Here’s some eye-candy to bring in the new month: a Photoshop-edited photo of the Cooper’s hawk (who may have eaten Hoover) I posted about a few days ago >>

Sometimes what begins as a technically sub-standard photographic capture — like this image taken in difficult light through grimy double-paned glass, a bug screen, and security bars — can be salvaged with a little (or a lot!) of editing.  Don’t think of it as photography at all, because that’s only the starting point.  You can argue either way whether it’s art or not, but it is good illustration, because it clearly shows the tough-guy attitude these fierce smallish hawks emit: “Just keep stuffing down there below the feeders, you lot!  I will eat you, fat happy doves….  now or later, you are mine… and I will eat you.”

‘Tis the Season.

Every morning when I get up, I check the pool for unintentional overnight swimmers. Usually there’s nothing, but when there is it’s often a sunspider, or a scorpion, or beetle; sometimes it’s a hapless mammal like a pocket mouse. Sometimes it’s a rescue, sometimes a recovery, to use the clear but courteously oblique terms of search and rescue.

>> hatchling afloat contemplating options, fully aware of looming predators, uncertain of their intentions

This time of year — at least this year — it’s spadefoot hatchlings. We seem to have successfully hosted a batch of hatch of these Sonoran native amphibians (toad-like but technically not, more accurately referred to as a toad-like amphibian — the way a javelina is not an actual pig, Sus, but a pig-like mammal). We are happy and proud, of course, but a little surprised, since we thought our local population of Couch’s spadefoots had dried up. Up to this point, we weren’t sure our 2008 efforts at re-introduction (read here) positively took, and we haven’t heard their sheep-like bleating mating calls this year, despite several seemingly appropriate thunder-blasting, downpouring monsoon storms of the sort we’re assured is considered by “toads” to be romantically stimulating.

Yet here they are in our yard, Couch’s spadefoot hatchlings, and so the resulting morning pool check is carried out. Usually this is what happens: I go out, check the strainer, the hose, the tile water line, the open water, the bottom (for victims, although we’ve never found a drowned toad), and fail to find a “toad”. Then an hour later E goes out and announces, “A! ‘Toad’!” (“Janet! Donkeys!”) From this we know that either a) the toads are jumping in after sunrise, or b) I’m blind to Couch’s spadefoots. Since a tiny ‘toad’ throws hard-to-miss ripples from its bi-lateral, efficient frog-kicking tour around the perimeter, we think it must be a). a) is the more desirable answer because it means that the “toadlets” aren’t spending a long time in a water feature they can’t climb out of (we do have various ramp-like structures set up for self-extraction from the pool, but smaller animals don’t always find their way to them). Answer a) also means I’m not blind to “toads.”

<< scooped up in a kitchen strainer, not an inch long

The paddler we rescued this morning — pictured in this post, both images — appears to be a lighter “toad” than the last one rescued, with more highly contrasty spots, which is an indication we’re probably dealing with a batch rather than a one-off. Hurray spadefoots! You’re welcome to use our overgrown, puppy-dog-free yard as a nursery any time!

(Photos A.Shock — they’re large files, click for better look. Check out the blood supply in delicate veins on throat in bottom photo, and a glimpse of dark spade on rear feet of upper photo)

Monday was International Touch the Tiny Toad Day, with bonus Whiptail.  I guess the whiptail makes it more correctly International Touch the Reptile Day, except it wasn’t international, it was just in our yard, and a toad isn’t a reptile, but then again, it was a tiny Spadefoot, which isn’t a toad but a toad-like amphibian, although an amphibian still isn’t a reptile.  But it was tiny, and I touched it.

Couch’s Spadefoot, Scaphiopus couchii, (photo E.Shock) >>

At any rate, I ended the day having made contact with two herptiles: a Spadefoot toadlet which E rescued out of the pool and I held on my palm while he snapped its portrait in the rosy light of sunset, and a Sonoran Tiger Whiptail (Aspidoscelis tigris punctilinealis) which I’d rescued out of the pool earlier but didn’t get a picture of because it zipped into the cover of the fan palm as soon as I lifted it onto the deck.

Normally I go weeks if not months between making direct contact with a yard herp, so this was a kind of blue moon event, as far as handling neighborhood non-mammals goes.  Both whiptails and spadefoots have very soft, smooth belly skin, cool and heavy like silk.  (FYI: if you ever find a whiptail in your pool, go ahead and rescue it by hand — I’ve never had one try to bite, unlike some other lizards I could mention. If you rescue a spadefoot — or any toad — wash your hands afterwards: many have toxins in their skin, and Couch’s toxins pack an eye-swelling wallop, I understand.)

The question remains: was this tiny toadlike toddler an offspring of one of the Couch’s spadefoots we released in September 2008? It’s about the same size as those hatchlings were — that would make today’s youngster “young of the year”, and the first evidence that our releases had reproduced.  (Of course, it could have washed in from uphill during the August flash flood.)  But still, in past years we’ve found larger spadefoots in the pool (right>>) which we’ve assumed were “ours” from ’08, and they were way bigger than this lil dude, so we’re figuring he’s a subsequent generation.

In the top picture, take a look at the spadefoot’s hind leg, underneath his foot.  See that small black dash that looks like a piece of crud on my hand?  That’s his little “spade”: a hard, dark digging organ situated under each back foot, which gives him his name in both English (spadefoot) and Greek (scaphiopus). Actually, you can also see it on the left foot of the spadefoot in the pool photo, too. Click on this link to the Calherps website to see lots of Couch’s spadefoot photos, and scroll to the very bottom to see great shots of their spades.

And, because I didn’t get a photo of the whiptail, here’s a bonus Green-tailed Towhee (Pipilo chlorurus, photo E.Shock — E is on a roll, being in the right place at the right time with his camera!)  Green-tailed towhees are Arizona natives, but they breed in mid- to high-elevations, so it’s just passing through our yard — although it’s possible it could stay for the winter.  It looks legless because it’s belying its rep for being a secretive bird by taking a dust bath out in the open.  And it looks spiky because it’s molting in fresh plumage, especially around its face, and the new feathers are still wrapped in a protective keratin casing, like the tips of shoelaces.  The shoelaces’ pushing out makes a towhee itchy, and that’s probably why it’s rolling around in the gritty gravel, scratching its itchy bits.  Itchy itchy towhee.

It’s ba-ack.

Last January, a Cooper’s hawk snatched our neighborhood feral African Collared Dove, “Hoover” off of the roof of my studio and ate him, then quickly left the vicinity.  It was sad, but we told ourselves at least Hoover’s nutritional content probably fueled the hawk’s migration back to its breeding grounds. Again, we were sad that Hoover was gone, but after all it is what doves are for — turning seeds into hawks.

This afternoon, I caught this adult Cooper’s hawk lurking on a limb of the African Sumac right off the back porch, apparently freshly back to the winter spa of our yard.  If I were given to anthropocentrism, I would say its expression was optimistic.  If I were accipitercentric, I would say it was recalling a fine al fresco lunch it had enjoyed at this establishment last season, and was checking to see if the fall menu had been posted.

<< Cooper’s hawk eyeing the snack bar (photo A.Shock)

Of course, I have absolutely no proof it’s the same bird.  But it’s not impossible. Given this bird’s proximity to the studio where it (allegedly) had had success previously finding a succulent snack, I would even say it’s not unlikely.  Especially since the huge mesquite tree that in the past has been the favorite perch of hunting Coops fell over this monsoon season.  Although part of it is still standing, it’s been reduced to two spindly branches, and offers little shelter for an optimistic snatcher of yard-birds at the feeders, who now might have to employ other vantage points.

So, maybe this is the same Cooper’s that returns to our yard each winter.  I hope so: it warms the pragmatic portion of my heart to think that Hoover’s cells have made it back here for another year, even if in a different, fiercer form.

The recent storms washed out the dust and the worst of the heat, even rinsing the moisture from the air.  Plants, lizards, soil, and birds are refreshed, drinking up the free water and puffing out with infant leaves and fresh plumage, strong and bright like spring’s new sprouts, a second spring before winter.

The migrants are coming through, and most days bring a few tourists into the yard: a turkey vulture, pumped up numbers of lesser nighthawks, a green-tailed towhee, wilson’s warblers, and, this morning, the “chick-a-brrr” of a first year summer tanager (photo above).  Following the distinct call, I spotted him in the neighbor’s Lysiloma tree, not yet displaying his distinctive red plumage, but glowing none the less in the warm golds of his basic plumage.  Next summer, he’ll look like this >>

(above, Photoshop-altered photo and, right, adult Summer tanager in Zion NP, photos A.Shock).

There are Young of the Year everywhere: western whiptails with their twinkling blue tails, tiny tree lizards, popping fearsome pushups hoping to bully their own shadows, and, I’m happy to report, at least one “Cornerhead”: an immature male Costa’s hummingbird is holding the palo verde feeder and bravely chasing off all interlopers, shooting out from his shadowed day perch like a miniature gray cannonball.  His purple moustaches are incomplete, as yet visible only as dark brackets at the lower corners of his head, giving rise to the nickname.  All summer I saw female Costas, while the local male only made infrequent appearances.  But, here is his progeny, in charge of one of the usual niches of Mr Moustaches before him, under the big palo verde.  He’s welcome — last winter’s hard freeze took its toll on our yard’s population of Costa’s, and I’m glad to see their number rising again.

There are other “lazarus” tales in the garden: the African Sumac — a tree I never rooted for until ours lost all its leaves inexplicably and was given a death sentence by the experts — is showing signs of life, after six months of languishing.  The tree is not clearly out of the woods, so to speak, but appears to be heading into the cooler weather with a thin crop of curling baby-leaves. It’s such a heroic goal-line stand I hope for its sake that this winter is a mild one. I’m reluctantly fond of this multi-trunked vegetable — it’s from this tree that the Elf Owl glared down at me, two Septembers ago.  Not such a good hiding place for a shy owlet this year!

>> minute miracle leaves on the abominable sumac

Another tree given a potential second chance is a large mesquite that blew over during a recent drenching, windy storm.  Initially given an expert’s thumbs down, a kind man with a chain saw (!) thought he could prune it in such a way it might be salvageable.  Again, nothing’s sure yet, but there it stands, a spindly remainder of its former grand self.  But the doves, finches, and quail don’t seem to mind.  They perch in it like before, loafing between feeding sessions in the mesquite’s two remaining branches, like highly visible off-season Christmas ornaments.  Maybe the tree will make it.  Mesquites are stubborn organisms.  At the end of a hot, tempestuous monsoon season in the desert, fall exhales a kind of optimism that elsewhere is reserved for spring. We’ll see…

While a longer post about Gulf Fritillaries is in progress, please enjoy these images of Rosy-faced Lovebirds (formerly Peach-faced Lovebirds, Agapornis roseicollis) feeding on our sunflowers one gray morning earlier this month.

Rosy-faced Lovebird cling-feeding on sunflowers (photos A.Shock)

Having learned the older name, E and I still refer to them as Peach People (or more portentiously “People of the Peach”), and rush out to try to spot them overhead each time they bomb across the yard, squeaking and gibbering in small family groups.

Accustomed to their dry homeland in southwestern Africa, Lovebirds are a non-native feral species which seems to be establishing itself in apparently self-sustaining populations around the Phoenix area.  They are the descendants of escaped or released pet birds — often let go by people because of their noisy domestic ways.  Lovebirds are often found in and around Saguaros, where they compete with resident cavity-nesters like Elf owls and woodpeckers for the shelter of snug holes in the giant cactus.

Also, please note the previously discussed effectiveness of plastic birds of prey as seed-snatcher deterrents in the garden >> Actually, it’s an empty complaint — we grow the sunflowers for the birds, and would be crushed if the Desert Snowy Owl and the Birthday Falcon (still sheathed in plastic to mute its awesome aspect) actually worked.

Actually, hopefully not.

Here is the much anticipated Birthday Falcon still in its protective cello wrap with best-seller badge and restrainedly celebratory gift ribbon.  I just retrieved it home after a visit with Kate, who presented it to me.  It has “good feathery detail,” although it’s something of a chimera, with the head of a bald eagle, the large staring eyes of a kite, the breast and feet of a peregrine falcon, and (not pictured) the bricky red tail of a Red-tailed hawk.  The theory, I guess, is to cover all possible bases of scaring: Finches flinch at everything, and doves are too dumb to decoy, but if you’ve got trout, cicadas, swallows, and any good-sized ground dweller like rabbits or snakes plaguing your land, this guy has got all your pest-scaring problems in hand.

So the Birthday Falcon now resides next to a plastic snowy owl (that known ferocious non-scourge of all desert birds) on a low block wall between our herb garden and the patio section of the All-You-Can-Eat Fink Bar, an unruly tangle of sunflowers beloved by Lesser Goldfinch (the authentic locals) and also Rosy-faced Lovebird tourists, purely for asthetic and entertainment value.  At least, that’s the hope.  Kate has reported her version of this winged terror to be actually terrifying to her yard birds which, of course, we agree is totally unacceptable.

So tomorrow we’ll watch: if there’s any disturbance in the furious fressing of finches at the flowerheads, we’ll have to relocate the feathery menace to a less effective location, and enjoy it there.  Possibly the living room.

Our fence had some extra height this morning, and a glorious tail.  Do you see the fur anomaly?  I’m pretty sure it sees you.

It was obliging, and let itself be fully revealed.  Such a kitty-dog!  That’s a 6-foot wall it leaped upon with little effort.  They regularly use the block walls in the neighborhood like geometric trails, navigating nimbly with neat-nailed feet, safely above the jaws of coyotes and the hubbub of dogs.

So — finally! — photos of the neighborhood Gray fox (Urocyon cinereoargenteus).  E was in the right place at the right time, or the fox was, depending on your viewpoint.

Here’s another shot.  LOOK AT THAT TAIL!!!!!

The tail is key — here’s a bit reposted from an earlier post on our gray foxes:

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.”

But a very, very, VERY tiny one.

This morning we rescued this young scorpion from the pool, where it was stuck limbs akimbo to the surface tension of the water, sending out tiny struggling ripples. Since little scorpions look just like big scorpions except small, a close-up like this one doesn’t provide any clue to scale. So, know that the blue mesh it’s sitting on is the pool skimmer net, and each of the mesh squares is 1/20 of an inch, making the body of this Dinky Dude of the Desert about a quarter inch long, or less than 1/2 inch from head to tail tip (which, you can just see in the photo, is quite capably armed with a tiny but sharply barbed telson).

It’s most likely a Vaejovis spinigerous, the Stripe-tailed scorpion, our most common and not especially venomous species. (Click here for more info about AZ scorpions, and excellent drawings.) I put it over the fence; I don’t have the heart to crush them, even the grown ones. I’ll let the geckos or foxes or thrashers take care of it, or not. Seems only fair to let it try to make its way — after all, it’s only very, very small.

Here’s one of E’s photos:

If you can enlarge the top image twice, do — the photo isn’t perfectly sharp, but you can see the lil sensory hairs on its limbs, all the better to find dinner with, since the eyes aren’t so sensitive. (Upper photo A.Shock, lower E.Shock.)

Here’s a post-script from the subject of the previous post, which, despite its mildly peevish tone, I’ve included at the author’s request:

Ah yes, that’s my ground-bound, tail-dragging cousin, much less economically armed than us pseudoscorpions, with all that extra apparatus dangling off the rear. I’d like to see one of them hitch a ride on a bird or a wasp; the image is grotesque. And, really, is it absolutely necessary to have such unpleasantly potent venom? — it strikes me as strident, and certainly doesn’t win you any friends. Still, I suppose it works for them — they’ve been around since the Silurian.