Valentine’s Day Humor Lost On Me

With so much loss and sadness as of late, let me add a little levity to our day, now that I can laugh about it. With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I can’t help but reflect on a happening some years ago, when I was in my late twenties. I probably perceived some rather frivolous things more seriously than I should. I was working 12 to 16 hour days, six days a week in a building where the majority of the employees were male (probably 99 percent). I only knew of one other woman in the building. She was a married dispatcher in the police station downstairs. Even though the odds of dating were in my favor, it wasn’t happening. I worked way too many hours and really had no time for a social life. I was on great terms with everyone I worked with, so coming to work was quite enjoyable and laughter was an integral part of the office relationships even though every day was arduous for all and felt like each overlapped the next. Valentine’s Day was a few days away, and I overheard the guys talking about the flowers, dinners and such they were planning for their significant others, and sometimes they even asked me what a woman might like, which made me feel appreciated and very sisterish.

On Valentine’s Day, I approached the morning very low key and got busy with work immediately to distract myself, so I wouldn’t feel left out on “heart day.” Around noon one of the guys I worked with handed me a big card. I started blushing right away and (with red hair and an ivory face) it was very noticeable. The gesture was totally unexpected, so I was surprised, but I also felt relief wash over me when I took the card. I thought, how nice it was that he thought to give me a Valentine’s Day card. My giddiness nearly reverted to my eight-year-old self, when Ricky Wall gave me a purple, construction paper heart and a bag of butterscotch. When I opened the envelope, the picture on the card was very pretty; an arrangement of colorful flowers and on the heart in the center it said “Will You Be My . . . . . . . . , ” then I opened the card to read “Groundhog?” with a picture of a groundhog below the word.

All the guys were standing around smiling, waiting for my reaction. I kept staring at the word groundhog and it felt like I had been standing there frozen in place for 10 minutes, when actually it was only a few seconds. My eyes started welling up, and I ran to the bathroom where I cried until my eyes swelled shut. I guess it was supposed to be a funny joke, but whether it was the stress of the job, the longing for a valentine of my own or maybe it was just that time of the month, I didn’t take it quite so funny. I put cold water on my face in an attempt to return my look to pre-humiliation, but red eyes and a puffy pink nose were evident when I returned to my desk, where dead silence hung heavy in the air and everybody, including me, looked like we needed rocks to crawl under. Then later that afternoon, the same guy, my supposed-to-be friend, walked up to my desk and placed a long white box in front of me. My body stiffened like setting concrete, wondering, what now, roadkill? He said, “Go ahead and open it, it’s safe.” When I lifted the lid, I found a dozen, bright and beautiful, red “mercy” roses, which caused me to cry again. He said he was “truly sorry about the card, it was only meant as a joke they really thought I would laugh over.” It was a very embarrassing Valentine’s Day for me. All I had hoped on that day was to not get noticed as ‘no one’s valentine,’ but my unexpected emotional reaction to their intended joke and the similar outburst during the follow-up apology effort are legendary and will hang in the hall of “My Worst (but only now funny) Valentines Days Ever.” Thanks readers, for letting me verbalize this and get it off my chest, as it has been a very heavy burden for many years. : ) Sounds very . . well almost, funny now – but it wasn’t so funny then. Now that I’m a wildlife rehabilitator and although I don’t work with groundhogs on the coast, maybe the question was meant as a compliment. Groundhogs are kinda cute!

Happy Valentine’s Day Hugs to Everyone! (and if someone gives you a card that likens you to a large, furry buck-tooth rodent, laugh really hard! Words are funnier now that I write.)

Photo credit goes to HogHaven.com. Visit them sometime to see how interesting, smart and cute groundhogs truly are, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.

Linda Bergman-Althouse, author of “Save Them All”

 

Rest in peace, Lt. Gerard

The past two weeks have been especially sad for the entertainment industry. While the untimely death of the talented Heath Ledger has received much of the news coverage, we’ve also seen the passing of such TV icons as Allan Melvin (Sam on The Brady Bunch), Lois Nettleton (whose many television appearances covered classic dramas like The Fugitive, cult TV-movies like Women in Chains and contemporary comedies such as Seinfeld) and, of course, Suzanne Pleshette (The Bob Newhart Show).I’m sad to report the loss of yet another TV icon. This morning I learned from my friend Anthony Wynn of the passing of Barry Morse, the versatile British actor best known to American audiences for his roles on The Fugitive (ABC, 1963-1967) and Space: 1999 (ITC, 1975-1977). Tony collaborated with Barry on many projects over the past ten years, including Barry’s recently published memoir, Remember with Advantages.

Barry proudly considered himself a “character actor” in the truest sense of the word. In a career that spanned 70 years, he brought to life literally hundreds of different characters on stage, screen and television throughout the U.S., U.K. and Canada. His vast body of work covered everything from Shakespeare and George Bernard Shaw, to Gore Vidal and A.R. Gurney, to his own critically acclaimed one-man show, Merely Players, to memorable appearances on hundreds of television shows, including The Twilight Zone, The Untouchables, The Outer Limits and The Invaders, as well as groundbreaking miniseries like The Winds of War, War and Remembrance and Sadat.But in the annals of American pop culture, it is the character of Philip Gerard, “the police lieutenant obsessed with the capture” of the wrongly convicted Dr. Richard Kimble (David Janssen) on the Emmy Award-winning ABC series The Fugitive, for which Barry Morse is best remembered. Twenty years before Larry Hagman, J.R. Ewing and Dallas, Barry’s portrayal of Lt. Gerard was the original “man you loved to hate.”Perhaps Stephen King said it best. “Lt. Gerard really scared me as a kid,” he said to me when I interviewed for my book The Fugitive Recaptured. “Barry Morse was so good, he brought an element of reality to Gerard that a lot of TV characters didn’t have. Whereas most series characters remain emotionally static, Gerard actually seemed to grow less and less tightly wrapped as the show continued. Gerard was completely nuts – at least, I thought so. Kimble had made him crazy, and as The Fugitive went on, you could see him heading further and further into freako land.”Having gotten to know Barry a bit myself as a result of The Fugitive Recaptured, I can tell you he got a quite kick of Mr. King’s assessment. Though his years on The Fugitive represented a small fraction of his collective work, he remained proud of his association with the series and its impact on American dramatic television. We spoke many times during the three-year period in which I researched and wrote the book. He was a marvelous storyteller with uncanny powers of recollection, tremendous warmth and compassion, and great fondness for David Janssen and Quinn Martin. Plus, being veddy, veddy British, he also had a cheeky sense of humor. With the possible exception of Suzanne Pleshette, he was as refreshingly down to earth as any actor I’ve come to know.

Rest in peace, Lt. Gerard.

Ed Robertson
Pop Culture Critic and Television Historian
author, The Fugitive Recaptured and other books on television
www.edrobertson.com

Remembering Suzanne Pleshette

Suzanne Pleshette was, with the possible exception of Barry Morse, the most fun and down-to-earth person I talked to for my book The Fugitive Recaptured. She answered her own phone; she laid her cards right on the table; there was absolutely no pretense about her. She spoke to me several times over the phone for the book, then we met in person at a party in Beverly Hills thrown by my publisher shortly after the book was originally released.

For those who may not know, I was still in my 20s at the time I wrote The Fugitive Recaptured. So when Pleshette arrived, she announced, in that unmistakeably throaty voice of hers, “All right! I want to see him… Where’s the boy author?!??” And then she gave me a great big hug.

Suzanne Pleshette passed away yesterday in Los Angeles. For anyone who grew up watching television in the ’70s, this is certainly a sad day. She was a class act all the way.

Ed Robertson
Pop Culture Critic and Television Historian
www.edrobertson.com

Paws Pause For Christmas

‘Tis the season to be jolly with my friend’s niece Molly. I bought her a dolly, and she named her Holly!! Okay, I’ll stop. I always look forward to Christmas. Although I hear many a heavy sigh, followed by “not again,” it’s never too much for me. I love it all; the decorations, baking, the sweets that none of us should eat, the shopping, the presents and the wrapping, the music, the Christmas cards, friends coming over for tea, the hugging and the all encompassing reason for the season. I embrace every minute detail! My cats, Kitty, Pearl, Cybill and Seven, can’t possibly comprehend any of that, but they seem to love the holiday season even more than I do. Normally, we’re a fairly laid back household. I can’t get the furry ones to do much more than sleep, eat and make deposits in the litter box during the rest of the year. And I’m usually the only one who moves toward the door when the bell rings and when people enter, one might hear the lack of traction on the kitchen flooring because the furry foursome can’t become invisible fast enough. Some people don’t believe I have cats, they never see them (even the pet sitter) until Christmas time. I was even accused of renting them just for the holidays. But when the season begins, my “hideouts” are definitely under foot. They want to see everything and everybody. The postman is exceptionally exciting because he usually has a box to open, which means they get to watch me remove presents, which they sniff audibly and when the box is empty, they jump in. There’s some pure joy current in the air that truly has an affect on them. It begins when the tree and boxes of decorations come down from the attic, watch out, they can hardly contain themselves. Fortunately they are not destructive, they just want to see and be a part of everything. They paw the ornaments before I get them to the tree and visit each light on the strand as it lays across the carpeting during testing. After the tree is up and decorating completed, my furry children want to be near it, either on the arm of the sofa, sitting in front of it gazing at the twinklings or under it but fortunately,  never in it.

Christmas Carols will bring them close to the stereo or radio. Kitty and Pearl don’t seem to mind how loud I play them. Presents are something to rub against or lean their heads on when they snooze. You won’t find our cats approaching anyone throughout the rest of the year, but during the holidays, they want a pet from everyone. They even become so bold as to jump into a strange lap or two. They get ecstatic when we open gifts on Christmas morning. They are simply so thrilled to roll around in the wrapping paper that it appears they have been waiting for this special treat all year (and there is no presence of catnip). Their unusual behavior at Christmas always astounds but warms me. May you, also, enjoy some of this strange behavior as our paws pause for Christmas. Savor the holiday moments, connect with those you love (or merely tolerate), sniff all the Christmas goodies, feel the vibrations of some great carols and jump on a lap or two. I remember reading a verse that goes something like: “When you worry and hurry through your day it is like an unopened gift . . . thrown away. Life is not a race. Take it slower and hear the music, before the song is over.” Those wise words shared with me are a regift from me to you. Please carry them with you to 2008.

Merry Christmas To All, and To All A Good Night!!!!

Linda Bergman-Althouse

Author & Wildlife Rehabilitator

(Let’s hope there are lots of “Save Them All” under Christmas Trees this year!)

The Second Wave

An update from the Wild Side: Just when you think you’re going to get a breather after a busy, wildlife baby season (and I’m thinking I can focus more on my writing), the second breeding season of squirrels becomes evident. They start coming into the shelter, the second wave, one single infant after another. This year, so far, we’ve done well by keeping the numbers down. North Carolina hasn’t been battered by hurricanes, so nests aren’t coming down. That means the majority of litters are staying up in the trees where they belong. But things happen to occasionally bring one little girl or boy down. Our shelter has about twenty-five already — What? Oops, I mean thirty (which, of course, is much better that one hundred and thirty which a hurricane is certainly capable of). If our medical examination reveals no injury or ailments, we buddy up singles with other singles to create littermates. Squirrel babies are the cutest and most cooperative mammals if they aren’t injured or have any other physical condition going on. They adapt well to syringe feeding, welcome full tummies and just want to be kept safe and warm. I’m keeping two “special needs” infants at my house for around the clock care and extra feedings. I used to give my home care squirrels names, usually after hurricanes, such as Bertha, Charlie, Daniel, Fran or Floyd, but a squirrel with a human name is even harder to release to the wild. Somehow, the human tendency to name these precious and tiny creatures creates extensions of me, and that’s unbearable when you understand the life and longevity of a squirrel in the wild, but they must be released to live the squirrel life nature intended. It’s only fair. Now, I just refer to them by where they came from. With hurricanes, we pretty much know the story of how and why they arrive at the shelter, but when a storm doesn’t pound them to the ground, we’re never quite sure what happened. We can only speculate. We listen to the tales of the human rescuers and transporters, but they only know part of the story and the squirrels aren’t talking. My guess is, it’s so traumatic it would take months of Squirrel psychotherapy before they would be able to share what truly happened anyway. We don’t have that much time, so we go “Dr. Phil” on them. Deal with the moment by getting them well and as big and bad as we can so they can return to their life in the trees stronger than they were as soon as possible. The first infant squirrel to arrive at my house on the short bus was a tiny girl. A young, teenager told me she was walking up to her door after school and saw something crawling in the grass. She stood still until the baby squirrel limped to her and collapsed across her tennis shoe. (I believe animals know that some humans are capable of great compassion and will render help.) As the young girl shared her rescue story, I could see the whole drama playing out; the tiny squirrel pushing through the heavy blades of grass with her last squeeze of strength and wits to throw herself toward the young girl’s feet, knowing it was her last and only chance.) The emaciated squirrel, at that point, was no longer conscious but still breathing. After receiving the little female and assessing her condition, the prognosis was grim at best. “Northwoods,” she became known, was severely dehydrated, starving and her left leg was swollen three times it’s normal size. During my examination I found the bones of her leg in tact, no bot fly infestation to explain the huge lump inside her leg, but two holes; one in the outer hip area and one in her groin. I wasn’t there to witness, but my theory is either an owl’s or a red-tailed hawk’s talons grabbed her out of the nest, and she somehow wiggled free and dropped to the ground. She was hurt and who knows how far she sailed through the air before the relocation release. Her whistles for Mom went unheard. She tried to fend for herself, but didn’t know how to feed herself yet, and then the punctures in her leg got infected. It’s been a trial draining the infection, irrigating the wound with hydrogen peroxide and applying bacitracin (which she keeps licking off). That’s okay — the antibiotic can be taken internally as well as topically. She’s looking pretty good now. The second “special needs” little one was also dehydrated and starving, but not injured. He was found sitting in the middle of the road next to his sibling who had been killed by a car. I figure with “Rt 53, Southwest,” something happened to Momma, and she didn’t return to the tree. They waited in the nest like the wonderfully obedient baby squirrels they are, probably hadn’t eaten for a week — then when hunger and thirst got to be too much, they headed out to find Mom or food. He was trembling, extremely weak, unable to keep his eyes open and barely able to stand. Hydration was the first step, but he was unable to drink even 1 cc of fluids because his stomach had shrunk so much. He received a small quantity of fluids every hour until his hold capacity increased. Fortunately, with Northwoods as his role model, he has since packed on weight, some fight and is doing very well. Please enjoy the pictorial updates on Northwoods (notice her wound is healing nicely) and Rt 53, Southwest (notice his rotund tummy).

I’m hoping tropical storm Gabrielle snoozes on past us in the next few days and heads back out to sea, because it has truly been a fortunate, hurricaneless year for us so far, and I’d just like to keep it that way! A light soak every once in a while is fine, but when it rains heavy at this time of the year, it pours baby squirrels, and we don’t want that. Ah – oh, here comes the rain.

Linda Bergman-Althouse

author of “Save Them All”

www.owlsonline.org

Dances With Wrens

Before I begin my isolated hours of writing each day, I make sure all the critters outside have a nutritious breakfast, ‘the most important meal of the day.’ Over the years, birds, squirrels, rabbits, toads, turtles and the occasional “for some reason I couldn’t make it home before daylight” opossum quietly wait on limbs in the shadows of leaves, or on the roof top, some behind the brick pile or leaning kayaks, under a car or along the wooden fence anticipating my arrival. I round the corner of the house and walk the path toward their breakfast nook carrying the food tray bounty of wild grain, cracked corn, peanuts, fruits and vegetables, sunflower seeds and soaked cat chow. Although they sit as still as statues, I see them waiting, but they don’t think I do. They know, conditioned — so to speak, by a certain time every morning I, or my pet sitter, will be coming to stock the feed poles and feeding stations. They are wild animals and not pets, this I know, but the little extra is provided to supplement what limited resources they now have due to loss of habitat and food sources. They all, usually, wait patiently until the small bowls are filled, piles of seed are strategically placed to prevent arguments and water is replenished. Occasionally, a Black-Capped Chickadee will land on my arm and look up at me, which, I think, is the “hurry up” message. It could also be she just felt like riding part of the way. A frisky or just plain rude squirrel will run up to me as I’m sitting the tray down and take a swipe at a cup of seeds before I shoo him away. I try to get the food out as quickly as possible, but it’s never fast enough for some. One of the most enjoyable moments of my early morning feeding routine is dancing with my backyard Carolina Wrens. As soon as the food tray touches the wooden beams under the mammal boxes, I hear the chattering of the small buffy, songbirds with their tipped up tails before I see them. The wrens then flit to the top of our wooden fence. They each choose their own board (need to be wing distance apart, I guess). It’s usually an even number, two or four, (unless fledglings are on-board) because a male and female will bond, and the pair will stay together for life. A Carolina Wren’s diet usually consists of insects and spiders, but they have found a liking for my red-skinned peanuts and wild-berry suet. I feel a responsibility toward them because they chose my land as their safe haven and unlike migratory birds, they stay in their chosen territory year round. One year a wren couple nested in the machinery of my garage door opener, so I couldn’t use it for five weeks. Manually, I propped the garage door up a few inches so they could get in and out. On this morning they watch me prep the area with fresh, clean food and as usual, get so excited they begin the dance! Although their faces never change and there’s obviously no indication of a smile as you can see from the pictures, I truly believe what I’m seeing is their “happy dance.” It starts with a solid grasp on the fence top and a subtle lean to the left . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

then a wide swoop forward and downward, with a huge lean to the right . . . . . . . . . . . . .

then they push way up, off their toes and throw their head back to the sky. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . (And swing that wren!)

It’s a fairly simple dance that keeps repeating those same steps. Come on people, try it. Lean to the left, swoop down low and to the right, stretch way up on your toes, lean your head back, try it again and here we go! It becomes an effective, circular stretch for me, and I feel pretty happy doing it, too. How do you feel? My imagination may be reaching, but I look forward to the day when all my backyard birds (and maybe an ambitious squirrel or two) line the fence and do the ‘Wren Dance’ with us. Too many Pixar movies? Maybe. One last dance, and time to go to work! The ‘Wren Dance’ makes it so much easier to brave the mental and physical rigors demanded in the writing jungle called my office.

Linda Bergman-Althouse

author of “Save Them All

Marine Homecoming

Happy 4th of July people!! Since I generally write about the wild side of life, it seems only fitting to acknowledge a Marine Corps homecoming; they who live their lives more wild than most. This week over 800 Marines and Sailors returned home to Camp Lejeune, North Carolina from Africa and the middle east. A lthough deployments and homecomings are quite common here, they are never treated routinely. It’s a glorious sight to see, feel and hear. You never know how awaiting loved ones are going to respond when they lay eyes on their Marine after so many months of separation. Emotions are raw, uninhibited and intense. Corpsman and ambulances always stand by. A company of Patriot Guard Riders thundered in on motorcycles from everywhere across the nation to “show respect for those who risk their very lives for America’s freedom and security” and to show their support for the families tormented every moment they marked time until this very day of homecoming. Before the swarm of helicopters appears overhead, the names of all the wives, fiances and girlfriends (a few husbands, too) are put in a bucket and one lucky name is drawn for the first kiss. After all helicopters have hovered, landed and parked in a linear formation (which is an aerial display unequalled), the unit falls in formation and marches toward the cheering crowd held back by appropriateness, experience and flimsy bright yellow tape.

The first kiss winner is escorted beyond the tape to find her or his Marine. The union is met with an explosion of cheers from the eagerly wanting crowd. The tape is then dropped and it is sheer, joyous bedlam.

Marines don’t get into the politics of war (vocally). I’m sure they have their personal views. Our all volunteer military signs on to serve this country and much like marriage vows, the oath they take is for better or worse. As a Marine retiree, I look at all of them much similarly to my children (they were, once). I’m happy to see these Marines home safe, but the lump in my throat is felt for those servicemen and women serving in all parts of the world who didn’t or won’t make it back and those whose physical or mental abilities are forever changed by injury. But on that day I swallowed the cockleburs and spent my energy celebrating the courageous men and women before me. There will be many books written about this war, but I probably won’t read any. I know enough. Semper Fi!

View Marine Homecoming Video http://www.jdnews.com/video/_49459___video.html/_.html

Happy Independence Day, America!   Land of the free because of the brave!
Linda Bergman-Althouse

author of “Save Them All”

The Good Mother

Nursery attendants shifted into high gear last month to accommodate the every thirty minutes feeding schedule for the huge number of birdnapped newborns and fledglings that now claim 100 Wildlife Way as their foster home. The incubators are full, the table and counters are covered with crab boxes, waterless fish tanks and netted doll playpens, all housing a variety of infant and juvie bird species. Same size and compatible youngins like robins, blue jays and mockingbirds can room together, while some loners, who don’t get along with anybody, get their own space. (Just a tip to other wildlife rehabilitators if you haven’t found this out already; don’t try to buddy a Titmouse with a House Finch. I never knew a cute, little Titmouse could be so vicious. It was a frenzied evacuation believe me. I was apologizing to the terrorized Finch for the rest of the day.) Rehabbers squeeze in between and around larger canopied, human baby playpens on the floor used to restrict fully feathered adolescents who are still learning to eat on their own before the big move to an outside enclosure for flight school. Well-meaning people, who do not understand the natural behaviors of wildlife, deliver bobble-headed bird babies to the shelter everyday. The list of reasons is quite extensive; “I think they’ve been abandoned, or the big birds keep flying at me when I go near the nest (duh!), or they leave droppings on my car (so . . . move your car?), or they nested in my mailbox (how about . . . use a temp container on top or to the side of the box for a few weeks, just until they wave adios, hasta luego!). It’s a very slim chance they’ve been abandoned. Even if something happens to one parent the other will continue to bring food to the nest until the newborns are ready to take flight. The only excuses that really carry a lot of weight with me are ” The cat was about to get them” or “I pulled the snake out of the nesting box, but he’d already eaten two.” (Yes, the snake must eat, but two is more than enough.) Living in the wild is harsh, even the semi-wild such as your backyard or workplace. Unfortunately, bird parents don’t have the defenses needed to save their young from domestic or feral cats and dogs who injure, kill or orphan millions of birds each year, and they don’t pack the punch to whip up on an aggressive snake, either. Those little hollow legs aren’t capable of the Ninja kick they need to do business, despite what is represented in Disney’s animated features. So, there are some good reasons to disrupt the family unit for the greater good (but not many). Although natural mothers provide better care, nutrition, and survival training than any wildlife rehabilitator, we do the best we can for the orphans in our care. We can feed the babies comparable diets, be it syringe fed formula, fruit, crickets, a variety of seed, meal worms and for the robins, juicy earthworms we dig out of the compost pile, but we don’t look like their parents (although some of you might choose to debate that) and try as we might, we can’t teach them to be wild. They just don’t take us seriously enough. They will have to depend on each other for that. Our golden advice is and has always been; if they are not in danger and there is a possibility the mother is around, wait. There are plenty of good mothers out there, even if you don’t see them. They are hidden and patiently waiting to see what the gigantic human is going to do. Wildlife mothers (and fathers) are devoted to the survival of their offspring, but Mom must leave the babies from time to time to feed herself and in the case of birds, find food for them. After fledging, young birds will still hang out with their parents and beg for food, much like human babies old enough to leave the nest but smart enough to know a good thing when they’ve got it.

Have faith in the good wildlife mothers. They possess instinctive loyalty and tenacity far beyond our awareness. One of the Good Mothers I loved to visit was a Mourning Dove who nested in a hanging plant each year at Pal’s Hardware. After situating herself, the clerks would pull other plants around her for safety, place a “Do Not Disturb” sign, and pile straw beneath her chosen nesting spot to cushion a fall if a baby dove took a tumble. Last year, during a tropical storm, the torrential rains didn’t let up for hours, and I couldn’t help thinking about her; wondering if the hanging plant could possibly drain fast enough to prevent drowning the babies. I threw on my poncho and headed to the store, which was closed due to the hurricane threat, only to find The Good Mother hunkered down, keeping her dependent brood safe and dry. This year Pal’s Hardware discontinued the foliage and plant service they provided for so many years, and I miss her.

If you come across an active bird nest you feel is in a danger zone or has become a nuisance to you, please call your nearest wildlife shelter before displacing it. The bird world thanks you.

Linda Bergman-Althouse

author of Save Them All

252-240-1200 owlsonline.org

Vigilant Environmental Partners

They’re on their way back! Chimney Swifts, capturing my imagination and respect, are flying a 3,000- mile journey from South America’s Amazon River Basin to spend May through August in my county, to breed and raise their young. About five inches in length, with a twelve-inch tip to tip wing span, these sooty gray to blue-black heroes are fascinating to watch, as well as, extremely valuable to our quality of life. The fantastic flyers emerge from their roosts at dawn and dusk to snatch nasty mosquitoes, gnats, biting flies, spittlebugs, aphids, winged ants, wasps, mayflies, stoneflies and termites from the air. With long, scythe-shaped wings and a short stubby tail that spreads when they make crazy, acrobatic turns in flight, those sleek little insectivores deserve our respect and our protection. Two Chimney Swift parents and their offspring will consume over 12,000 flying insect pests every day, that’s – every day! Chimney Swifts once had opportunities to nest inside tree hollows, but with the loss of mature trees and similar wooded habitat, all over the country, they have taken up residency inside chimneys or any structure they find suitable. Unfortunately, since the 1980’s, many homeowners have capped or closed chimneys that were once used for nesting. New construction design is another reason Swifts cannot enter a chimney. Some houses are built without chimneys or chimneys that use small metal flue pipes rather than clay liners that Swifts can hang onto. Devastatingly, Chimney Swift numbers are declining. On the flip side, insect pest numbers are growing. How do those sayings go? Sometimes we chop off our noses to spite our face, or we end up shooting ourselves in the foot. I believe that’s what one does when they become annoyed by the Chimney Swift’s presence and block an entrance to a chimney used by a Swift couple to roost and raise their babies. Although the sound of Chimney Swift newborns is not everyone’s favorite melody, normally by the time the babies become loud enough to hear, they are less than a couple of weeks from being old enough to feed themselves. After that, the cute, chittering noise of a baby bird begging for food is over. It might be an entire three weeks. Are we so intolerant of something so natural that lasts a mere few weeks that we are willing to give up the benefits Chimney Swifts provide? I don’t know about you, but I can’t wield a fly swatter fast enough to be the extraordinary bug killer a Chimney Swift is as it soars through the sky vacuuming those mosquitoes who would surely make a blood meal of me if they had the chance. I appreciate seeing a Chimney Swift colony chattering overhead in the evening while I enjoy supper on the deck. I’m confident they are helping to keep our menacing insect population down. Before the first Carolina cold snap, my Chimney Swifts will return to their favorite resort area in South America. We don’t start using our fireplaces until then anyway. Loss of habitat in this country is obscene, and some people truly don’t understand the Chimney Swift’s worth. Please keep in mind that Chimney Swifts are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act and should not be intentionally harmed. Chimney Swift towers are now being built across the US. Unfortunately, North Carolina has only four and none are in the coastal region where I live. Texas holds the record with eighty-three, so I’m following their example and have introduced Project Chimney Swift Tower in my area. I’ve already received interest from various youth groups. If you have Swifts in your chimney and don’t want them there, for whatever reason, please call a wildlife shelter before removing them. You might consider building a tower to accommodate these tiny environmental activists. Maybe a Scout Troop or a 4-H club would enjoy taking on a conservation project like a Chimney Swift tower. If saving one of our natural resources sounds like something you’d like to do, please call your nearest shelter for information and recommendations for construction sites. The nasty mosquitoes will hate you for it, but your spring and summer, resident Swifts will be appreciative and pay you back many times over. You can find very simple instructions for towers online at www.chimneyswifts.org. Protecting our natural resources and improving the environment is a darn good thing. It confuses me why some folks would rather inhale a fog of insect ridding chemicals than allow environmentally friendly Chimney Swifts who, by their diet and most efficient exterminating nature, are capable of doing the job. Besides all that, they’re cute, don’t you think?

Chimney Swift fledglings raised with plenty of TLC and mealworms by rehabilitators at the Outer Banks Wildlife Shelter, 100 Wildlife Way, Newport, NC. This tiny trio is gearing up to practice their flight skills and ultimately join a Swift colony already engaged in environmental duties.

Happy Easter!!!!!

Linda Bergman-Althouse

author of Save Them All

www.owlsonline.org

Spring and What It Brings

It’s come around again; the time of year to gear up for the influx of wildlife infants displaced by loss of habitat or loss of parents due to human interference. Excluding the occasional hurricane accompanied by flooding or an unnatural Carolina cold snap blessed with the more northern than southern white stuff called snow or what’s that clear, really slick stuff?, oh yeah . . . ice, Baby Season causes most rehabilitators to endure a sweet exhaustion from March through June. Straggler babies still show up beyond June, but in fewer numbers. Rehabilitators understand the need for high energy, patience and accept that days will start earlier and end later when they take on the tedious task of raising animal orphans. It’s important to get these little critters up and running (or flying) as soon and as wild as possible. I hate to point a finger, but sometimes the babies are truly kidnapped when brought to the shelter. Of course, the human “rescuer” doesn’t know that, but if my words manage to sink in during negotiations with the kidnapper(s) the clutch of plump eastern cottontails will be returned to the tall grassy area they were taken from. Usually, Momma rabbit is frantically looking for them. I always recommend putting a string around their nest area and checking back a few times to see if the string is mussed. If the babies still look plump and healthy, Mom is taking care of them, as it should be. In four weeks or less they’ll be out on their own. Wild baby bunnies become highly stressed in captivity and should remain with their Mom if at all possible. Baby season began for our shelter last week with the admit of three infant doves, two baby squirrels and two injured “with child(ren)” Virginia opossums. With the overuse of clear-cutting by developers we have seen our Baby Season admits grow steadily every year. Although infant wildlife, birds or mammals, would benefit from their bio-mom’s and dad’s care, we rehabbers step in with everything we know to give them the best second chance. After proper diet, cleanliness, safety, warmth and time to grow, we must find new wooded areas, conducive to the species, for relocation when release time comes. Uninjured, but homeless and parentless, infant squirrels are usually fairly hardy and take to a nippled syringe with formula readily until they want to chew solid food.

I have a true fondness for these crazy and frantic little critters. In my opinion, they are the best and most enjoyable babies to rehab until one day when they’re not. Something clicks in their brain, and they let you know it’s over. “Get me to my outside enclosure, I have squirrel skills to perfect.” A slower mammal that gets a bad rap because it’s perceived as quite homely is the opossum. (Personally, I don’t know how anyone could view our only North American marsupial as anything but cute. We all lose a little of our cuteness as we age, even the opossum.) Baby opossums come into the shelter in much larger litters than the squirrels. Stories of how they get to the shelter are quite varied and sometimes bizarre. The one that warms my heart the most is when I hear someone say they stopped along the road to check the pouch of an opossum hit and run victim. Talk about a way above average human being! A young man showed up at the shelter last year with baby opossums in his shirt pockets, his hat and a glove. He brought us eleven. Since they don’t suckle, they have to be tubed (or some say gavaged). Special formula, made for their slower metabolism, is syringed and delivered through a tiny, flexible tube into their stomach for each feeding until they are ready to lap from a dish, then on to solid food. Baby birds require totally different methods of care. They must be hand fed every thirty minutes and based upon the species, diets will vary . . . Ya da, Ya da, Ya da. It would take another posting to explain the uniqueness of baby birds and fledglings. So . . . from my opossums to yours, Have a happy Spring and watch out for our critters! They do good works.

Linda Bergman-Althouse

author of Save Them All

www.owlsonline.org