Canary in the garbage

The garbage collector gave us a new garbage can. The previous one was too big, so we opted for the smaller and cheaper one.

"That's a dink can", scoffed the redhead on seeing the replacement.

"But small is beautiful", I replied wondering where she came up 'dink can'. "It's a cute little can, just look at it!"

Neighbor Richard suggested we arm our 'dink cans' with "screaming canaries" to keep the bears away. He is convinced the one dollar security alarms deterred the garbage-scrounging bear last year.

Maybe so. Our neighbors had garbage-bear problems, but we didn't. Our cans were armed with "screaming canaries". Presumably the shock effect of the siren is enough to scare the bear. It sure worked on me everytime I forgot it was on. I didn't do a backward roll and chop my jaws in retreat, but I cursed it somewhat affectionately.

The screaming canary is actually a cheapo security alarm with a piezoelectric oscillating siren. It's a low-power-consuming sound alarm like those used in smoke detectors. It sounds like a German roller canary on steroids and methamphetamines. The alarm goes off when you remove the magnet.

Here's how Richard armed the garbage cans.



He mounted the alarm on the lip of the can, and fixed the magnet on the lid. The alarm is fastened to the metal bracket with double-sided tape, and the bracket and magnet are bolted to the can.



Spacing is critical, so he used scrap plexiglass as a spacer to align alarm and magnet. The red color is fingernail polish. (Richard has an artistic streak.) It also locks the nut and bolt together.



The plastic material is a rain shield.

One of these days I'll get around to experimenting on the effects of the alarm on pestiferous wildlife. Meanwhile, we'll keep the faith that they actually work.

Adventures with Robobadger

Robobadger was a marriage of taxidermy and a high tech toy. His first life ended abruptly on state route 287 near Laramie. The next day his ice-packed remains arrived at the National Museum of Natural History in Washington D.C. There a taxidermist worked his timeless magic, and a month later Robobadger began his second life on wheels. Robo looked menacing even with a remote-control toy jeep embedded in his solar plexus.

Robobadger became a kind of drill sergeant in Brian Miller's boot camp for Siberian ferrets. Brian was a Smithsonian Postdoctoral Fellow at the National Zoo. Robo, a stuffed great horned owl, and Brian's dog Rosa were joined in a common purpose to scare the bejeepers out of the ferrets. It would also teach us how ferrets develop a healthy fear of predators.




Boot camp also taught the ferrets how to find and dispatch food such as prairie dogs, but that had little to do with Robobadger. Zoo biologists have long known that animals raised in captivity are wusses in the wilderness. Eating a nutritious meat mix isn't the same as dispatching a prairie dog face-to-face in its burrow, or dodging coyotes.

Boot camp at the zoo's Conservation & Research Center was preparation for the Siberian ferrets' experimental release on the high plains of Wyoming and Colorado. The small captive population of black-footed ferrets was too precious to use for an experiment, but the Endangered Species Act makes provision for experimental introductions with related or surrogate species. If captive born black-footed ferrets were to thrive in the promised land of reintroduction they needed serious preparation. The surrogates would lead the way.

Being a reintroduction surrogate is a little like being an astronaut. Both undergo rigorous training in order to explore strange new places, and the goal is survival. The biggest difference is that a veterinarian doesn’t neuter astronauts before the mission. It was necessary with the ferrets, because reproduction on the new frontier was not an activity condoned by the US Government. As you may have guessed, Siberian ferrets are considered aliens in the US.

Boot camp had several phases. Robobadger and the stuffed owl were players in an experiment to see whether predator avoidance was hard-wired in the genes or coached in the school-of-hard-knocks. Their advantage over a live predator was predictability.

Brian also wanted to see how these behaviors developed in young ferrets. To see if there were critical learning periods he designed experiments in slices of developmental time. He ran the experiments on three groups of young Siberian ferrets at two-, three-, and four months of age.

The experiments went like this. On day 1 a young Siberian ferret encountered Robo resting benignly in the corner of the 10 x 10 foot arena. On day 2 the ferret found itself zapped with rubber bands while being pursued relentlessly by a belligerent Robo. Operating the joystick, shooting the rubber band gun and taking data kept Brian and his bevy of assistants quite busy at mission control.

I should explain that the original plan was to fit the ferrets with shock collars used in training dogs, but the Zoo's Animal Care and Use Committee nixed the plan, and Brian settled for a rubber band "six-shooter".

The criterion of success was the time it took for the ferrets to disappear down the burrow to safety. The day after the chase, he put the same ferret back in the arena with Robo sitting quietly in the corner. He again measured the time the ferret took to dive into the burrow and compared that to the time of escape before Robobadger chased the ferret. He repeated the experiment using the stuffed owl.

The results were clear. Two-month-old Siberian ferrets were as helpless as gum drops, but 3- and 4-month-old ferrets had a healthy fear response, and it was faster at four months than at three.

What's more, it took only one aversive experience with Robo or the owl to improve the innate response. In other words, the ferrets had a genetic memory of predators, but a good scare improved the survival response, which was simply to beat a hasty retreat down the burrow.

Following these experiments in captivity, the Siberian ferrets were released into the wild. Alas, the experiments with Robobadger and the owl didn't affect survival in the wild. Even though the young ferrets did the right thing after generations in captivity, they didn't do it well enough when faced with wily coyote.

Brian retired Robobadger and the next year stepped the boot camp up a level. He introduced prairie dogs to a dirt-floored but escape-proof barn, and when they settled down he introduced young Siberian ferrets. It was a pre-release conditioning arena where ferrets could live in natural prairie dog burrows, secure their own food and occasionally deal with Rosa the Labrador's intrusions.

This conditioning did indeed improve the Siberian ferrets' survival. The method was tested next on black-footed ferrets released in Montana, and survival improved from 2% to 20%. The US Fish & Wildlife Service made it mandatory for all captive-raised black-footed ferrets scheduled for release in the wild.

Meanwhile, word of Robobadger spread to Washington and beyond, and then one Sunday morning in 1989 we read about Robobadger in Dave Barry's column in the Washington Post.

Yes, it was amusing, but we were sweating bullets. A colleague of ours had just won the dreaded a Golden Fleece Award in connection with another reintroduction project. If Senator Proxmire found out about Robo Brian and the National Zoo could also be honored with a Golden Fleece Award. It was recognition we were NOT seeking. (Actually our fears were unwarranted, as the research was not federally funded.)

What to do? How about sending Dave Barry an autographed photo of Robo and letter? I suggested. If he likes us, maybe he'll come to our defense if we do get a Golden Fleece.

The deed was done. "Dear Dave, That was a great article you wrote about me . . . etc.
Sincerely, (signed) Robobadger (with pawprint)"

A couple weeks passed and then a book arrive din the mail. It was "How to Claw Your Way to the Top", dedicated by Dave Barry "To Robo, who obviously needs no help from me."

If you have ever seen a badger's claws, you will instantly get Dave's inference.

You can read the full story in Prairie Night. The book is out-of-print, but used copies are still available. Brian is also planning an updated second edition.

[Thanks to Brian for refreshing my memory about some of the details and to Dean Biggins for the photo at the top of the page. Dean is seen in my B&W photo standing to the right of Brian at the edge of the ferret arena.]

References

Miller, B. 1996. Prairie night. Washington DC, Smithsonian Institution Press

1991. Development of survival skills in captive-raised Siberian
polecats (Mustela eversmanni) I: Locating prey. Miller, B., D. Biggins, C.
Wemmer, R. Powell, L. Hanebury, D. Horn, and A. Vargas. Journal of
Ethology 8: 89-94.

1991. Development of survival skills in captive-raised Siberian
polecats (Mustela eversmanni) II: Predator avoidance. Miller, B., D.
Biggins, C. Wemmer, R. Powell, L. Calvo, T. Wharton. Journal of Ethology 8:
95-104.

Papers evaluating pre-release experience of black-footed ferret
survival:

1998. The effect of rearing methods on survival of reintroduced
black-footed ferrets. Biggins, D.E., Godbey, J.L., Hanebury, L.R., Luce, B..
Marinari, P.E., Machett, M.R., and Vargas, A. Journal of Wildlife
Management 62: 643-653.

1999. Influence of pre-release experience on reintroduced black-footed
ferrets (Mustela nigripes). Biggins, D.E., Vargas, A., Godbey, J.L.,
and Anderson, S.H. Biological Conservation 89: 121-129

Camera trapping workshop

Attention Class!

The Codger is scheduled to give a camera trapping workshop in July at San Francisco State University's beautiful Sierra Nevada Field campus.

For details check out the announcement here.

Here's how it happened. A few months ago a blog reader from the University of Michigan asked me if there were any courses on camera trapping. I had to tell her that didn't know of any regular offerings, though some courses have been sponsored now and then by non-government conservation organizations.

An added impetus came from my daughter. She took the course in Sierra Nevada flora a few years ago and was totally enthused about the SF State field course program. "You should look into it, Codger." I did, and here I am getting ready to teach about the fine art of camera trapping.

In preparation I'm gathering materials, organizing thoughts, and posting some new pieces on equipment. We will use a targeted approach. Rather than place cameras on trails, we'll zero in on specific species based on sightings and sign, and we'll use sound and scent lures and baits. We'll use different set-ups daily to capture the quarry as digitized images.

This should be educational and 'jolly good fun'. If any of you readers have ever thought about trying your hand at camera trapping, check out the link above.

Ne me quitte pas

Despite my best intentions, the screech owl flew the coop. I checked the camera trap today. My rude intrusion was just too much.

This picture was taken at 5:17PM on the same day of my owl debacle. There were two photos of the owl. Obviously it was ready to "get the hell out of Dodge". That was it.

Knowing that the owl was gone, I checked out the box. I had been right. The bad smell was from squirrels. There were bones and baby squirrel fur in the box. Something must have bumped off the mother. No barf balls were to be found.

I find it curious that the owls ignore the flash when they are nesting. The camera trap took hundreds of flash photos last spring when a pair of screech owls nested in a tree cavity not far from here. It seems that once committed, they stick it out despite the camera flash.

It's a let down. The owl box (sigh) is close enough to the house for an owl cam, and I was ready to set one up courtesy of neighbor Richard who loaned the equipment.

I'm not giving up. I went to the hardware store this afternoon. It's time to build some more owl boxes.

Fred, the shop steward

Where is Fred now? I wonder with numb fingers and runny nose.

My warm weather friend, the shop steward is gone.

We often crossed paths as he made his rounds or viewed his domain from a jar of screws.

I suspect he's out cold in a box of my books, while I putz around freezing my butt off in the dead of winter.

Big Mama and the runt

Before checking the cams today I took a circuitous route to look for nest cavities of owls. I crossed three steep drainages into new territory, made a new "puma set" with the Furfindr, GPS'd the location, did a little trail maintenance with the chain saw, and followed the tributary down to its confluence with the other two. There I found myself in terra cognita. I climbed the slope to a deer trail and in a few minutes found myself at the familiar "patch cam", the camera trap aimed at the scent patch.

I wasn't expecting anything new, so I checked the data first and found that 32 images were taken during the past two weeks. I clicked through the pictures . . . robins, woodrat, squirrel, spotted and striped skunks, deer, and WOW -- a puma perfectly centered in the frame!

The cat showed up with its cub four days ago (January 19) and visited the site three times that night.



The castoreum and catnip held their interest long enough to get 15 photos between 6:40 and 11:28PM. Here she is rubbing the patch.



Until now I have gotten photos of only one svelte female puma, on two occasions accompanied by a large cub. I haven't encountered her since last summer. The female you see here is different. She's a big mama and she lacks the svelte female's notched ear.



The cub is a runt, definitely smaller than that of the svelte female last year. At this latitude pumas breed year round, so it could have been born later in the season.



All the same, Big Mama looks well fed, and her cub looks bony. Look at the hip bones from this rear angle. Makes you wonder if the kid has worms, or if its mother shares her kills.

Last week a starving immature puma was caught in Bidwell Park about 16 miles down the canyon from here.

Magic squirrel mulch

An incense cedar fell across the flume during the last storm. Evidently the tree had been injured when it reached a height of about 40 ft.



The original shoot is the gray stub on the left. It died back from the damage, and eventually became a bird's nest cavity.

Two new shoots replaced it and grew into the two logs you see laying across the flume. These forked shoots were off center, and as they grew they placed an increasing strain on the trunk. This year they strained the trunk to the breaking point. Heavy winds were all it took to snap the trunk.



The trunk was hollow, but squirrels had packed it with cedar bark stuffing. It smelled good, and I started to dig it out like a terrier in a rat hole.

"I wouldn't do that", warned the redhead, "it could have fleas and all kinds of things.

"My God, there's squirrel hair in it! Tail hair!" I exclaimed. "Why this is a multi-generational squirrel nest!"

"Remember when your house had the flea infestation and your parents threw out your bird nest collection?"

"That was different," I answered. "This is self-sanitizing nest material filled with terpenes and secondary compounds. Just smell it. It's wonderful." The redhead backed up a step.

"C'mon!" I pleaded. "It smells just like cedar pencils."



Finding a fallen tree can be a cheap thrill for a biologist, especially one with cabin fever.

As we walked home I hatched a plan.

Three days later I returned to the scene and packed three grocery bags with magic squirrel mulch. It looks great around the camellias. The redhead hasn't noticed yet. When she does, I'm going to tell her, "It's special. You can't buy it at the garden center".