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The squirrel and the hawk (not a parable)
Oct. 18th, 2012 08:31 amThere are moments when you just can't get your camera up in time.
Tuesday morning Ella and I went to one of her favorite haunts, Warren Park, for an extended walk. Tennis ball in mouth, Ella bounded up the south side of the park's huge sledding hill in pursuit of a couple of squirrels. I followed along at the bottom of the hill, trailling a little behind her, expecting that at some point she would drop the tennis ball and keep going. As it turned out, she did, and the ball rolled almost exactly to my feet. I didn't even have to break stride to scoop it up.
As I was stashing the ball in my shoulder bag, Ella turned west and headed down the hill, having spied another squirrel in the middle of the grass. The squirrel ran west and vanished around the corner of the high chain-link fence that encloses the park's ice rink. Ella followed closely behind.
I could tell from the rattling sounds I heard that the squirrel had climbed to the top of the fence. Ella loves chasing squirrels along fences, and when I saw the squirrel come scurrying back around the corner on top of the fence, I started fumbling my iPhone out of my pocket. A good squirrel-chasing picture was sure to follow.
I was standing probably thirty feet from the fence, and suddenly I noticed something the squirrel didn't. Forget the dog that still hadn't followed it back around the corner. Perched atop the fence, facing me, was a red-tailed hawk. The squirrel was running straight toward it.
Six feet from the hawk, the squirrel skidded to a stop. It stared at the hawk. The hawk turned its head and stared at the squirrel.
The hawk and the squirrel stood there frozen for a good five seconds. Then at the same instant, as I tried to get my camera app going without taking my eyes off the scene, the squirrel turned tail and ran back the way it had come, and the hawk flapped away in the opposite direction and landed in a tree.
Ella came panting around the corner of the fence, having missed all the drama.
I did capture the terrible video below of the hawk in the tree a few seconds later, but boy would that picture of it and the squirrel have been cool.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
Tuesday morning Ella and I went to one of her favorite haunts, Warren Park, for an extended walk. Tennis ball in mouth, Ella bounded up the south side of the park's huge sledding hill in pursuit of a couple of squirrels. I followed along at the bottom of the hill, trailling a little behind her, expecting that at some point she would drop the tennis ball and keep going. As it turned out, she did, and the ball rolled almost exactly to my feet. I didn't even have to break stride to scoop it up.
As I was stashing the ball in my shoulder bag, Ella turned west and headed down the hill, having spied another squirrel in the middle of the grass. The squirrel ran west and vanished around the corner of the high chain-link fence that encloses the park's ice rink. Ella followed closely behind.
I could tell from the rattling sounds I heard that the squirrel had climbed to the top of the fence. Ella loves chasing squirrels along fences, and when I saw the squirrel come scurrying back around the corner on top of the fence, I started fumbling my iPhone out of my pocket. A good squirrel-chasing picture was sure to follow.
I was standing probably thirty feet from the fence, and suddenly I noticed something the squirrel didn't. Forget the dog that still hadn't followed it back around the corner. Perched atop the fence, facing me, was a red-tailed hawk. The squirrel was running straight toward it.
Six feet from the hawk, the squirrel skidded to a stop. It stared at the hawk. The hawk turned its head and stared at the squirrel.
The hawk and the squirrel stood there frozen for a good five seconds. Then at the same instant, as I tried to get my camera app going without taking my eyes off the scene, the squirrel turned tail and ran back the way it had come, and the hawk flapped away in the opposite direction and landed in a tree.
Ella came panting around the corner of the fence, having missed all the drama.
I did capture the terrible video below of the hawk in the tree a few seconds later, but boy would that picture of it and the squirrel have been cool.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
More incredible feats of squirrel parkour
Aug. 7th, 2012 10:09 amI think I've finally figured out how Ella can be all the way at the front end of our apartment and detect the presence of a squirrel in the back yard. Birds are the key. When a rodent invades their garden space, the sparrows set up a particular squawking racket that Ella has learned to associate with the presence of a squirrel. She hears that sound and charges toward the back door yipping and yelping like her tail's on fire.
Late one morning last week, alerted by one of these yelping fits, I rushed to the kitchen to open the back door for Ella. As usual, she tried to squeeze through the opening before it was wide enough for her. Then she clattered down the stairs from our second-story deck, and I could hear her charging around the yard like a wounded rhino. She started barking from near the gate at the side of the house, so I leaned over the railing to make sure the gate was shut.
What I saw when I looked down was a squirrel climbing past the security lights installed on the corner of our brick building. (I wished I had a camera but my iPhone was in the apartment, charging. The photo below is one I took a few minutes later.) Ella was on her hind legs, barking up at the squirrel. The moment the crafty little rodent saw me peering down at it, it changed direction and darted along the railing of the deck below ours.
I hurried toward the stairs, my only intent being to flush the squirrel in Ella's direction. (I'm a good wingman for her in that regard, as is Laura.) But the squirrel didn't stop when it reached the end of our downstairs neighbors deck railing. It launched itself through the air, over Ella's head, leaping six feet to snatch at the branch of a tree in the garden. In moments it had swarmed up the trunk of the tree and made its escape over the roof of the garage.
That left Ella whining and snuffling and rushing around the yard in frustration. I went back inside. A wingman can't do much to help when the prey slips away.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
Late one morning last week, alerted by one of these yelping fits, I rushed to the kitchen to open the back door for Ella. As usual, she tried to squeeze through the opening before it was wide enough for her. Then she clattered down the stairs from our second-story deck, and I could hear her charging around the yard like a wounded rhino. She started barking from near the gate at the side of the house, so I leaned over the railing to make sure the gate was shut.
What I saw when I looked down was a squirrel climbing past the security lights installed on the corner of our brick building. (I wished I had a camera but my iPhone was in the apartment, charging. The photo below is one I took a few minutes later.) Ella was on her hind legs, barking up at the squirrel. The moment the crafty little rodent saw me peering down at it, it changed direction and darted along the railing of the deck below ours.
I hurried toward the stairs, my only intent being to flush the squirrel in Ella's direction. (I'm a good wingman for her in that regard, as is Laura.) But the squirrel didn't stop when it reached the end of our downstairs neighbors deck railing. It launched itself through the air, over Ella's head, leaping six feet to snatch at the branch of a tree in the garden. In moments it had swarmed up the trunk of the tree and made its escape over the roof of the garage.
That left Ella whining and snuffling and rushing around the yard in frustration. I went back inside. A wingman can't do much to help when the prey slips away.
Crossposted from Inhuman Swill
It's a good thing I don't believe in omens or I'd probably think that 2011 is fucked. One of the first sights I saw on New Year's Day, when I was out walking the dog in the morning, was a dead squirrel hanging from power lines where they attached to the second story of house in our neighborhood.
The squirrel looked perfectly intact. It was hard to tell how it died. Maybe it had a heart attack. Maybe it froze to death. Maybe it touched a bare spot on one of the wires and fried. Whatever happened, I found the sight of it fascinating and compelling. After I took Ella home, I went back with our good camera and took as many pictures of it as I could.
Over the following days I kept checking on the poor creature. It appeared to be gripping one of the higher wires with its back paws, while it's body was draped over a lower wire. I thought it would likely fall off soon, or that someone would remove it, but as days turned into weeks the squirrel just kept hanging there. At first I found this encouraging. As January turned to February, though, I found it more and more disturbing.
Laura and I considered leaving a note on the front door of the house, reasoning that perhaps the residents had never looked up and seen the dead squirrel decorating their home, but we never did. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we were walking Ella together past the house. A compact SUV was parked at the curb, and three young children were carrying things from the house to the vehicle while a parent loaded the back.
"Oh my God," I said loudly as we passed the kids. "Is that squirrel still hanging up there?"
Laura elbowed me in the ribs, but it was too late. As we continued down the sidewalk, we heard a kid behind us say, "What squirrel?" Then there came a startled squeal of disgust.
I smiled, because I'm the kind of person who finds that sort of thing funny. Message delivered.
This past Saturday morning, out walking Ella again, I checked on my friend Wallenda. (Yes, I have named the dead squirrel.) I didn't think I needed more pictures of it until I noticed that the squirrel was now clinging to the wire with three paws instead of two! My first thought was that the thing had been slowly trying to pull itself up onto the wire and make good its escape from death. Or maybe a strong wind had just blown it around and another paw had caught.
It was only when I was able to examine the new photograph against the older ones that I realized the squirrel was now hanging upside down from one of the lower wires. Its back paws must have finally lost their grip on the higher wire and somehow snagged on the way down. Or someone deliberately moved the squirrel.
Whatever the case, I will keep monitoring Wallenda's progress. Now that the weather is warming up, he should make for an interesting sight over the next few weeks as he thaws, assuming he doesn't fall on someone's head. And if he really is an omen for the year, maybe the message is that even when you're down you can't be counted out.
The squirrel looked perfectly intact. It was hard to tell how it died. Maybe it had a heart attack. Maybe it froze to death. Maybe it touched a bare spot on one of the wires and fried. Whatever happened, I found the sight of it fascinating and compelling. After I took Ella home, I went back with our good camera and took as many pictures of it as I could.Over the following days I kept checking on the poor creature. It appeared to be gripping one of the higher wires with its back paws, while it's body was draped over a lower wire. I thought it would likely fall off soon, or that someone would remove it, but as days turned into weeks the squirrel just kept hanging there. At first I found this encouraging. As January turned to February, though, I found it more and more disturbing.
Laura and I considered leaving a note on the front door of the house, reasoning that perhaps the residents had never looked up and seen the dead squirrel decorating their home, but we never did. Then, a couple of weeks ago, we were walking Ella together past the house. A compact SUV was parked at the curb, and three young children were carrying things from the house to the vehicle while a parent loaded the back.
"Oh my God," I said loudly as we passed the kids. "Is that squirrel still hanging up there?"
Laura elbowed me in the ribs, but it was too late. As we continued down the sidewalk, we heard a kid behind us say, "What squirrel?" Then there came a startled squeal of disgust.
I smiled, because I'm the kind of person who finds that sort of thing funny. Message delivered.
This past Saturday morning, out walking Ella again, I checked on my friend Wallenda. (Yes, I have named the dead squirrel.) I didn't think I needed more pictures of it until I noticed that the squirrel was now clinging to the wire with three paws instead of two! My first thought was that the thing had been slowly trying to pull itself up onto the wire and make good its escape from death. Or maybe a strong wind had just blown it around and another paw had caught.It was only when I was able to examine the new photograph against the older ones that I realized the squirrel was now hanging upside down from one of the lower wires. Its back paws must have finally lost their grip on the higher wire and somehow snagged on the way down. Or someone deliberately moved the squirrel.
Whatever the case, I will keep monitoring Wallenda's progress. Now that the weather is warming up, he should make for an interesting sight over the next few weeks as he thaws, assuming he doesn't fall on someone's head. And if he really is an omen for the year, maybe the message is that even when you're down you can't be counted out.
Ella is seven
Oct. 8th, 2010 09:06 am
Yesterday was 10/07/10, and Ella turned 7 * . Using the common yardstick of seven dog years to one human year, she's now older than either Laura or I, which makes me sad. (Good thing Ella is immortal, and will outlive us both.)Ella was six months old when we rescued her in April 2004. Well, really it was Laura who rescued her. We still lived in Queens at the time. I was on a week-long trip to the west coast—business in San Francisco, seeing my son in Portland, and hitting the Nebula banquet in Seattle. While I was gone, Laura spent a few days visiting her parents in the Chicago suburbs. Her parents' neighbors had a six-month-old, 18-pound soft-coated wheaten terrier puppy they couldn't care for anymore. They had heard from Laura's mother that Laura wanted a wheatie, and asked Laura if she would like to take the puppy home with her. She called me.
"Do you want a six-month-old wheaten terrier puppy?" she asked.
"Sure," I said. And thus our lives changed.
But first there were the practical considerations of getting Ella home to New York. Laura bought a pet carrier and booked Ella home as cargo on her flight. I'm glad I wasn't there to see her little caged and doped-up body disappearing down a conveyor belt at the airport. (It was bad enough one time at the bad vet in Queens, tending Ella as she came down from a hallucinogenic trip when no one told me at first that she'd been given a hallucinogen.) I'm sorry I wasn't there when Laura and our friends Andrew and Stephanie picked Ella up at the Laguardia end of the trip only to find that her former owners had fed her within the previous 24 hours, and Ella had shat all over the inside of her carrier. Our friends very patiently drove Laura and our stinky dog home in the back of their car, and helped bathe the poor little beast. Welcome to New York.
I didn't get home for a couple more days, but it was love at first sight, and from the very start I couldn't stop taking pictures of her. We've been amazed to watch her pick up on the meanings of words we haven't deliberately taught her (like "inside" and "squirrel"), and to invent her own games, like the one where she chases a basketball then pushes it around the yard with her face.
( Video: Ella pushes basketball with face )
But Ella's favorite thing to do in the world is chase squirrels. Sure, it's what she was bred for, but the curious thing is that she has never once caught one, even when she ends up right on top of one. I doubt she ever will. Chasing squirrels seems to be what she likes best, not clamping squirrels in her jaws and shaking them to death. Maybe one day she'll prove that sunny assessment wrong, but I'm not betting on it.
I wanted to do something special for her yesterday for her birthday. (Not that she would understand, but I would understand.) As it happened, that special something fell practically in her lap. A short walk from our house there's a long, triangular block lined with townhouses on all three sides. There are also about a million trees on the block, many of them young, and most every townhouse has a tiny lawn and flower garden out front. This is one of Ella's favorite places to hunt squirrels, and if you let her she would just circle the block endlessly.
I took her for an early afternoon walk to the townhouses. On our second circuit of the block, Ella spotted a squirrel on someone's porch. She ran along the sidewalk (me racing to keep up) while the squirrel tore through a couple of adjacent flower beds and up a young sapling. Ella jumped up and put her front paws on the narrow trunk, watching the squirrel edge out along a branch eight feet up. As the squirrel progressed, Ella danced backward on her rear legs to keep an eye on it. Finally she couldn't keep her balance any longer and dropped to all fours with a frustrated little yowl.I'm not sure what happened next. I don't know if the branch broke or the squirrel somehow lost its footing or it had a deathwish or what. But suddenly it crashed flat to the ground, barely missing Ella's nose as it fell. The chase that followed was brief but intense. The squirrel made it to a bigger tree twenty feet away in about two seconds flat, its tail swatting the air behind it like a cartoon dust plume. Ella stayed hot on its trail for most of the distance but thank goodness stopped the moment the squirrel hit the tree. If she hadn't, I would either have dropped the leash or hit the sapling, because Ella and I were on opposite sides of it when she took off.
Anyway, close calls like that one seem to make Ella's day, so I'm considering that the squirrel's birthday present to her. And it only meant we had to circle the block about four more times before going back home where she cleaned her dish of all its uneaten breakfast kibble and asked for more. Of course I gave her another scoop. It was her birthday.
* I joked to Laura that we should have celebrated Ella's birthday with a pair of banana splits. Why? Because she turned 7 on 10/7/10. That's 7-10 and 7-10, two wicked splits when you bowl. She punched me so you wouldn't have to.
Rocky goes down
May. 17th, 2007 02:01 pmOne of the pleasures of owning a dog is taking her for walks at Astoria Park during the morning off-leash hours. Ella loves to chase squirrels, so much so that Laura and I have to call them "rockies" when we talk. If Ella hears the word "squirrel," she instantly goes on high-alert.
Ella has never caught a squirrel, though she comes close sometimes. She is usually startled to round a tree up which her quarry has run and not find the squirrel behind it. Only rarely does she look up and realize that the squirrel is now above her, taunting her. (Yes, Shaun of the Dead fans, dogs can look up.)
Yesterday morning, Ella and I took a long early walk. The squirrel chasing was great. She came close to catching a black squirrel that passed up two perfectly good trees on its run. Are the black squirrels dumber? I'm not sure.
Anyway, after a long circuit of the park, Ella and I neared the infamous Charybdis Playground. I saw a dog we know named Sultan, a large furry black dog, part chow, I think, up ahead near the playground wall. Sultan was sniffing around near the base of the wall behind a tree, maybe pawing at something.
When we were about ten feet from Sultan, he suddenly turned around, shaking his head hard. A struggling squirrel was clamped in his jaws. The squirrel was shrieking. It was a godawful sound, and there's really no other word for it.
Sultan's owner came rushing up, yelling for the dog to drop the squirrel. Sultan did, and the squirrel flopped into the grass on its back, one hind leg twitching. While the owner hustled Sultan away from the site of the struggle, I started looking around for something I could use to put the squirrel out of its misery—a stout branch, maybe. But before I found anything, the leg stopped twitching.
As Ella and I left the scene, I heard a strangely plaintive chirping sound. I looked up. In a high branch of a nearby tree, two squirrels were huddled together. One of them was turning its head this way and that, making the sound. It was the second time in less than a minute that I'd heard a squirrel making an unfamiliar sound. I'm sure it was calling to the dead squirrel, or maybe just bleating in terror.
Squirrel chasing had lost its appeal for me, if not for Ella. I hope she never catches one.
Ella has never caught a squirrel, though she comes close sometimes. She is usually startled to round a tree up which her quarry has run and not find the squirrel behind it. Only rarely does she look up and realize that the squirrel is now above her, taunting her. (Yes, Shaun of the Dead fans, dogs can look up.)
Yesterday morning, Ella and I took a long early walk. The squirrel chasing was great. She came close to catching a black squirrel that passed up two perfectly good trees on its run. Are the black squirrels dumber? I'm not sure.
Anyway, after a long circuit of the park, Ella and I neared the infamous Charybdis Playground. I saw a dog we know named Sultan, a large furry black dog, part chow, I think, up ahead near the playground wall. Sultan was sniffing around near the base of the wall behind a tree, maybe pawing at something.
When we were about ten feet from Sultan, he suddenly turned around, shaking his head hard. A struggling squirrel was clamped in his jaws. The squirrel was shrieking. It was a godawful sound, and there's really no other word for it.
Sultan's owner came rushing up, yelling for the dog to drop the squirrel. Sultan did, and the squirrel flopped into the grass on its back, one hind leg twitching. While the owner hustled Sultan away from the site of the struggle, I started looking around for something I could use to put the squirrel out of its misery—a stout branch, maybe. But before I found anything, the leg stopped twitching.
As Ella and I left the scene, I heard a strangely plaintive chirping sound. I looked up. In a high branch of a nearby tree, two squirrels were huddled together. One of them was turning its head this way and that, making the sound. It was the second time in less than a minute that I'd heard a squirrel making an unfamiliar sound. I'm sure it was calling to the dead squirrel, or maybe just bleating in terror.
Squirrel chasing had lost its appeal for me, if not for Ella. I hope she never catches one.
