Compost Condo

I like my compost bin. I'm amazed by the magic that turns garden clippings and vegetable scraps into rich compost. But a few years ago, things didn't go according to plan.

It was early summer, and each time I removed the lid of the bin, the mound of compost moved ever so slightly. It was like a tiny earthquake that immediately settled. By mid-summer, I heard them, and soon after, saw them. A mouse and her babies had set up house in my bin. I couldn't blame them -- the compost provided food (replenished almost daily), warmth, safety, and a great view of the garden (pictured). Knowing the mice were there, I was afraid to tun the compost with a fork or shovel, fearing I'd injure one of them. I left the door at the bottom of the bin open about an inch, but they seemed to use it only for quick day trips, never taking the hint that I'd served them an eviction notice.

I decided to bodily remove the mice on Labour Day weekend because when I opened the lid, five well-fed mice jumped madly on top of the pile of compost. Perhaps the heap had become too hot, or their tunnels had collapsed and they were unable to escape. Whatever the problem, they appeared to be going nuts.

I grabbed my daughter's flimsy, dollar store butterfly net, and a bucket with a lid. Drawing a deep breath, I scooped the critters out of the bin, one at a time. I was successful in getting four of them into the bucket, but the fifth jumped out and ran into my neighbour's backyard (I hope they don't read this blog). With a parade of kids following me, I carried the bucket into the forest across the street, and deposited the mice deep in a grove of trees. I didn't have much hope for their continued survival -- after all, they'd never had to forage for a meal in the short lives.

Last year, a mole set up home in the compost bin. I spotted his funny, little nose poking out from a tunnel near the bottom of the bin. I don't think he stayed long because I never saw him again. I do have a lot of worms in my bin. When it rains, they all congregate under the rim of the lid, and I'm always afraid that I'll squish them if I put the lid back on. I don't like touching worms, so using a twig, I gingerly place them back into the bin. Although now that I think about it, they may be trying to escape, and I've just thrown them back into their compost jail.

Ah, wildlife. Yes, I have rabbits and birds visiting my yard regularly, but it's really the compost bin where all the action takes place.

Lions and Tigers and Bears ... Okay, just one tiger

In 2001, my daughter and I were driving home through our neighbourhood when we spotted this orange, white and black ball of fluff on the sidewalk. I couldn't believe our luck -- a Siberian tiger cub, and we weren't even at the zoo! Most importantly, we got to pet him (and you can tell by my smile that I'm absolutely thrilled):


(Excuse the photo glare and that perm!)

The man walking the cub told us he'd brought it home from the wildlife sanctuary where he volunteered because there was no one there to care for it that weekend. The tiger will have grown up by now, and I don't imagine he'd let me rub his stomach. Shame.

Hot Dogs

Summertime -- warm weather, misguided folks and steamy cars. This is a repeat of my very first post on this blog, I hope you don't mind, but I think it's important to remind people about the danger.



Dear owner: Please leave me at home. It gets really, really hot in the car. I don’t like it. Love, your loyal pet.

Does this look familiar? I hope not. If you’ve been the recipient of such a note, then you’re guilty of inflicting a cruelty no animal should be forced to suffer—being left in a parked car on a warm day.

Yes, I’m willing to admit that I am the local pet protector who secretly slides these notes under your windshield wiper. As you may have noticed, I always make sure that the writing faces the inside of the vehicle. That way, it can be easily read when you finally do return to your pet.

I am the person who advised the cashier at Chapters that you had left your headlights on. It was the tiniest of lies. I’d hoped that, after hearing the announcement, you would rush out, read my note, feel the appropriate amount of shame and vow never to leave your dog in the car again. Just to let you know, I waited 15 minutes before you returned. What were you thinking?

Many errant pet owners may claim they’re only making a quick dash into the grocery store. But you know how it is; a list of three items can soon turn into a cart full of food. The line-ups can seem excruciatingly long to the animal you’ve left in the stifling heat.

Just recently, I happened upon a policeman standing helplessly beside a parked car. A dog, its tongue dangling over its lower jaw, paced along the back seat. Interested bystanders lingered in front of the stores. The cop mumbled into his radio. Was he getting permission to break the window and rescue the animal? I sat in my own car (windows cranked open) and waited.

The sound of smashing glass was not to be. Instead, a harried woman, with two young children tugging on her arm, approached the car. At that moment, I envisioned her back at home, rounding up the kids, searching for her purse and shopping list before heading, breathless, out the door. The kids may have begged to bring Fido along with them. Overworked and tired, she gave in.

The cop spoke to her, the crowd dispersed, and I started my car and pulled away. I had mixed feelings about that particular episode. I could empathize with the woman but the fact remained—the dog could have died.

Even with the windows partially open, the temperature inside a car can reach 49 degrees Celsius (120 Fahrenheit) within minutes. I often hear warnings on the radio and television advising pet owners about the dangers. And, still, people continue to invite their beloved canine friends along for the ride.

Last summer, unprepared, I would scribble my notes on any available scrap of paper—a bank receipt or a Starbucks serviette. This year, when the warm weather began to poke its way through the winter’s chill, I knew it was time to pull my pet protector cloak from the closet. Anticipating a rash of owners not heeding the media warnings, I’ve printed off 20 copies of the note (it’s true, this is becoming a bit of an obsession). I’ll stash the notes in my glove compartment and, hopefully, there will be some remaining when the weather eventually begins to cool.

No one’s ever caught me playing the crusader to these four-legged victims. I’m very careful. With the ease of a seasoned stalker, I stroll toward my target and, in a fluid motion, whisk the piece of paper into place. Seldom do the animals, usually dogs, make any kind of fuss. The odd time, I see the owners discover my note. It’s interesting to observe their suspicious and, sometimes, angry glances around the parking lot.

I’m not brave enough for a confrontation with the dog’s owner; I know how defensive I would get if someone questioned my ability to care for my pet. Most people love and treat their pets as an important member of the family. It’s understandable that, in a moment of weakness, owners give in to the pleading in their dog’s eyes as they pick up the car keys. This is one time that owners must say no. The animal will be much happier and safer in the home.

I will continue to protect the furry citizens in my town. I encourage everyone to be on the lookout for those black noses pressed through a sliver of open window, trying to catch a whisper of fresh air. Print your own notes (I always try to be as polite as possible). Make a difference. Save a life.

My essay, Pet Protector to the Rescue, first appeared in the Globe and Mail in July 2003.

Furry and Feathered Moms

Mothers in the animal kingdom are so under-appreciated -- they probably never get a Mother's Day card. So let's salute the hardworking furry and feathered moms of the world.

A Bird with Almost Nine Lives

Let's go back to when I was about thirteen years old. It is, unfortunately, a bit of a journey, but I think we can make it ...

Snow bent branches toward the ground, and even more swirled at our feet as my girlfriend and I made our way home one evening. Up ahead, I saw a bit of colour, and upon closer inspection, discovered a green-feathered budgie. I'd like to say I was wise enough to put the bird under my coat and take it home, but, apparently, I wasn't. I picked him up and stuck him in a bush. Then I went home and told my parents. They were probably appalled for they sent me back out of to retrieve the shivering budgie.

I raced back up the street, afraid the bird had found shelter elsewhere or, worse, died. But there he was, exactly where I'd left him (his feet probably frozen to branch). I cupped him in my mittened hands, and brought him home. Placing the bird on the floor, we watched as he walked up and down the hall, scratching and fluffing his feathers. We called him "Itchy" (I suppose we could have called him Fluffy, but that didn't seem appropriate). We retrieved an old bird cage from the basement, fitted it out as best we could, then introduced Itchy to his new home.

That was Life Number One.

Itchy became a great source of entertainment. Of course, this was in the days when there was only 13 channels on the television, and Monopoly was the game of choice. If we placed a spoon or quarter on the counter, Itchy picked it up and tossed it over the side, angling his head to the side to better hear it's ringing tones as it hit the floor. He loved to shower under warm, running water between the two sinks in the kitchen. And I shudder to think of it now, but I let him eat Kraft dinner from the side of my plate. He was a fully-fledged member of the family.

We never did buy him a new cage as the old one worked just fine, except for the door -- it had to be held open with a twist tie. Each morning, the cage was opened, and Itchy was free to roam the house while we were at home. I recently asked my mom if there was bird poop all over, but she can't recall, and neither can I. When we went downstairs to watch television, we carried the cage and Itchy down with us. One night, I noticed Itchy struggling at the cage door -- the twist tie had pierced his neck. Blood splattered, I screamed, and my dad hurdled over the coffee table, saving Itchy from a most horrifying demise.

That was Life Number Two.

One of Itchy's favourite warm weather perches was the screen door at the front of our house. Gripping the metal frame at the top of lower window, he'd watch the world go by. It must have been a Saturday -- that was chore day -- and my mom decided to clean the window of the screen door. To do so, she had to first lift out the lower window. It's difficult to explain, but suffice to say, Itchy lost a toe (claw?) that day. My poor mom felt so bad, but the injury didn't slow our bird down a bit.

That was Life Number Three.

Unfortunately, Itchy didn't survive his fourth life. Six years after that snowstorm, he died in a freak accident (of course). We missed him terribly, but continued to marvel at his determination and intelligence.

Spring Has Sprung

Chipmunks and squirrels dash across the road, leaves dot branches, and plants pop up in the garden. It's official -- spring has arrived. Along with all the action on the street and in the yard, we might see the newest crop of furry and feathered critters. So ... what do you do if it appears a fledgling or baby rabbit has strayed too far from the nest?

Fledglings without feathers should, if possible, be placed back into their nests. If you can't reach the nest, the Manitoba Wildlife Rehabilitation Centre recommends making another nest from an empty margarine container. Cut small drainage holes in the bottom, line with grass and twigs, then place as close to the real nest as possible. The adult birds will feed both nests. And don't worry about touching them as the parents have a very poor sense of smell.

Older fledglings will spend several days on the ground learning to fly. I always worry about these guys, but this is a perfectly normal part of their development. A few years ago, I found one on a busy sidewalk. I placed him on the grass, hoping he'd be out of harm's way.

Baby rabbits should be left alone. Unlike birds, rabbits have a keen sense of smell. Not wanting to draw attention to the nest, the mother will return only twice each day to feed the babies. If the rabbit is larger than a softball, it's already independent of its parent.

Most areas worldwide have wildlife rehabilitation organizations that will answer questions or take in injured or abandoned animals. If you're searching for one near you, check out this site: Wildlife Rehabilitator Locator

Pet Consumerism

I can never get enough of the weird and wonderful products available for pets:

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I wonder if this dog house comes fully landscaped?

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This is a great idea! I live two houses down from a walkway, and my next-door-neighbour's dog goes nuts every time someone walks along it. Although I'm not sure if being able to see what's on the other side would stop the dog from barking.

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Actually, this cat bed would make a great salad bowl.

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I don't know -- yes, many dogs are overweight, but shouldn't they be outside in the fresh air and open spaces?

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I know what my cat would be saying if I bought one of these Meowlingual Cat Translators: "You're an idiot."

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On Friday, I'm off to Vegas for four days with five of my girlfriends to celebrate our [gulp] 50th birthdays (that's a lot of numbers for one sentence). I've been friends with these women for 30 or more years. Despite knowing everything there is to know about me, they still love me. Go figure.

Cone Head

I need your advice. Actually, my friend, Dale, needs your advice. She has a wonderful Tonkinese cat. He's intelligent, affectionate, sensitive and, for the past few months, has had to wear one of those cones around his neck. Why? Because he's licks himself to the point where the wound becomes infected. Each time Dale removes the cone, he immediately begins licking the area again.

The cone (which is actually called an Elizabethan collar) makes the poor guy look pathetic, and I'm sure he feels humiliated and uncomfortable, but Dale has run out of options. The only thing she hasn't done is put the cat on drugs, but perhaps that would improve his quality of life.

Any thoughts?

Photo from Ilmari Karonen/Gallery

Crazy Cat Picture

A long time ago, I shared my life with a black and white cat named Strider. I always thought she was a perfectly normal cat -- until I picked up this photo of her (playing in a shoe box) from the developers way back in 1985. For a close-up of that crazed but cute furry face, click on picture to enlarge:


Strider

What They Say About Dogs

A few quotes about dogs:

"If dogs could talk it would take a lot of the fun out of owning one." - Andy Rooney

It would be so cool if dogs could talk. We'd finally discover what they thought about life and humans -- surprising, I'm sure.


"I've seen a look in dogs' eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts." - John Steinbeck

Yes, we're nuts, but dogs are far too loyal and loving to feel contempt. Of course, if they could talk then we'd know for sure.


"If you are a dog and your owner suggests that you wear a sweater...suggest that he wear a tail." - Fran Lebowitz

Well, if you're a regular reader, you know how I feel about that.

Bunny Facts

It's Easter -- a perfect time to learn some fun facts about rabbits:

The female rabbit can conceive a second litter while pregnant with the first. That's pretty amazing, but not an ability I'd be particularly keen on sharing.

Rabbits can see behind them without turning their heads. Interestingly, my daughter believes I can do this.

Rabbits have one of five different eye colours -- brown, blue-gray, blue, marbled or pink. I've always found those pink eyes a little freaky.

Bunnies are weaned at eight weeks. Remember when I discovered that tennis ball-sized bunny in the yard last summer? Apparently, he'd already been kicked out of the nest and was on his own.

Rabbits can suffer from heat stroke. It was a very hot day when I took the above picture of the rabbit in my yard. Since it's unusual for them to be out in the middle of the day, I figure he was probably cooling off in the shade of the cedars.

Good news -- rabbit droppings make excellent garden fertilizer. This means that not only will my gardens flourish this summer, but I'll be able to make money selling the poop the bunny has left in my yard.

Domestic rabbits can live 8 - 12 years, so if you're thinking about buying a bunny this Easter, you're in for the long haul.

Working With Animals

I've decided to volunteer at my local Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals -- if they'll have me. One reason I haven't done this before is I wasn't sure I'd be able to handle seeing the homeless animals on a regular basis, but I've visited quite a lot recently and survived. Did you know that you can volunteer to socialize with the cats? How purr-fect! Like a Walmart greeter of the animal world.

There are so many dedicated folks out there -- volunteers and those who have been trained and educated to work with both pets and wildlife. There's a North American website called AnimalWork.org. It’s a job-matching site for all jobs related to animals, like training, grooming, veterinary medicine, caretaking, retail and zoo positions. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be paid for doing something you love?