So Hot the Deer Are Swimming! White-tailed Deer

White-tailed deer swimming in the Atlantic ocean.

This is the view from our house, looking south out to sea. See the deer near the mooring ball? The deer could swim straight to Morocco from here.

Deer have such fragile looking legs, it's hard to imagine them clambering on slick, sea weed covered rocks.

Deer swim like dogs. When they get out of the water, they shake like dogs do, too.

    This has been a hot, sultry summer with record breaking heat. That's not news to anyone in Texas, but we Mainer's aren't used to it. My husband installed an air conditioner in our bedroom. I was skeptical about the need for what seemed like a decorating monstrosity. Here on the coast, it's usually ten degrees or more cooler than inland and we have steady breeze off the water. However, we had enough days of ninety degree weather strung together to claim a heat wave and I had to eat crow. Even the deer took to the water!

     Deer swim well, but it doesn't look natural to me. They swim to escape predators and to find new territories for food and mates. In the photo above, the land mass on the left is the tip of Hermit Island.  "The Hermit" is over run with White-tailed deer as no hunting is allowed there. This was not the first time I've seen deer swimming the mile or so across the cove.  Hermit Island has more than 200 camp sites. Perhaps the deer object to the camper's noise, or choices in music. I start feeling a little crowded with summer people, too. I'm much too lazy to swim that far, though. Deer sometimes get into swimming pools, too which can be a disaster. Their sharp hooves tear up liners and if they can't get out, they drown. White-tailed deer weigh between 125 and 300 pounds. That would be a lot of dead weight to haul from a pool. Deer may seek relief in cool water from skin parasites, like ticks, Deer flies  and mosquitos. Or, they may swim just for the pure joy of it, like we do. This particular deer swam across the cove, got out, then turned around and swam back. To date, I've never seen a deer wearing ear plugs nor a bathing cap and, they swim in the nude. 

      Soon enough, before we even realize summer is really over, it will be cold and snowing. We'll be complaining about shovelling instead of the heat. The air conditioner will be gone and frost will coat the windows. I'll scratch a hole through the frost to look outside and shiver at the falling snow. Maybe I'll see a deer ice skating or skiing. I'll let you know.


(This post was chosen as Editor's Pick for Open Salon at http://salon.com. It is the ninth of my works selected as Editor's Pick.)

Power Of The Porky - Porcupine Encounters

This is the business part of a porcupine, the quills. In the top collage, the porkies in the trees are babies. The one in the middle is an adult.

Tough foot pads and claws help porcupines to climb trees.

Baby porcupine feet, teeth and 'product.'

Porcupines can be very destructive to trees. When they girdle the bark as in the lower photograph, it kills the tree. They are voracious eaters. The food they eat is low in nutritional value, so they must consume vast quantities. That results in lots of 'end product,' as seen above.

When there were six feet of snow on the ground last winter, the porcupines sat on top and ate the bark of these Spruce trees. These trees will die soon.

The sharp, hard quills are mixed in with stiff, guard hairs. The quills contrast with the hairs so that predators can see the porcupine in the dark when they are the most active.

"OUCH!"

     A couple of months ago, our dog got a face full of porcupine quills. It was the fourth time he has done it. They say that dogs don't learn from the misery of that experience and will do it again and again. Apparently so. Our dog doesn't attack them, as some dogs do. He does not have strong prey drive. He just sniffs them, but that's all it takes.
     The common name "porcupine" comes from the French porc d'epine, meaning "thorny hog" referring to the more than 30,000 quills which serve as their main defense. They are docile creatures reported to make good pets (don't try this at home, kids). Porcupines do not attack dogs; dogs attack porcupines. Porkies have muscular, rolly-polly bodies like small pigs and smell kind of like old sawdust. Their quills are simply specialized hairs which raise up when the animal is tense, much like the hair on your arm raises when you are scared.  An alarmed porky will rattle its quills to warn a predator. The quills also emit a strong hormonal smell when the animal is threatened. 
     Neither do porcupines shoot quills, as is the folk lore. They raise the quills up to make themselves look bigger to the enemy. A threatened porky will thrash its quill laden tail back and forth impaling its assailant. The quills come loose easily, much like hair. The outer tip has a reverse barb which hooks readily into whatever it contacts. The sharp quills cause tremendous pain, prompting the dog to paw at itself and roll its face in the dirt in efforts to remove the quills, only driving them deeper.
    We live in old spruce forest, favored habitat for porcupines. We have met the porkies face to face in the dens they make in the piles of windfalls. They have denned under our house and I've seen as many as seven at one time! We are over run with them! This time, our dog encountered the porky at home under one of our decks. He yowled, then raced to the door, desperate to come in with what looked like a dead animal in his mouth. "Oh no you don't, Buster!" I yelled and slammed the door in his face. At the same instant, I realized his muzzle was bristling with quills.
     We have a wonderful dog, but he does have his issues. Besides lapses in judgement, he also hates to be restrained. Though he only weighs thirty-eight pounds, it nearly requires a straight jacket  to trim his nails. We have to take him to the vet for that. He gets so wrought up he trembles and pees himself. Not unlike myself, he requires sedation for almost everything.  Nor will he take pills of any kind. No matter what it's hidden in, he will spit the pill. He won't take biscuits from the UPS driver, either.  He makes the driver put the biscuit on the ground only taking it after the guy leaves, so that it never appears that he can be bought. He's no dumby, though he is very difficult when it comes to medical needs.
     So, of course the latest quill debacle happened on a Friday night at six-thirty, when all good vets are at home working on their second martinis. Emergency veterinary services were more than an hour away. Quills need to be removed immediately. Some suggest that if you take a dog into a wooded area where you expect porcupines, take pliers with you so you can do the job right away. The longer the quills stay in flesh the harder it is to extract them. They also begin to migrate into the body and can kill an animal.
     The dog was shrieking in pain and clawing at his own face. It was not a time for timidity. There was nothing to do but get  the pliers, swig a mouthful of whiskey and pull. First, we offered the dog a couple of shots of whiskey, but he said no, he only wanted a bullet to bite down on. So we swilled his share and commenced. We pulled three quills before we had to get help. Brute strength was needed and the two of us weren't enough. I raced to our neighbor, Ed's house.He was standing at his barbecue grill tongs in hand, but did not hesitate. He tossed down the tongs, shut off the gas and ran with me to our house.
     We put the dog in the bathroom so he wouldn't escape and because blood was coming from somewhere. It was tight quarters for three adults and a dog. The bathroom turned into a steam bath, sweat was pouring from all of us. The dog started blowing hair everywhere, which dogs do under extreme stress. He immediately slipped his collar and leaped into the bathtub to get away. We bound him in a blanket and started over. After the dog had seen the pliers, we couldn't get near his face. The strength of a terrified animal is astonishing! We had to blindfold him. He curled back his lips, snarled and bared his great, canine teeth in self defense. That may have been because he had quills in his mouth or simply horrendous pain. Either way, it was dangerous. A terrified dog in pain will bite no matter how loyal a beast he may otherwise be. Hell! I would have bitten someone myself under the circumstances! We were all fearful that we would be bitten or otherwise maimed. It's easy to injure a dog in a melee like that. Their shoulders can be dislocated or bones broken while you're wrestling them.
     I got a golf club to put between the dog's jaws and teeth so he had something to bite besides ourselves. The plastic covering of the club was shredded immediately, but the metal held. Somewhere in there the dog bit down on his own tongue. Blood gushed all over the place as he screeched. The four of us floundered in a battlefield of blood, sweat and hair . Just when it seemed it could not get worse, the dog pooped himself.
    We suffered two and half hours in the  bathroom hotbox, flailing in dog poop, blood, sweat and fear. In the end, we pulled eighteen quills. With nothing left in any of us, we had to give it up and hope for the best. If the dog got through the night, I'd take him to a vet the next day. Exhausted, we all went outside. The dog was double leashed, though he didn't have the strength to go anywhere nor tangle with wildlife. He could barely stand up! We sucked deep draughts of fresh, night air and  babbled light hearted chit chat, while reconnecting on a friendly level with the dog.
    When this whole affair had started, my husband had just gotten out of the shower and was in his pajamas. There he stood in his P.J.s staggering as badly as the dog and about to collapse. I realized it was hours past when he had needed dinner. Ed made soft talk to the dog. "There, Perry. You'll feel better pretty quick. Have a little drink of water will ya? Here ya go, fella," he said, nudging the dog to the bowl of water. We were all plastered with blood, dog hair, and "other." Though we were out of the bathroom, I could still smell intense poo."Ed, I can't thank you enough," I said. "I'll owe you forever for this." "No, no you don't. Don't you worry about it," he said. "These are the things friends do for each other." I watched the dog teetering sideways. Awash in after crisis let down and love, I thought I might cry. My husband muttered, "Ya, Eddie, thanks. Oh God! I've got to sit down." As he sunk to the steps, I saw that he had a big smear of dog poop across the lens of his glasses.
     Ed went home. The dog went to bed. My husband took another shower. I made dinner. While cooking, I pondered the nature and depth of friendships. Ed was a friend indeed and heroic, as was my husband. If I were to be stranded on a desert island, they are the two people I would want to be with me. I want people in my life who love me enough to do whatever it takes to help me. No matter what it costs, I'm worth it to them. Our dog will one day probably engage with a porcupine again. We love him anyway and we love him enough to rise above our own fears to help him through his serial stupidities. That's the kind of person I want to love me.
     The question remains: why do dogs persist in contacts with porcupines? It's unlikely they forget the pain and terror, because dogs have good memories. It must simply be that there is something so enticing and attractive that it's worth it in the end. As a photographer, I understand. To get close enough to a porcupine to smell it and feel its chubby body, to photograph its teeth, quills and feet was risky. But I couldn't help myself. I did it anyway. Now, we'll see who loves me enough to hog tie me and pull the quills from my snarling face!

Woodchuck or Groundhog? Whistlepig or Landbeaver?

Yellow crocuses in the snow

Marmota monax, one of  a group of large, ground squirrels

     When my children were young, they rode a bus to school. My son, as the oldest, was the first to venture up the long driveway to wait alone for the yellow bus. He seemed so small and vulnerable; it was excruciating for me to send him off. I knew though, that for him to learn self sufficiency and confidence, I had to let him go. I did ask if he wanted me to wait with him, hoping he would say yes. "No, Mom. None of the other kids' moms wait with them." I didn't think he was so sure, but I let him go. Secretly every morning, I watched from the house as he toddled up the drive and until he was safely on the school bus.
     Eventually, I became more relaxed with his separation from me and growing independence. I stopped waiting to see him climb the steps into the bus. I made myself busy in the kitchen until in the back of my mind I registered the rumble of the bus engine leaving with him safely inside. But one morning, though he went to wait at the head of the drive, my son didn't get on the bus. Instead, he came flying back to the house, running as fast as his kindergarten legs would carry him. Wide-eyed and pale as a sheet, he burst into the kitchen. "Mom! Mom! Help! " He was scared to death. "There's a rat, a huge rat up there staring right at me!" I calmed him down. My own fear abated because a rat was ridiculous. "Oh, honey, there can't be a rat. Do you want me to go back up with you?" This time, he said yes.
     When we walked back up the driveway together, I could feel his heart still pounding through his fat, little hand. He said nothing, though I was babbling away trying to dispel his anxiety and my own. I hate rats. I have major rat issues, in fact. Long ago, I saw a movie where a cage of rats was held to a man's face to get him to reveal State secrets. The image has stayed with me for decades. That's all it would take to make me spill everything anyone wanted to know. Nonetheless, I was sure there couldn't be a rat. "But Mom," he said, "It was looking right at me and wouldn't leave."
     And sure enough, there it was! Under an enormous White pine tree, where the giant roots dove into the ground, was a colossal woodchuck, sitting still as if frozen. It glared at us. Because the drive rose up a knoll at the end, the woodchuck was at eye level. I told my son that the daunting thirty pound rodent was a woodchuck and it wouldn't hurt him. "It's an herbivore," I explained. I told him that the woodchuck wasn't staring at him, but rather was afraid of him.
     Coyotes, bobcats, owls, eagles and farmers are among the predators of woodchucks. They freeze in place when they sense a predator so as to evade attack. A nearly motionless "Whistle-pig" alert to danger, will stand erect on its hind feet then whistle when alarmed to warn other groundhogs. Outside their burrow, individuals are alert when not actively feeding. Also called "Land-beavers," groundhogs may squeal when fighting, seriously injured, or caught by an enemy. They also make a low bark and a sound produced by grinding their teeth.
     Believing woodchucks to cause major damage to agricultural crops, farmers shoot them and gas their burrows. Woodchucks dig enormous burrows where they sleep and raise their young. They dig a second burrow for winter hibernation moving an average 700 pounds of earth in the process. A burrow may run five feet deep under the ground and has four to five entrances for escape from predators. The burrows can be dangerous and destructive when farm equipment falls into them or they are dug under foundations.
     Despite their heavy-bodied appearance, groundhogs are good swimmers and excellent tree climbers when escaping predators or when they want to survey their surroundings. But, they would rather retreat to their burrows when threatened; if the burrow is invaded, the groundhog tenaciously defends itself with its two big incisors and front claws. Groundhogs fight with each other to establish territory dominance and can be very aggressive.
     The lowly woodchuck is used in cancer research, too. When infected with Woodchuck Hepatitis B virus they are at 100% risk for developing liver cancer, making them a good model for testing Hepatitis B and liver cancer therapies in humans. In Ohio, the digging of woodchucks has exposed archaeological artifacts at the otherwise un-excavated Ufferman Site.
     "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" None. The burrowing rodent, a member of the marmot family, doesn't eat wood. It's short, curved legs and claws are made for digging, not throwing or chucking. The name "woodchuck" comes from the Algonquin "wuchak." Though the 3,000 year old Native American language is dying out for not being spoken anymore, we still use Algonquin words for many of our flora and fauna. When you say woodchuck, chipmunk, caribou, hickory, squash, hominy, moose, opossum, and raccoon, you keep Algonquin alive.
     The name "groundhog" goes back at least as far as 1742. It may have been a translation from the Dutch aardvarken, meaning "earth pig," or it may simply have been inspired by the observation that this pudgy rodent burrows in the ground. No matter what you call him, the woodchuck is the only rodent with its own day - "Groundhog Day" on February second. On coming out of his burrow, if the woodchuck sees his shadow, he retreats back to the burrow where he stays for six more weeks until he thinks the weather will turn fair. If he doesn't see his shadow, he stays out of his hole expecting that momentarily, it will be spring.
     This February 2nd, the woodchuck did not see his shadow, because the sun isn't shining anywhere in the United States. We've been enduring one of the harshest winters on record. The Whistlepig popped from his hole into the face of a history making snow storm. Though his alleged prediction is that we'll only suffer a few more weeks of winter, that doesn't seem likely when looking out the window. To believe that one day soon the sun will shine and the flowers will bloom is a leap of great faith, like crocuses through the snow or putting a little boy on a bus.

Thanks to the following for some of the information:
http://wikipedia.com/
http://www.answers.com/topic/groundhog#ixzz1CoXcjAdZ
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/Woodchucks