy cats that has not died from illness or injury or simply disappeared.  He has shown up in our yard with countless injuries- large infected wounds, most likely caused by fights with another tom.  He has also frequently become ill with horrible respiratory infections, apparent tooth infections and severe gastrointestinal issues.  A truly feral cat, his whole life is spent in confusion and suffering interspersed with the occasional free meal.  About five weeks ago he had come to eat.  He was extremely thin and sickly.  Diarrhea ran freely from his anus and was caked on his legs and tail.  His eyes were slightly glazed and he appeared to be a shell of his usual self.  He ate his fill and then disappeared.  As the weeks passed with no sign of him, we hoped for his sake that he would finally be at peace.

Last night I put into words what my wife and I had been thinking for at least two weeks.  “Well,” I said, “I think we have seen the last of Big Smoky.”  It was said with some sadness, but mostly with relief.  I really do believe that Smoky’s life is nothing short of nightmarish.  He is a domestic animal trapped in the shadows by his own fear.  He is terrified of humans, but he can’t survive without their help.  It breaks my heart to see his constant pain, and I only wish that I could humanely end his suffering.

So when I looked out the window this morning and exclaimed, “No way!” it was with a mix of incredulity and sadness.  I am in awe of Big Smoky’s continued survival, but I am in anguish over his continued suffering.  The only comfort I can offer him for now is a full stomach.  The fact that he survived during his five-week absence tells me that our house is not the only one Smoky is visiting for a free meal.  I hope that when the day comes that he is finally too injured or too ill to run away he will be in a place that either I or another caring individual can find him.  It is the fault of humans that Smoky’s life has been so full of pain and suffering.  At the very least, we owe it to him to ensure that he doesn’t suffer even one minute longer than he has to.

Cache Prize

As I sat in my car at a red light this morning I watched two crows searching for food on the sidewalk.  It had been raining fairly hard for some time, and the pavement had been rinsed clean of most of the kind of tidbits that crows can find on drier days.  One of the crows turned and walked through a short hedgerow and resumed his search in the parking lot of a nearby Burger King.  The second crow followed slowly behind, but stopped next to one of the hedges.  He seemed slightly nervous, and he glanced in my direction more than once as if he was well aware that my eyes were on him.  He also looked at his companion who was now halfway across the parking lot poking his beak half-heartedly at something in a puddle.

After standing next to the bush for about 15 seconds, the wary crow poked his bill in among the branches and pulled out a beakful of dried leaves.  He poked his bill in again, and again extracted a small pile of leaves.  He went in a third time, and this time when he drew back he had a large wad of what looked like compacted hamburger bun in his beak.  The light turned green at this point, so I was not able to see whether or not the crow slunk off and ditched his companion to enjoy his secret hoard in peace.  As I drove away though, I wondered what other treasures this crow had hidden in the area.  I also wondered if his companion was at that very moment pulling out his own cached treat from a hiding spot on the other side of the parking lot.  Crows have so many secrets…

Hope Floats

I have an image burned indelibly into my memory.  I see eleven small, black-and-white bodies moving in unison out to sea.  They are moving away from a line of smiling humans holding empty boxes.  On their left, another group of smiling humans, some of them holding cameras, watches them go.  There is much joy in the watching, but also much sadness, for there is a lingering memory of many other feathered beings whose lives ended before they were able to make this journey home.  Today, it is much easier not to dwell in that place of sadness.
 
The eleven swimming birds disappearing into the distance represented more than simply a handful of Common Murres returned to the wild.  They were a testament to the willingness of a large group of people to sacrifice their time, money, sleep and comfort to help other living creatures that were in distress.  They were living illustrations of the ability of humans to extend their compassion beyond themselves, beyond their acquaintances and even beyond their own species.  At a time when compassion seems increasingly hard to come by, the selfless actions performed by so many people in assisting these birds provide proof that compassion is still alive and well in our world.

Water, Water Everywhere

While walking along the Edmonds waterfront today I noticed a Western Gull resting on top of a light pole along one of the marina docks.  Most of the gulls in the marina are used to being in close proximity to humans.  They usually don't get nervous unless a person stops and focuses their attention on them.  Since I was on a walkway up above the docks, the light pole put the gull nearly at my eye level.  I did my best not to look directly at him as I walked by because I didn't want to disturb him from his rest.  Just as I passed him though, in my peripheral vision I saw him shift position.  I continued on and looked back only when I felt I had put enough distance between myself and the bird that he would not be made uncomfortable.

When I looked back, the gull was standing on one leg on top of the light.  This is not an unusual posture for gulls, but as he tried to put his other foot down, it clearly caused him pain.  He tipped forward off of the light and extended his wings to arrest his fall.  He made a soft, one-point landing on a nearby dock and then began to hobble in my direction, alternating between good foot and bad.  I knew he wasn't interested in me as I was above him and he never once looked in my direction, but he was moving with a purpose and he had piqued my curiosity.  As I continued to watch, the gull walked up to one of the water spigots on the dock that are there for the boaters to use.  I noticed that the spigot was dripping.  Clearly, the gull had noticed this long before I did.

I couldn't help but smile as the gull stuck his beak under the faucet and began to catch the fresh water droplets that were leaking out at about one second intervals.  Occasionally he glanced up at me with a droplet hanging from his bill, and then he returned to drinking.  After snapping a few photographs to commemorate the moment, I walked on, leaving the still drinking gull to finish quenching his thirst.  I hoped that his foot would soon heal, and that he would enjoy sipping from leaky faucets for many years to come.           

      

Educated Guess

Why is it that any time a bear is sighted in a populated area, the sighting always seems to occur near a school?  There were two separate stories in the news today that followed this pattern.  One was about three bears that have been wandering around Bremerton, WA, and the other was about a bear sighting in Bellevue.  Both mentioned that the bears had been seen near schools.  Judging from the intelligence of some of the bears I have met, I'm guessing that a few of them have gone so far as to attend classes at these schools.  I think that's what the whole "bear sighted near school" phenomenon is about.  The bears really just want to expand their minds, but as soon as someone sees them the whole school goes on lock-down.  The bears are then chased by Karelian bear dogs, darted and moved way back out into the mountains where there's not much fancy book-learnin' to be had.  Poor creatures.  These days it's nearly impossible for them to become smarter than the average bear :o).

      

    

Letting Nature Take It's Course

I was interviewed by a newspaper reporter today about an influx of distressed loons, murres and grebes at the wildlife center where I work.  The birds were affected by a toxic algae bloom along the Pacific coast that soiled their feathers and compromised their waterproofing.  After their feathers were no longer able to repel water, the birds struggled ashore to avoid death by drowning and hypothermia.  Once beached, a slow death by starvation was an inevitability for most of the birds.  And this was the fate of hundreds, if not thousands of them all along the Washington and Oregon coast.  But this was not to be the fate for all of them.  Caring humans intervened and transported over 500 birds to a rehabilitation center in Oregon.  My own center offered assistance and took in over 120 patients of our own.

Events like this have happened in the past, and reporters tend to ask the same questions each time a similar event occurs.  Today was no exception.  I fully expected it when the reporter asked me, "If this was an algae bloom that caused the birds' feather problems, it sounds like it was a natural event.  What would you say to people who say that you should let nature take its course?"  Now, I was representing an organization during this interview, so I had to give a professional answer rather than a personal answer.  So my answer included things like pointing out that human activity affects nearly every aspect of the natural world, and we can't say that we don't play some role in the frequency or severity of these toxic algae blooms.  I also mentioned that all of the birds for whom we are caring have seen drastic drops in their populations over the last decade so anything we can do to help them is a good thing.  Lastly I mentioned that the work we are doing is also largely a humane effort.  People finding these animals in distress need a place to turn to for help, and we provide a service not only to the animal, but to the community as well.  All sensible, straightforward reasons, but I did not share all that I felt inside.

After working for four days with very little sleep to help care for these birds, and watching everyone around me doing the same, it was hard not to feel somewhat disappointed by the oversimplification of the situation as indicated by the reporter's question.  To be honest, it is not so much that I have a problem with the question being asked.  I am a naturalist, and asking questions about nature is a constant state of being for me.  What I do have a problem with is the question being asked repeatedly, and in only one context-- when people are trying to save wild animals in distress.  Is the question ever asked when state wildlife managers say a species like deer must be hunted to make sure they don't overpopulate and eventually starve from a shortage of food?  Is the question asked when human rescue and relief efforts are mounted after a flood or earthquake?  So why ask the question when people are trying to help otherwise healthy wild birds who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

My real answer to the reporter's question has nothing to do with whether or not humans contributed to the plight of these birds.  I think anyone who can see beyond the tip of their own nose can probably conclude for themselves whether or not that is the case.  What I really wanted to say is that we are letting nature take its course.  Every single human that has taken part in this rescue effort is a product of nature.  Through evolution we have arrived at our present state of being and that includes a complex set of emotions, not the least of which is compassion.  While some members of our species only feel compassion for other humans, our compassion extends to the other beings with whom we share the planet.  The drive to alleviate suffering is an inseparable part of who we are.  To ignore it, or to try to suppress it feels like the most unnatural thing of all.  Why, you ask, do we not let nature take its course?  I say that is exactly what we are doing.

I returned home after running some errands this afternoon to find a flurry of avian activity on a small woodlot across the street from my house.  Band-tailed Pigeons, American Robins and European Starlings were busy collecting ripe berries in a pair of side-by-side Madrona trees.  A Steller's Jay and a Bewick's Wren could both be heard calling and chattering from a Douglas Fir nearby.

After grabbing my camera from inside the house, I watched the mixed flock of foragers go about their business.  I was especially fascinated by the Band-tailed Pigeons.  They were quite adept at maneuvering their relatively large bodies along the thin branches.  They were able to tip forward, backward and even turn upside down in a manner that seemed more chickadee-like than pigeon-like. 

Once each of the dozen or so pigeons had eaten their fill, they flew into the upper branches of the fir from which the jay and wren had been calling.  Now, with both trees free of the larger-bodied birds, the robins and starlings continued to forage in the Madronas for several more minutes.  After satisfying their appetites, they too moved on.

See more photos of the Band-tailed Pigeons on goatislandimages.com.