ANDROCLES AND THE GILA MONSTER

In Greek mythology, Androcles was an escaped slave who made friends with a lion by removing a thorn from the lion's paw. Years later, when the two met in the arena, the lion remembered Androcles' kindness and spared his life.

Last night, I glanced out the front door and saw a Gila monster walking up the front sidewalk, purposefully, as if he were going to an appointment. While I ran for the camera, the Gila monster headed straight for the porch and ensconced himself behind some empty planters. 

I have no problem with Gila monsters, but we receive a lot of deliveries these days, and I didn't want anyone running into him. So I called my friend Ed, a fellow docent from Tohono Chul, with whom I go birding in the neighborhood. Ed is a retired herpetologist, and volunteers to remove unwanted reptiles from neighbors' yards. A few minutes after I called, Ed came over with his snake bucket, tongs, and a snake hook. All he needed was the hook, with which he pinned the Gila monster down, then carefully picked it up with both hands. 

Then Ed noticed that the poor Gila monster had a cholla joint near the base of its tail, and a number of small spines.

Ed told me to go in and get a tweezer, so I got my longest cosmetic tweezer and returned. Then, while he continued to hold the Gila monster, I removed the chunk of cholla and the miscellaneous spines surrounding it. The Gila monster didn't seem to mind, though it was difficult to get the cholla joint out. When that was done, we talked about where to release the Gila monster, and finally decided on the little wash next to my house, where it might be less likely to cross the road. So Ed gently set it down in the wash.

 It immediately began slithering uphill, back toward my house. It walked along the outside of the wall, then disappeared into the oleanders behind the wall (and outside of my yard). 

A passing pair of pedestrians, new to the desert, had watched most of this performance in awe. Ed quickly reassured them that he is a professional herpetologist. "Don't try this at home," I added.

As for Androcles and his lion, I know I will never meet our Gila monster in the arena. But maybe someday reptilian aliens will conquer the earth, and our grateful lizard friend will put in a good word for me and Ed.

OFFBEAT NATURE NOTES #1: How to tell a Pyrrhuloxia call from a Cardinal call

Those lucky enough to live in the southwestern United States often encounter not only the beautiful northern cardinal, but also the similar-looking pyrrhuloxia, a close cousin of the cardinal that is often found in desert environs.

                                
            Male cardinal                                               Male pyrrhuloxia

These two striking birds differ in many respects: size (cardinal is slightly bigger), overall body color, mask color (black for cardinal, red for pyrrhuloxia), beak color and shape (orange finch-like beak for cardinal, yellow parrot-like beat for pyrrhuloxia). Most folks who watch birds around here quickly learn to distinguish one from the other by appearance, but many, including experienced birders, often cannot reliably distinguish cardinal calls from those of pyrrhuloxias.

I am here to help everyone who has this problem. A few years ago, a good friend and I spent a lot of time birding locally, with special attention to these two birds' main calls. What we noticed, and what has proven to be true in at least nine out of ten instances is this:

The cardinal's main melodic call usually ends with the syllables: "CHEW CHEW CHEW."

The pyrrhuloxia's call usually ends with: "CHEWY CHEWY CHEWY."

 Often, a cardinal will simply call out the "CHEW" note; likewise, a pyrrhuloxia may intone "CHEWY," apropos of nothing.

Check this out yourself. You will most likely be amazed.

FAREWELL TO A KINGSNAKE

I first met Leo in October, 2009, when I was studying to be a docent at Tohono Chul Park. One of our lessons involved getting to know snakes and becoming comfortable with them. I had always found snakes fascinating, but had never known any up close and personal until the day we were invited to handle Leo, a beautiful common kingsnake. For me, it was love at first touch.

KL and Leo meet for the first time

He was smooth, yet under his skin very muscular as he wrapped himself around my arms and hands. His head was streamlined, shiny, and to me incredibly beautiful, his black nose like patent leather. I watched mesmerized as he flicked his black tongue rapidly in and out, sampling the scents in the air around us.

Leo began his career in “show business” as a very small young snake who crawled into the bedroom of Ed Moll, a retired herpetologist who devoted a great deal of time to educating people of all ages about the marvels of reptiles. Ed was delighted to see Leo, since he hoped to add a kingsnake to his programs. Naming the snake was easy: Leo the king. (Snakes that eat other snakes, such as the king cobra, are often called “kings.” The most common, widespread North American snake with this feeding habit is the beautiful common kingsnake, Lampropeltis getula.)

Ed Moll with his gopher snake, Bruno

At the time Leo and I met, he had been working with Ed for several years in programs for the Tucson Herpetological Society and other venues. Ed and a colleague also conducted Reptile Ramble, a very entertaining weekly program at Tohono Chul Park that educated visitors about a variety of local reptiles, including several snakes, two kinds of turtles, a Gila monster, and occasionally a toad.

In 2010 I became one of the docents privileged to participate in the “Ramble.” My duties included showing exhibits (such as a turtle carapace or snake skeleton) to our audience, and holding and talking briefly about one of the animals. Though I generally only got to participate two or at most three times a month, Reptile Ramble quickly became my favorite activity at the Park. And my favorite snake was always Leo, so much so that I asked to have him as often as possible.

Scenes from the Ramble

All of our snakes were accustomed to being held, talked about, and even touched by visitors. But Leo seemed to me to have a special knack for putting nervous humans at ease. He was always calm, gentle, and cooperative, and those who worked up their courage to touch him often seemed to melt when they found how soft, smooth, and nonthreatening he was. I loved that moment when a person who was previously fearful of snakes suddenly relaxed and smiled. I felt a special affinity with Leo. Holding him was soothing to me, and after a while I felt he recognized me in a very laid-back kind of way.

Though our purpose at Reptile Ramble was serious, the demeanor was often silly, with Ed and his colleague trading quips like a couple of comedians. We docents joined in when and where we could. On days when I was showing Leo, telling visitors that he was the most beautiful snake on the planet, Ed often contradicted me by showing his mountain kingsnake, a cousin of the common king, with bright red, cream, and black stripes. “This,” Ed would tell the audience, “Is real beauty.” “There is a big difference between beauty and gaudiness,” I would scoff in reply. This “argument” almost always involved the audience members, who sometimes even voted on the most beautiful snake. (Thanks to my tireless advocacy, Leo often won.)

In 2012 I was thrilled when Ed asked me to babysit Leo for the summer. Before heading off to Wisconsin, Ed dropped Leo and his terrarium off in my guest room, along with a supply of frozen mice. (See The Snake in My Guestroom. and Feeding a Snake.) I so enjoyed watching Leo and occasionally taking him out to hold. I didn't even mind thawing the frozen mice. There was only one problem: Leo shed his skin a week after I took him, and then again three weeks later. I knew that wasn't normal, so I called Ed, who asked me how much I was feeding his snake. “Two mice every week,” I responded. “Just as you told me.” I could almost see Ed shaking his head in exasperation. “I told you two mice every TWO weeks,” he said. Oops. So Leo went on a diet for a while, then resumed his normal feeding schedule.

Leo relaxing on top of the "cave" in his terrarium

Taking a postprandial soak

Shortly before I left Reptile Ramble, Ed took Leo to the vet for a possible skin problem and discovered that he was harboring an egg! It seems that Leo was a “she.” I never stopped thinking of her as Leo, even though Ed began referring to her as Leonora.

I stopped working Reptile Ramble in 2014, when I began volunteering at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. Although in my new docent work I had a weekly opportunity to interpret snakes of various species, including kingsnakes, none of them were like Leo. I still missed him and occasionally visited him in Ed's pantry.

Early in 2018 Ed retired from doing herpetological programs, and found other homes for his animals. He agreed that Leo/Leonora would be an ideal addition to the Interpretive Animal Collection at the Desert Museum, and when the director of the program agreed, I picked up Leo and one of his compadres and drove them out to the Museum. I was excited at the thought of getting to interpret this beautiful, simpatico snake again, and wondered if he would remember me.

Alas, I never saw him again. A few weeks after he went into quarantine for his new job, the snake vet discovered that Leo had advanced kidney cancer, and euthanized him. I still cry when I think about him. He had his own charm and personality, and I will always feel he knew me and approved of my efforts to save the world one snake at a time.

Rest in Peace, sweet, beautiful Leo the Kingsnake.

The Doves of Our Lives

White-winged dove season is finally over. There are only a handful of these beautiful birds remaining, and soon they will be gone too, back to Mexico, where they spend the winter. It is always a sad time for me, because I can't know for certain that I will be here to greet them when they return next spring.

Below is a collage I made to celebrate my love affair with doves over the last few years. Most of the photos are of white-wingeds, but there are some mourning doves here too. Some notes on the collage follow.

Upper row shows doves being doves, doing dove things. The fourth photo over, of the long-beaked juvenile white-winged, was an exceptionally clueless dovelet who repeatedly flew into a brick wall in the carport of our previous home. He always seemed okay afterward, and I'm hoping he survived.

The central large photo is a nearly grown mourning dove fledgling who hung out in my private patio for a couple of weeks. I took the photo because I thought he was beautiful. The upper photo to the left of the mourning dove was one of my most-recent white-winged fledglings being fed in the patio by its mother. Adult doves produce a nutritious liquid in their crop (called "pigeon milk"), which they pump into the babies in a procedure that looks like a vicious mugging.

Immediately to the right of the central dove is a male white-winged holding a curved stick in his beak. I spent around an hour one morning watching him and his mate building a nest on the precarious top of a pole. The process was fascinating.

Just to the right of the nest-builder is a very, very special mourning dove who nested in a particular yucca at Tohono Chul for three years. She had the best-made, safest nest I ever saw for a dove. I thought she was a genius. I used to imagine that some day her offspring would take over the Park, producing a race of super-smart doves. But after three years the yucca grew in such a way that it no longer had a perfect nesting spot, and I never knowingly saw her again.

Finally, the small dove in the lower right-hand corner is an Inca dove I photographed in the Walk-in Aviary at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. Inca doves were very common when I first moved back to Tucson in the late 1980's, but gradually disappeared from the central part of town and are now seldom seen. They are beautiful, sweet, very small doves with cinnamon-colored underwings and feathers that appear from a distance to be scaled. Nobody knows for sure why they have disappeared, but a common theory is that the very large Cooper's hawk population here has done them in.

If you have questions about any of the other doves in the collage, feel free to ask them in the "comments" below. Every dove has a story.

St. Francis and the Lizards

We have now lived in our "new" house nearly three years. The yard came with a small statue of St. Francis. Though we are not Christians, I love the idea of a saint who loved animals watching over the critters who come to visit. From our first days here, there has been one or another Spiny Desert lizard that likes to perch on Francis' head. Here are some of my favorites.

Cedric, a fairly large desert spiny, was the first lizard I named. This is his typical perch--on the side, facing west, his tail relaxed and extending down Francis' cowl. Late in that first summer, I found poor Cedric's body lying on the back porch, his beautiful belly colors still glistening. I have no idea what the cause of death might have been.

Cedric was followed by his girlfriend, unnamed. She was somewhat smaller than Cedric and preferred to sit more securely on the top of the head.

A considerably smaller lizard, whom I named Cedric Jr., appeared the following year:

The lizards have come and gone, but never has warm weather passed without at least one "regular" making him- or herself comfortable on the saint's accommodating head.

This year, I've had a special lizard, a very large female I named Heloise. When I first saw her in this pose, I burst out laughing. 

A few days after I took the photo, I noticed that Heloise had lost her tail. That did not stop her from her favorite activity, however, and finally I discovered why St. Francis' head is so popular. In addition to his function as a sunbathing perch, it turns out he is a hunting blind!

With her tail beginning to grow back, Heloise was in her usual spot the other day. I was puzzled, though, because it was cloudy, not suitable for basking. I was just about to change positions so I could get a shot of her tail stub when she very suddenly leaped off St. Francis' head and literally dived into the lantana bush to the west. I saw her wrestling with a large insect, but couldn't tell what sort it was, or if she managed to eat it. Nevertheless, I feel confident that tailless Heloise will continue to thrive in my Francis-blessed back yard.

How is a Snake Like Ginger Rogers?

It was said of  the actress/dancer Ginger Rogers that she could do everything her partner, Fred Astaire, could do--but she did it backwards and in high heels.

It’s sort of the same way with snakes.

Looking at these amazing creatures, you can’t help but notice how different a snake's outer (superficial) body plan is compared to the four- and two-legged creatures we are most familiar with. And yet--at the same time--snakes are in many ways very much like us--they have a brain, a heart, digestive and reproductive organs, and many other similarities, some obvious and some not so (for example, they only have one functioning lung). They can feed and shelter themselves, protect themselves from danger, procreate--in fact, do just about anything a creature with arms and legs can do…

But they do it all without  arms or legs, hands or feet.  How do snakes manage their amazing acts of survival? They do it through a series of anatomical adaptations that allow them to use their mouths in ways we bipeds could only dream of, and their strong, muscular bodies to help manipulate objects. Let’s take a closer look at how some of these amazing adaptations work.

Image from PetEducation.com

The best place to start is with the skull. Snake skulls are mobile compared to mammal skulls. Whereas our skulls are solid, with the different parts fused together, the separate parts of a snake's skull are more loosely connected, with ligaments, allowing the bony parts of the skull to move in ways our skulls cannot. For example, Instead of a bony inner ear, snakes (and birds) have an extra bone connecting the lower jaw to the skull, which allows a snake to open its mouth as wide as 180 degrees. This ability helps explain how a snake can swallow something bigger than its head.

Another important difference between us and snakes is that the  two halves of a human’s lower jaw are fused together at the chin. Snakes don’t have a chin; instead, their jaws are connected by a ligament, which allows the two halves to move separately. Snakes’ teeth (not including fangs, which are used to deliver venom in venomous snakes) are small, sharp, and pointed backward--toward the gullet. Thus, when a snake has prey in its mouth, its sharp teeth can hold the object tightly while the snake uses the two sides of its jaws alternately to  “walk” the prey back, through the mouth and toward the gullet. No need for a knife and fork, or even for grasping hands or paws.

The snake’s windpipe has a special extension, the glottis, that allows the snake to breathe while it is swallowing something large. As the meal moves further along, the body begins to expand because of another anatomical feature--or rather, the lack of one. Unlike humans and other mammals, snakes don’t have a breastbone to tie the ribs together in the front of the body, so the ribs can expand as the meal makes its way down the digestive tract.

The below photo, by Carlton King, shows how this all works: it is the last in a series of photos showing a kingsnake devouring a diamondback rattlesnake that was seemingly bigger than the kingsnake!


Snakes have  many other amazing adaptations that allow them to live their slithery lives, and I hope to discuss more of them in future posts. I find snakes awesome in every sense of the word, and I hope this short discussion has helped you begin to feel that way too.

As the Dove Turns....A Tale of Obsession and Devotion in the Desert

 Friends on social media know that for the last several weeks I've been obsessed with a particular white-winged dove that nests on my private patio above my sliding door. White-winged doves are among my favorite birds for many reasons I have detailed in an earlier post. This particular bird drew my interest more than three weeks ago when nearly all the other neighborhood white-wings returned to Mexico before a storm arrived. I have been thinking of her as Paloma, Spanish for Dove (and for the Holy Spirit). 

I assumed Paloma was waiting for her babies to fledge, but it soon became clear there were no dovelets in the nest, at least none that I could see. Worse, an egg fell to the ground one day and two days later another egg appeared on the edge of the nest, balanced but not being brooded. Doves usually lay two eggs per clutch, and obviously neither of these would hatch. So why was she still up on the ledge?

I speculated that maybe Paloma was too young to realize she was supposed to join her friends in flying to Mexico. Or that she had been abandoned by her mate. Or... Or... really, why was she still sitting on that nest?

Yesterday, I found out why, when Palomita, Paloma's adorable baby, appeared on the ledge, next to the balanced egg. But this produced a new obsession. Where was Paloma herself?
I did not see her for the rest of yesterday afternoon, even late in the day, and she was not on the nest this morning.  

 Had something happened to her, after all the hard work of brooding this sweet baby dovelet? Would I have to find some way to remove the fledgling from the ledge and learn how to feed it?

By late this morning, still no sign of Paloma. And then I happened to walk by one of the glass sliders to the back yard, and there she was on top of the fountain.

I looked through my binoculars to make sure it was the same dove (she has a healing injury next to her right eye). It was almost as if she had landed there, and stayed there, to make sure I would see her and know that she and her baby are safe. Please join me in wishing them well when they begin their perilous journey back to Mexico.