For years there have been stories on local news programs about this or that conflict between humans and wild animals in the outer reaches of suburbs ranging from missing pets, to cornered mountain lions, to encounters with bears, to elk on golf courses. Those interactions seem (to me) to be intensifying as wild animals adapt to the new American (or perhaps even the new global) landscape. I have several interesting anecdotal vignettes to share dating to as recently as mid-morning of today, which prompted me to write this post.
My wife, three-and-a-half-year old son, and I are staying for six weeks in southwestern Colorado while we work on a research project. We are staying and working at Crow Canyon Archaeological Center, which is in a desert valley with plenty of wildlife. Wild animals we regularly encounter include desert cottontail rabbits, black-tailed jackrabbits, mule deer, prairie dogs, many birds and lizards, one of the latter of which was named Chuck Norris by my son last year when he was two-and-a-half years old.
About once per week we head into town (Cortez) to do laundry, to have a decent cup of coffee, and to launch an assault on the local playground. Said playground is just across the street from an interesting coffee shop/ toy shop/ landscaping nursery/ book store called “Let it Grow.” This is quite a funky place, and a serviceable Laundromat is just around the corner. Upon leaving the coffee shop to shuffle the laundry into dryers, I noticed a prairie dog crossing the crosswalk perpendicular to my vehicle (across the intersection, causing mild irritation to and evasive maneuvering by the person driving the oncoming SUV). The prairie dog stood up and made his alarm call to colony-mates behind him who were poking their heads up from a den next to a fire hydrant on the corner near the stoplight pole. In the middle of Cortez, the little buggers weave through traffic, hang out in parking lots, and chirp long-distance calls from the convenience mart over to the fire-hydrant den. Amazing! Last year we saw a den in the middle of the paved road to Hovenweep; the resident prairie dogs would pop up between cars to look around. That’s quite an adjustment to “modern living.”
A few years ago when we were living near Texas Woman’s University in Denton, I was walking the dogs during the pre-dawn morning. There is a wide stretch of lawn near a small creek running north–south between a large parking lot and the TWU Library. The dogs and I (Lloyd, the smart needy one and Kiyoji, the sweet, really dumb one) were on the home stretch of our walk, heading south through TWU near this grassy area. About 50 yards to the east of us a coyote trotted by heading due north. He turned his head to gaze upon us but did not break stride. His night was over, and it was time to head out of town. He was very dignified, and I wonder what he was thinking. Certainly not “Look! Some long lost cousins!” as my dogs would not make passable coyotes. They struggle to make passable dogs…
The coyote experience took place right around a time that I was writing a paper on American black bears for the journal Ursus. Black bears and humans often enter into conflict. Bears near urban areas have dramatically smaller home ranges and are markedly bigger in body size. Why? I think it is because food is concentrated and abundant in suburbs and cities. Perhaps the coyote was invoking a similar routine; nighttime in the city, daytime in the country. What could be better?
A colleague of mine lives on the outskirts of Denton. He lives on a nice wooded property that more than passes muster as forest and is in fact beautiful. For years as his boys grew they had a house cat. The cat’s name was “Roof Kitty.” Roof Kitty adapted to the suburban-wildland interface like no other domestic cat that I have heard of. She spent all of her time on the roof of the two-story house. There she dined, slept, and whiled away her days.
As I conclude this series of small vignettes, let me mention the barn swallows nesting at the apex of the entryway doorframe of the small house we are staying in at Crow Canyon. Upon entry or exit, the partnered swallows that tend the nest burst out from the doorway about 12 inches above my right ear. Frankly, it scares the crap out of me each time, though it should not because I know it is coming. Two nights ago, as I approached the house, the same panic-stricken bird (or two) blasted out of the nest. This time, there was a barely audible thump on the landing near the door. The chicks had hatched, and one had been pushed out of the nest by the fleeing parent. Don’t worry, no harm done; I put the little bugger back in the nest. Parents are back, exerting blasts of panic-flight each time the door opens. Upon Wikipedia research I find that “The Barn Swallow is an attractive bird which feeds on flying insects and has therefore been tolerated by humans when it shares their buildings for nesting.” Perhaps this time the lowly barn swallow is “tolerating” us. The author of the Wikipedia entry makes no mention of panicky interactions with humans.
Relevant literature:
Beckmann, J.P., AND J. Berger. 2003. Rapid ecological and behavioral changes in carnivores: the responses of black bears (Ursus americanus) to altered food. Journal of Zoology 261:207–212.
Wolverton, S. Characteristics of late Holocene American black bears in Missouri. Ursus 19:177-184.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barn_Swallow, accessed 6-18-2010.
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