There have been many delays and distractions for the Stacked Toad Effigy Teapot: computer failure and restoration, other deadlines, and Thanksgiving, including a tragic Saguaro Plunge, details to be posted later.

But here is the next phase: the “lid” of the “teapot” is in place, and also the “finial” (knob), with Hector Halfsquid for scale.

This involved the addition of more toads — the final toads — to represent the top of the “teapot”.  The visual theme is toads-upon-toads, stacks of toads, piles of toads.  During the Couch’s spadefootlet episode, I was reminded of the toadly practice of Climbing On Your Neighbors.  When kept in captivity in large numbers, toads (and other amphibians and reptiles) will climb on each other with no regard for personal space, or any politeness at all.  I wanted to capture this “toe-in-the-eye” sense of physical involvement in the Toad Stack.  So on went two more toads, atop the base grouping of four toads.  Despite more than a week having elapsed this was not a problem, because even in the desert clay can be kept workable if enough dry-cleaners’ plastic and moist towels are employed. On the right is a shot of damp paper towels swathing the heads of the toads; they will need to be textured at some point, and if they’re too hard, it won’t work and the moist towels keeps the clay pliable and soft enough to receive an impression.

The effect of the two new toads, striving against each other on top of the pile, was what I wanted, but they needed a focal point — a flying insect they’re both trying to swallow.  This was the finial, or knob, of the “teapot” “lid”:

At this point, I always feel a piece is almost finished: the basic elements are sculpted and in place, there are at the moment no structural crises to solve.  But it’s far from the truth: a lot still remains to be done — texturing, refining shape detail (toes!), cleaning up stray clay bits and meaningless marks, applying decorative slip, etc.  For instance, I’ve forgotten until now about parotoid glands, which will have to be added.  And, other time-consuming details like compound eyes on the flying prey item.  So stay tuned for the next post on the effigy teapot: Texturing the Toad.

(Potential Toe Count: 104; Actual Toe Count: 49 so far; current Biological Digit Deficit, 53%)

Increments so far:

Why is a toad not a frog?

You almost certainly know this, but a toad isn’t a frog.

If that came as a surprise, it’s time for a speedy round-up of amphibian facts:

In general: toads have dry warty skin, frogs have moist slick skin. Toads need little or no water except to breed; frogs are usually amphibious. Toads have large kidney-shaped swellings behind each eye called parotoid glands; frogs have round hearing-related structures called tympani behind each eye. Most people think toads are gross but frogs are cute. That isn’t science; it’s just bad taste. Frogs croak, but many toads like  Woodhouse’s toads have beautiful muscial trills. ( If you were a Woodhouse’s toad, you’d think that was beautiful…) Toads have stout compact bodies with short legs for hopping; frogs are often svelte and long-legged for leaping.  Most frogs have webbed feet, most toads are not or only partially web-footed.  Frogs are more inclined to climb; toads are more inclined to dig.  Both can secrete irritating or even poisonous compounds that deter predators.

To the right above is a photo of a Ramsey Canyon Leopard Frog being aquatic.  Contrast it with the photo below it, a tropical toad from Belize. (photos, A. Shock)

In fact, these distinctions are generalizations and don’t hold true for every frog or toad. For more detail, I recommend the Dorling-Kindersley Eyewitness book Amphibian, by Dr. Barry Clarke.  It’s meant for kids, but it’s really all anyone but a real herpetologist needs to get the gist of of toads, frogs, and caecilians.

Meet Miss Thang.  She is a female Costa’s hummingbird (Calypte costae), and unlike her purple-mustachioed male counterpart, she’s a plain green-gray above, and a plain gray-white below, with a chunky round body, almost no tail, and no neck at all.  She holds territory right outside our front door, as Queen of the Desert Garden.  The garden has many attributes valuable to a hummer: twiggy mesquites for roosting, a many-pointed DeSmet agave for perching, chuparosas with long-season blooms to feed upon, a freebie sugar-water feeder under the porch, and best of all, prime position from which to attract a showy male Costa’s who does looping, zizzing display flights for her each morning.  Although Miss Thang’s appearance is subdued, her personality isn’t.  She holds this valuable, resource-rich territory against all comers, including resident male Anna’s who are both brash and bigger, the summer tourists like Black-chinned hummingbirds, and any other hummers who may try to kype a slurp from the feeder.  The Gila woodpeckers are too big to chase off, and the Verdins seem to come and go with impunity, but other hummers at the feeder are given short shrift.  Speedy tail chases through the mesquite are frequent, although peevish scolding from a perch sometimes inches above the ground are often sufficient to rout invaders.  Her favorite perch from which to keep an eye on her real estate is a devil’s claw and obsidian wind chime, situated under the porch overhang directly outside the front door, shaded in the mid-day warmth, and dry in the rain.  At this time of year, when the door is open most of the day, we can see her perched alertly on the point of the devil’s claw for hours, spinning slowly as the chime turns in the breeze, chattering indignantly when another hummer flies through, or sallying forth to escort strangers right out of the yard.

Costa’s are desert hummingbirds.  They range from southern California, across the low deserts of Arizona, into Mexico.  The sources I’ve checked supply varying info about the yearly movements of Costa’s, giving an impression of the need for more research.  Some experts report they winter just south of our border with Mexico, others say the birds stay year-round in the low desert, some that they winter in the ‘burbs and breed in the less developed areas of the deserts; others just assert that their distribution is not well known.  In our yard in some years, Costa’s seem to be present in each month, with the largest number of individuals observed between June and December.  Some years they seem to disappear around the New Year and are scarce until late spring.  Now that we’ve packed the yard with hummer-friendly flowers (the photo above is Miss Thang’s demesne in full spring bloom) like chuparosa (Justicia californica), Mexican honeysuckle, (Justicia spicigera), Fairy dusters (Calliandra spp.), Desert lavender (Hyptis emoryi), native penstemons, various aloes, and sugar-water feeders, we seem to see more birds more of the year.

There’s been a female Costa’s hummer holding our front-garden territory year-round for at least two years.  We have no way of knowing for sure that it’s always Miss Thang, but of course it’s possible — it even seems likely.  We suspect she nests nearby — I’ve seen her gathering spider-webs in her beak — but have never discovered a nest. (Each year we do see young-of-the-year Costa’s in the yard, but we don’t know where they hatched.)

The yard also hosts glorious males, staking out other food-plant and feeder-related territories.  In past years, a Little-leaf Palo Verde was favored by a bird we called “Cornerhead” because his gorget went from scraggly sideburns to full-blown Yosemite Sam whiskers over the summer into fall. This is his picture on the right.  This year, there’s a long-mustached male (it may be Miss Thang’s suitor) under the pine/palo verde complex shading an outdoor table.  He “sings” (an almost inaudibly high-pitched descending sibilance) and gnats under the branches, keeping interlopers off the feeder there, then withdraws to the thorny interior of a nearby lemon in the middle of the day.  He “sings” from there, too, invisibly in the deep shade which is the only reason we know he’s in there.

Etymology…

…of the scientific name of Costa’s hummingbird, Calypte costae, is less than satisfying.  On the genus, Calypte, Choate, in the Dictionary of American Bird Names, can’t do any better than “Greek, a proper name of unknown significance”.  If he were alive, Gould could probably give a better explanation as to why he chose this genus for the bold Anna’s and Costa’s hummers.  I would suggest that Gould had in mind the adjective καλυπτή, from the verb καλύπτειν, to cover (with a thing).  The adjective means “enfolding”, connoting a veiled or mantled quality, possibly referring to the gorget that covers the entire crown and throat of hummers in this genus.  As for the species, costae, that was given in honor of Louis Marie Pantaleon Costa, Marquis de Beau-Regard, which early 19th century French nobleman had an “imposing” collection of deceased hummingbird specimens.  Merde, alors.

Photos: All photos by A. Shock, Three Star Owl.  The odd quality of the first photo of Miss Thang is due to the image being shot through an old-fashioned heavy metal security screen.

Here is an image of a Costa’s hummingbird mug from Three Star Owl.  The interior is a beautiful rich mulberry, the glaze color I can manage closest to the color of a male Costa’s gorget.

Saturday morning while walking through our neighborhood to the Park, E and I saw one of the local Gray Foxes. We didn’t have a camera! Too bad; it posed obligingly and let us admire it for quite a while: a beautiful, delicate zorro with a most magnificent tail.  It looked just like this:

Photo of Gray Fox by Patti McNeal

Desert Gray Foxes are quite arboreal: we frequently see them up mesquite trees and running along the tops of the block walls that criss-cross our neighborhood. They jump-climb the 6-foot walls easily, and also use them for somewhat coyote-proof napping eyries. Gray foxes rely on their subtle coloration to den out in the open — when they kip they coil up so that none of their black details show, enabling them, like owls, to hide in plain sight. The very first gray fox I ever saw was on a road embankment by the Mississippi River north of St. Louis: the fox was curled nearly invisibly in the thin winter grasses, right on the dirt about at eye level. As we drove past it on a gravel road it barely raised its head to look at us, but the movement revealed its dark eyes and “tear-lines”. If it hadn’t we never would have seen it.

I borrowed the photo above by Patti McNeal, who found this animal in Terlingua Texas. I’ve never managed a photo of a fox that’s any good, although I have been to Terlingua TX. Just for local interest, to the right is a photo I took, blurred and hard to see, of one of our local Grays napping on a neighbor’s wall in the dusk.

Etymology

Foxes are canids, but not Canis, the genus of dogs, wolves, coyotes, and jackals. The Gray fox has its own genus: Urocyon, which is from Greek ὀυρά, tail, and κύων, dog. Its species is cinereoargenteus, from Latin cinis, ash, plus L. argenteus, of silver. Put them together, and its name means “silvery ashy-black dog-tail“. In case you’re wondering, the genus of the Red fox and other “true foxes” is Latin Vulpes, meaning “fox”, which does NOT give us our word “fox.” That is said to be derived through Old English from Old German fukh (the modern German word for fox is fuchs), derived from the Proto-Indo-European root puk- which means “tail.”

Terlingua Texas in 1936, NPS photo by George A. Grant

The Stacked Toad Effigy Vessel is being built from the bottom up, with a brown, groggy, stoneware clay. The working composition is in my head, informed by pictures of desert toads on the work bench, and adapted as it goes. A small maquette modeled last week is nearby for reference, although the maquette has species other than toads in it as well. The Toad Stack is on the scale of a teapot, so in addition to being a Toad Effigy, it could be considered a Teapot Effigy as well: a vessel in the shape of a teapot, if your concept of teapot is broad. Perhaps it will be a Stacked Toad Teapot Effigy.

The Base Toad was modeled solid, allowed to set up to a manageable firmness, then hollowed out and slightly expanded in size by pinching. When firm enough, each limb was cut off one at a time, and a tool was inserted up the center to create a tunnel, then the limb was scored and slipped back into place. The smaller toadly elements are pinched informally into toadly shapes. Each new toad is added when the clay has “set up” — when it’s stiff enough to hold its shape, but still pliable enough to conform to the surface it rests on, and also support the next element. TOES are beginning to appear (Potential Toe Count: 72; Actual Toe Count: 19 so far; current Biological Digit Deficit, 73.5%). Because the interior is hollow, there are a couple of small invisibly placed outlets for air to escape. This speeds drying and will allow the piece to be fired without exploding as the heating internal air expands. When all toadly elements have been added, the surface will be textured in a toadly manner: bumps, bugs, and paratoid glands.

Useful tools: teaspoon and loop tool for hollowing; palette knife and small knife; Tiranti hardwood sculptural tools knobbed at one end and pointed at the other for smoothing internal seams and detailing; toothed metal rib; smooth plastic rib; cheap blow dryer for force-drying clay; wooden paddle made by L.

Our autumnal weather has slowed drying time, so there are lots of gaps in toadly modelling activity while waiting for wet clay to set up. These times are spent in making the next toads, working on other pieces, or going out for excellent sushi at Dozo. In order to prevent the Stack of Toads from settling under its own weight, it will stay loosely wrapped in plastic until tomorrow, with a smooth river cobble wedged under its left front limbpit to help support it until work can resume. What will the Toad Total be?

Increments so far:

How many toes a toad has: useful information put to use almost immediately: here’s a Stacked Toad Effigy Vessel just underway. Potential Toe count so far: 36 toes. Actual toe count: 0 (they’ll be added later). Watch here for progress reports. More toads-toes coming soon…

…with a guest appearance by Charles Darwin

Marine iguana hands, Galápagos Islands. Photo E. Shock.

Pentadactyly, from Greek πέντε “five” plus δάκτυλος “finger”, is the condition of having five digits on each limb.

I make a lot of TOES. Gila monster toes. Crane toes. Jaguar toes. Hummingbird toes, owl toes, and roadrunner toes. Toad toes. A lot of TOES.

For the last week, I’ve been detailing Horned Lizard effigy bowls. This involves rendering a lot of small features like scales, horns, cloacal slits, pineal glands, and TOES. So it takes a long time, and that length of time is repeated for each horned lizard bowl, leaving plenty of opportunity for wistful thought about such subjects as, how can I finesse five toes on each tiny, fragile, rapidly hardening clay foot, and would anyone notice if there were only four?

“What could be more curious than that the hand of man formed for grasping, that of a mole, for digging, the leg of a horse, the paddle of a porpoise and the wing of a bat, should all be constructed on the same pattern and should include similar bones and in the same relative positions?” –Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species

Okay, so Charles Darwin would notice. Darwin suggested pentadactyly was strong evidence in support of evolution. So, five digits is significant. A horned lizard has five digits on each limb, just like us, and just like many other animals, whether they are lizards, bats, or whales. With some exasperation, I realized I had no idea why this was — why five?

Needing a break from TOES, I headed to the computer: this is what the Internet is for. A quick search on the web produced the slick answer that we all have five digits because the ancestor of all tetrapods (four-limbed organisms) had five digits, and any modern organism that doesn’t (snakes, horses, most birds, etc) has lost digits through evolution. Well, alright so far as it goes — although it’s more of a description than an explanation — but why didn’t the ancestral tetrapod have 8 digits, or 4, or some other number?

It turns out they did: 8, and 6 and 7, among others. In the last few decades, paleontologists have found some fascinating tetrapod ancestors with a variety of phalangic arrangement probably related to the shift from fins to feet, at least partially connected with the shift from aquatic life to life on solid land. Does all this sound inconclusive? That’s because the significance of “Why Five?” is still being manhandled, pinched and slapped around with the discovery of each new ancient tetrapod, mostly in the North Atlantic land areas like Greenland and Scandinavia, which used to be swampy and warm, prime habitat for critters who wallowed in and out of muddy shallows on iffy substraits. Think Muddy Mudskipper, but Big, and with weird feet. Lots has been written about this, if you crave more detail than can be supplied here, check out an older but seminal essay by Stephen Jay Gould, “Eight (or Fewer) Little Piggies” and Jenny Clack’s website. She’s a professor at Cambridge University in the UK, and seems to be the reigning Queen of Early Tetrapod Research Especially As It Relates to Limb Development. (The image above of Acanthostega is from her site.)

Which brings me back to toad TOES (regular toad, not horned “toad”). As sometimes happens while riffling though the internet, I didn’t find an exact answer to my original question. But a lot of useful info accrued along the way. Like, now I know something I’d had a hard time finding out from pictorial sources, and forgot to count on the Couch’s spadefootlets: how many toes does a toad sport on its front feet? The answer is four (five on the back feet, the opposite of cats), and the next time I make a toad, I’ll have the right number. And be thankful, because it could have been eight.

...and cast a pellet as well as a VOTE!

A couple of mornings ago, we saw our first Cooper’s hawk of the season, swooping nimbly around the big backyard mesquite in an unsuccessful attempt at snagging a dove or finch from the feeders under the tree. It lit on the utility pole in the alley and, having an itchy face, primly scratched itself with a big, bird-catching foot.

Cooper’s hawks (Accipiter cooperii) are accipiters, a group of bird-eating hawk species characterized by medium to small size, spry flight (the better to capture other birds with), short rounded wings and a long tail useful for steering in flight. They inhabit a broad geographic area primarily in the lower 48 states, and a wide range of habitats, including temperate woodland, mesquite bosques, cottonwood stream-sides, as well as neighborhoods and parks. Cooper’s hawks are the most frequently encountered accipiter in Arizona.

If you put out a bird feeder for songbirds, you’re also feeding Cooper’s hawks (and their smaller relative, the Sharp-shinned hawk). Not because they eat seed, of course, but because they eat seed-eaters, like the finches and sparrows that stuff themselves at well-stocked feeders. Our yard hosts Cooper’s hawks most often during migration and in winter, when they lurk inconspicuously in the lower branches of trees, waiting for unaware prey to come within range. All accipiters are capable of tail-chasing smaller birds skilfully through foliage, and take prey either on the ground or in mid-air (see fierce foot above). It’s not uncommon for us to find a Cooper’s hawk under the canopy of the big mesquite on a chilly winter morning with breakfast in its fist, or a feather pool on the ground under where one has roosted and plucked its meal. They favor avian prey, but will take anything they can get, including rodents, invertebrates, reptiles, etc.

Although the strong early morning light in the upper photograph makes it difficult to see, the reddish barring on our recent hawk’s breast and belly means it’s an adult; an immature would have brown dots and streaks instead. Its gray back shows it’s a male; the larger females are brownish above. Cooper’s have fierce red eyes and beetling brows, which give them a “You talkin’ to me?” sort of look.

Photos: top, E. Shock. Right: a very clear photo of an adult Cooper’s from T. Beth Kinsey’s Firefly Forest showing an excellent assortment of field-marks for the species: contrasting dark cap, red barred breast, bright yellow legs and barred tail with relatively wide white terminal band.

Etymology

In Latin, accipiter means “hawk”, from the verb accipere, which means “to take” as in “taking prey”, like the word “raptor”. The species name, cooperii, is named after ornithologist William C. Cooper (1798-1864), a New York scientist who described the Evening Grosbeak.  In places where their ranges overlap, such as northern Arizona and New Mexico, a Cooper’s hawk would love to eat an Evening grosbeak.