Wild Neighbors: Deer at the Ranch

My best deer image: a very nice-looking buck poses

When I bought Rancho San Benito early last year, I was told that there is an abundance of deer in the area. One of the primary reasons for buying the property was to have a quiet place where I can spend time closer to the natural world, so the fact that larger wild animals live there was an indicator that the ranch property was good spot for me.

 However, after several months of part-time work on the ranch a cast-off antler, which I picked up and put on a windowsill at the house, was as close as I'd gotten to seeing one of these beautiful animals.

So, inspired by interesting images captured by a cousin of mine in Washington State, and with his advice, last fall I invested in a motion-activated trail camera, of the type used by hunters to watch for game and property owners to monitor activity in remote areas.

I strapped the camera to trees along likely trails and in clearings starting last September, and eagerly visited to switch out the memory card and view my "captures." For several months I got interesting images of a variety of birds and small animals, and lots of pictures of leaves and branches being tossed by windstorms, but nothing of deer.

I was beginning to think that the stories of deer were false, when suddenly in January they started showing up in my pictures. The buck pictured above was the first good image I got, and this was in February. In the same location, a few days later, I captured the image below.

A doe forages in a clearing

 I have wondered why at least four months passed before I started getting pictures of deer. I am not sure, but it must have to to with their movements and the availability of food in the environment. I began to get the deer images after the dry season was in full swing, when much of the lush vegetation had withered and leaves had fallen. I assume deer forage more widely and take greater chances moving into open areas when food is scarce. It also could be that they are just more easy to see when vegetation is sparse.

The camera documented this pair of Yucatan Jays harassing a doe

"Hi there!" This doe got a good close look at the camera

I still have not seen a live deer on the ranch property, but as I spend more time out there, and as I learn more about their habits (with the help of the camera), I expect to do so.

I've gotten more interesting shots of other wild neighbors on the ranch with the motion-activated camera. I'll share them in a future post.


Text and images copyright 2016 by Marc Olson

Wild Neighbors: Parrots in the Patio

I've written about these guys before. 

One of the beauties of the inner-city block on which I live is the large contiguous tree-filled green space which is not visible from the street. Most of the neighbors' back yards are full of plants and trees, providing ample habitat for a large variety of wildlife, particularly birds.

I love watching all of the birds here, but I think my favorites are the parrots.

These Red Lored Parrots come and go as the various fruits and nuts ripen. They've been hanging around lately chewing on the seeds of my neighbor's cedro tree. They'll drift away and then return as other seasonal food becomes available in the area.

These photos were actually taken last spring near the end of the dry season, when some trees are bare of leaves. Right now, it's pretty hard to get clear shots of the birds because they blend right into the dense foliage. Most often I know they are here when I hear their high-decibel chatter.

I've seen as many as forty of these parrots flying together. This flocking usually happens in the evening, when they head to their sleeping and nesting areas in a park a few blocks north of here.

Often when they are nearby, their mutters and shrieks are my morning alarm clock. Some times I will grab my first cup of coffee and sit in the patio to watch their interactions.

In any case, the parrots are entertaining and always interesting to observe. And I don't have to leave the back yard to enjoy their company.

Read a related post here.

Text and images copyright 2013 by Marc Olson

Wild Neighbors: We're Expecting, I Think

Rhinoclemmys Areolata, known as Furrowed Wood Turtle, or Tortuga Rugosa de Bosque

I wondered for several years if the pair of tortoises that have the run of my property are girl and boy. It's hard with some species to tell the difference, especially when they are juveniles. However after several years of living with me these natives of Mexico are now sexually mature, and behaviors I started noticing last spring convinced me that they were getting ready to produce offspring.

In the past these Furrowed Wood Turtles did not seem particularly social and would often wander separately in the garden. Then suddenly a few months ago, like a couple of teenagers going steady they were always close together. The smaller one (presumably the male) trailed closely behind the larger.

One thing led to another, I guess. On a sunny day in May I saw two small eggs partially interred and covered with leaves in a damp, shady corner of the garden. I took a picture, started a blog post about the discovery, and checked the eggs daily for a couple of weeks. Then one morning the eggs were gone without a trace. I checked carefully around the garden and no signs of tiny tortoises or egg shells were evident. If they had hatched, debris would have been left behind, so sadly I assumed that the eggs had become a night-time meal for a possum, cat, iguana, rat or other opportunist, of which there are many around here.

Then two days ago, another pair of eggs appeared, once again loosely covered with earth and leaves. This time, I am not taking any chances. These I have carefully removed to a similar shady, damp place in the security of the interior patio of the house. Here, larger animals will not have access and I will immediately notice any changes when they happen.

Meanwhile, by chance yesterday afternoon I noticed that the romantic couple are still at it. It's possible that additional clutches are out there, as yet undiscovered. And it certainly looks as if the parents-to-be are working hard to produce more. I'll keep you posted.

Wild Neighbors (Part 5), Tortugas

We are in the midst of the hottest part of the dry season in Yucatán, so regularly I switch on the pump and bring up well water to top off the pool and water the garden. When I do that, sometimes I begin to hear small rustlings under the plants. If I locate the sounds, I may see two heads the size of olives perched atop long necks, poking up out of the green like periscopes in camouflage.

I've written in this blog about many wild animals found in the vicinity of my house in Mérida centro. These tortugas, tortoises, are not "wild neighbors" in exactly the same sense as the many other creatures I've written about. That's because while the others freely come and go about their business, I brought these particular animals here, and due to the fact that the back garden is walled in, the tortoises can't move on if they get the notion. However they are not domesticated and (although I haven't verified this) I have been told they are native to the region.

These wild neighbors are timid. If I catch them in the open, crossing the concrete walk by the pool for instance, they stay completely still for a moment as if determining the danger of the situation and calculating carefully what to do. Although sometimes in this circumstance they freeze in position, more often they make for shelter in a comical herky-jerky run, or at least what amounts to running in the tortoise world.

Other times I stumble across them chewing slowly on herbs, drinking water that has puddled in a curled leaf, or ambling slowly and deliberately amongst the flowers. Caught in an area with cover, they may duck heads inside shells and keep still.

Although they are land animals, once in awhile I put them in the pool for a swim. Heads held high and with the tops of their shells barely breaking the surface, they can swim faster than they run on land. They can't get out of the pool on their own, so I keep an eye on them, and make these excursions brief.

A friend gave me these two tortoises three or four years ago. Someone had given him a pair way back, and they proliferated so successfully in his large back yard that he found it necessary to thin out the population. I've heard of other folks in Mérida who also keep a few of these animals.

Tortoises are absolutely the perfect pets for people who are busy. Although I occasionally throw them fruit and vegetable scraps or hand-feed them a banana, they seem to survive well on what they can forage in the garden. Once in awhile when tomatoes are ripe, I discover a low-hanging fruit has been hollowed out from below, and I suspect these characters are the culprits.

During the dry season the tortoises may not appear for a month or two, but they always show up again sooner or later. I don't believe that they actually hibernate, but have found them burrowed under leafy debris in cool corners and at the edges of large rocks. I assume that this their natural response to lack of moisture and a smaller food supply.

In the summer and fall, when it rains nearly every day, the tortoises are most active. I don't see them on a daily basis, but often find evidence of their activity in the form of chewed plants or trails of muddy footprints left across paved areas of the patio.

I have tried unsuccessfully to determine the species of these tortoises, and whether I have a breeding pair. I've had them close to four years now and have seen no evidence of breeding activity. I have observed that one has grown noticeably larger than the other, and that they are social, sticking together most of the time.

On a couple of occasions I also have noticed what looks like cooperative behavior on their part. When confronted with an obstacle too high to climb easily alone, one climbs onto the other and then pushes itself up on its hind legs atop the shell for a boost. It's probable that this happens just by chance because the two are usually together and not due to intentional cooperation, but it's interesting anyhow.

And they bite. Not aggressively, but if you pick one up or are feeding them by hand, you need to watch your fingers, because when they bite, they hang on. The first and only time I got caught this way, it took me a couple of minutes to get my finger back. The skin wasn't broken, but I was left with a light bruise that was tender for a couple of days.

For pets that always run away and don't express affection, these tortoises have done a pretty thorough job of capturing my heart. I expect to enjoy the company of these wild neighbors for a good long time.

Other posts about Wild Neighbors, animals who share the urban environment of Mérida with us:

Birds

Insects

A Language Older Than Words (Communication)

Sex, Violence and Abandoned Children (Opossums)

Once In Several Lifetimes (Hummingbirds)

Once in Several Lifetimes or, Vecinos Silvestres (Wild Neighbors), Part 4

It was a marvel I could not expect to experience again, even were I to live several more lifetimes. A tiny hummingbird, its heart racing, the large, clear black eye staring into mine, snuggled in my hand.

The bird had exhausted itself as it frantically bumped into the ceiling and screened doors of the house after mistakenly flying in through an open doorway. I tried to help, but wasn't able to do much until the little bird dropped, exhausted, into a catch-all basket that sits high on a kitchen shelf.

I thought the bird was dead. It lay there on its side, eyes closed, feet curled and motionless amidst the miscellany of candles, bug dope and small parts that accumulate in this container. But the moment it felt the touch of my left hand, the tiny creature startled from its swoon and began to struggle.

The reddish-orange and green bird calmed as soon as I had closed my fingers around its nearly-weightless body and held it upright. The bird actually closed its eyes again, I suppose either from shock, fear or resignation. I picked up my camera and carried it and my charge to the back patio. In a matter of a minute or two, the bird had revived and began staring unblinkingly at me. I noticed a few lost feathers and a bit of white dust on its head, probably the result of bumping into the ceiling. Other than that, the tiny bird seemed OK, but I decided to hold onto it for a few more moments in order to give it time to regain strength. And to pose for a portrait.

Later I sent the photo to my blogging birder friend Bev, who helped with identification. This is a Cinnamon Hummingbird, Amazilia Rutila, one of the most common species of hummingbirds on the Yucatán Peninsula. It is the largest hummingbird native to the area. According to guidebooks, they usually are found in arid scrub, pastures and brushy forest edges. This species lives year-round in the gardens of my urban Mérida neighborhood, and is particularly attracted by the flowers of nopal cactus and yellow mandevilla in my yard.

Figuring on getting a full-length photo of my guest as it took off, I readied the camera and slowly opened my hand. I was not quick enough. Instantly the bird rocketed over the back wall, trailing behind only the sound of its voice, a rapidfire, scolding, "tsit-tsit, tsit-tsit" that persisted in the air for a moment after this tiny neighbor disappeared from view.

Read about another animal close encounter here.

Sex, Violence and Abandoned Children or, Vecinos Silvestres (Wild Neighbors) Part 3

In my back yard, wild sex, violence and child abandonment have been seen to occur.

[The title of this post is not a gimmick, although after blogging now for more than half a year, I am curious to see if including these words will increase the number of hits I get from the search engines.]

I have written previously (Part 1, Part 2) about the wild neighbors, vecinos silvestres, who share with humans the urban Mèrida neighborhood where we all live. Today I am going to introduce more of my wild neighbors. The kids are cute, the mother appears to be meek, and her mate is a brute. These are opossums, the common American variety known as the Virginia Opossum (Didelphis Virginiana) as far as I can tell. In Yucatàn, they are called zorros, which in most parts of the Spanish-speaking world also is the word for foxes.

I took these photos one morning when I discovered a "situation" under a bush in my back patio. But before I talk about that, I need to clarify a bit of terminology. I looked it up: a male opossum is called a "jack," and not surprisingly the female is a "jill." A baby opossum is called a "joey," just like a baby kangaroo.

Okay, back to my story. To put it delicately, when I interrupted them, this little family was in the midst of, well, producing more of the same. It's not pretty, the way opossums achieve this. I found poor Jill, five Joeys making squeaking sounds and attempting to cling to her fur, while at the same time Jack was busy doing what I guess is probably the only thing that Jacks are good for: making sure that Jill keeps having lots of Joeys. He is not very nice about it. Jill was scratched up quite a bit, and her partner had blood on his front legs and jaws, apparently from a scuffle or perhaps courting ritual that preceded the actual act. Or maybe he just forced the situation. Jack was busy for a good chunk of time, while she seemed more interested in gathering up the kids and moving on. But Jack, who is larger, did not let her go until he was good and ready.

Opossums are interesting. They are nocturnal, have prehensile tails, and the females bear large numbers of very tiny young, of which only a maximum of thirteen can survive, because that is the number of nipples a female has in her pouch. The young live in the pouch until they are weaned, at which time, still small, they ride clinging to their mother's fur until mature enough to get about on their own.

This jill, when I saw her, had five half-grown offspring with her. The joeys were about the size of small rats, and not too different looking, although with their big ears, facial markings and curly tails they're a lot cuter. When Jack was finished and had let go of her, Jill wasted no time in getting away, but in her haste left two Joeys behind. These began to climb into a bougainvillea and call, apparently with the idea of attracting their mother.

This is where I came in. The male opossum lingered nearby, but with no interest in the joeys, except maybe as an "after" snack (I read they do this). There are also cats, owls and grackles in the area who would make a quick meal of these helpless critters. So I did the only thing I thought I could do. After keeping watch from a distance for awhile to see if their mother would return, I gathered the two joeys into a box, where they promptly went to sleep. I kept them in the house until evening, when I set them back in the same place where I had found them, hoping that they might rediscover their mother under the cover of darkness. They climbed into the brush, making the same squeaky calling noises that they had in the morning. I did see and hear an adult zorro in the back patio a little later that evening, but I do not know that happened to the two abandoned joeys.

I often see opossums around, normally at night. Lots of people don't like them, but I have come to be fond of them. They are cute in a slightly repulsive way. They are scavengers, and help keep their habitat clean of dead animals, cockroaches and other insects, and garbage. Opossums also kill and eat poisonous snakes. These animals have a useful role in the environment. And they do "play 'possum." One day I found one rummaging in an area of the garden where I was trying to nurse along some tender plants. I wanted the zorro out, so I grabbed a broom and tried to shoo it away. It rolled over on its back, eyes glazed, tongue lolling out of its mouth, and nothing I could do would rouse it. I left it alone, and a little while later when I checked, it was gone.

I have many more wild neighbors. More about them soon.

A Language Older Than Words*

I have heard and read from time to time about people, "whisperers," shamen, and others who communicate with animals. I have listened to experiences and stories of Native people in Alaska and elsewhere who assure that such understanding is possible, and even normal, if you are open to it. I never thought much about this subject in terms of myself until last weekend.

I posted not long ago about the habits of the Tortolitas, or Mourning Doves in and around my house in Mèrida. Well, after a brief winter respite, the courting and nesting behavior resumed a few weeks ago. Already I have chased several pairs out of my laundry and storage areas as they started to bring in bits of grass and twigs for new nests. Many times in the past they have nested in the mandevilla that grows over the archway between my interior patio and the dining/kitchen area at the back of the house. Just lately a pair resumed housekeeping there.

This arch has no door, so the kitchen and dining area are open to the outside on that end. When the Tortolitas nest in this foliage at the top of the arch, sometimes they mistakenly fly into the house instead of up and out of the patio area. This probably happens because there are two large screened doors in the far end of the room which let in a lot of light, even when closed. I assume the birds see the light and fly toward it, thinking it's a way out.

They've been doing that a lot lately. Twice Saturday I walked toward the kitchen to find a bird fluttering around looking for an escape route. Usually I open one of the back doors and the bird flies right out. However, the second time on Saturday that I found a bewildered bird there I was just arriving home, and the back door was locked. The door requires a key, even from the inside, and a glance revealed that the key was not in its normal place on the counter. I decided to try to move the bird back the way it had come in by edging around the room in its direction, hoping as it moved away from me that it would circle toward the archway and find the exit.

"Relax, I'm not going to hurt you."

No use. The poor thing, which I could see now was a hen, plump, heavy and looking as if she were carrying an egg, was exhausted. She flew haphazardly toward me, made a valiant try for the skylight, and after bumping into the glass spiraled to the floor. She rose, flew past me, and again was batting wings at the closed doors, agitatedly bumping into the mosquito screen and fluttering wildly. A feather loosened and twirled down. She went down again, following her lost feather to earth.

"Shhhhh. Rest. It's OK. Shhhhhhhhh."

As I moved closer, in a final desperate move she scurried on foot and tried to squeeze through the space under the door. Only her head would fit. Head kept low, she darted a little to one side and tried again, resembling nothing so much as a cornered rodent. At this point she seemed to be trembling, and I backed off to let her rest there on the floor, partially obscured behind a potted plant.

"Don't worry, you'll be all right."

After waiting a bit I approached the bird, which remained quietly on the floor. I continued to speak softly, then slowly crouched down and moved to within an arm's length. She didn't flee, but remained frozen and motionless; a survival instinct, I suppose. After a moment, I simply reached down and picked her up in my left hand, wrapping my palm across her back to pin her wings, with my fingers curling around her breast, leaving her feet free. I brought my other hand up and rested her feet on its palm. I could feel her heart racing, but she did not struggle or even move.

I continued to talk as I walked back under the arch where she has her nest to the open space of the patio. Once in the open I removed my left hand, and the little hen sat in my right, motionless, and slowly calmed down.

"You're not afraid anymore. I'm glad."

She stared at me, sitting with her underside nestled into my palm as if it were a nest. We stayed like this for several minutes, I think, but it's hard to say for sure. We just watched each other. All I recall is her dark, glinting eye, her warm, almost weightless body and the beat of her heart, which slowed as she relaxed.

"You know, I'm not keeping you. You can go."

After having remained completely motionless for several minutes, the little bird actually blinked and rotated her head as if to look around when I said this. I tilted my hand slightly. She rose up on her feet, and in an instant she was gone.

"Adios, Tortolita."

She left my hand but she didn't go far. As I write this at the dining table a couple of days later, she and her mate watch me from their perch in the mandevilla over the arch, a very short distance away.

In reality I can speculate but I do not know what happened on Saturday. Maybe the bird was so tired that she had given herself up to fate, frozen in terror. Possibly she is one of the many generations of Tortolitas that have been reared in and around my house, are used to seeing me, and knowing I am non-threatening have lost some of their natural fear of me. She might even have been one of the fallen, flightless chicks I've found and briefly cared for on a couple of occasions before returning them to their parents. It is nice to think that she could perceive from my approach and body language that I was not going to hurt her, or that she sensed my good intentions. Whatever the truth, the experience made me think again about the lore of human-animal interactions in historic and traditional cultures, and about why we have lost this ability.

*The title of this post is borrowed from the book of the same name by Derrick Jensen, a philosopher and environmentalist whose writing I have found interesting and thought-provoking. In the preface to that book, Jensen talks about an experience he had communicating with wild coyotes, which was the genesis for the book. The "Language Older Than Words," he writes about is human interconnectedness with our planet, and the ability to communicate with and interact with the natural world -- our home -- something that we have lost in the process of becoming "civilized." Jensen believes that civilization is doomed to failure and that we must re-establish that connection with and respect for our planet. It's a subject worth thinking about.

"Vecinos Silvestres" (Wild Neighbors) Part 2, Insects

If you have been following this blog, you know that living in a city here doesn't mean that I don't see wildlife in the neighborhood. When I found this moth dead on the floor today, I decided to post a few pictures of insect neighbors I have run across in the house and back yard. This moth does not appear remarkable until you consider its size. The wingspan of this specimen measures more than six inches/15 centimeters. They are nocturnal creatures, and sometimes end up in the house looking for shelter during the daylight hours, where they often die if I don't see

them and shoo them out. Due to this propensity, they are known locally by the Mayan name of X-majan naj (shma-HAN nah), which means prestador de casas, or house borrower. Due to their size, I have mistaken these moths in the dark for bats or lost birds. Although the coloring is not spectacular, the wings of these moths are beautiful, with a range of colors from black, through many shades of brown, gray and blue. I couldn't get a wings-spread picture of of this one because it was already dry when I found it.

These catarinas, or lady bird beetles, what we as kids used to call lady bugs, hatched on a plant in the patio. They are very tiny; the whole clump is no more than an inch/2 centimeters across. I watched them for a day or so, and they seemed to hang out by what apparently are their egg casings. Suddenly they were gone and I have never seen one with this color pattern again.

Mariposas...butterflies. There are so very many butterflies, but they are very hard to photograph. This one rested on a small papaya plant long enough for me to get the camera and return.

These wasps are only one of the many varieties in the area. They form small colonies, where I estimate that they raise no more than one hundred young at a time. They don't rile easily, and I find I can normally brush them away without inciting an attack. One time, however, I was stung in the face when I began to hack away at some overgrown banana plants, hot having noticed a colony of these wasps among the leaves. I avoided most of the angry swarm by jumping in the pool until they had dispersed.

I saved my favorite photo for last. This milpies, or millipede, was dead on the walk outside the kitchen one morning, of no apparent cause. It looked so perfect that it resembled one of those fake rubber worms we used to scare each other with as children. It took very little time for an army of black ants to show up and, working in perfect unison, begin hauling it away.

I'll write about more of my wild neighbors soon.

"Vecinos Silvestres" (Wild Neighbors) Part 1

The racket from my back patio in the early morning can be outrageous. In describing these particular neighbors, I prefer the Spanish word, "escandalo," uproar with hints of scandal, indignation and disorder, to the mundane "ruido" (noise). When the neighbors have a noisy

party, maybe drink a little too much beer and crank up the music to "eleven," or perhaps the music and party spills into the street and a heated discussion breaks out at 2 or 3 in the morning, Mexicans may refer to it as "escandaloso." And when these particular non-human neighbors are around, they remind me of nothing more than unruly guests at a "fiesta escandalosa."

One of the culprits who has awakened me on various occasions is pictured here, breakfasting on pistachios from my neighbor's back-yard tree. A fairly large population of these Red Lored Parrots (at least as far as I can identify them) or "Loros," has adapted to and lives in the very center of Mèrida, a city with a human population of nearly one million. I have been told conflicting stories about their origins: some say that these parrots are native to this area, others say that a population was established when some pet birds escaped. My reference books indicate that the Red Lored does not live in Yucatàn, but does exist along the southern fringes of neighboring Quintana Roo state, bordering on Belize, and presumably the range extends south of there. Although I don't think so, perhaps I have mis-identified the bird. There is a similar-looking species that is native to Yucatàn.

Whatever the facts of the matter are, these parrots are flourishing in Mèrida. The birds are always present, but their appearance in my own backyard depends upon the seasonal availability of fruits and nuts. At times they bed down in neighboring trees and begin their raucous chatter, which sounds to me like parakeets on steroids, at sunup. When food is not available nearby, I see or hear them flying over early in the morning, leaving nesting or sleeping areas to feed, and then again in the evening on their return to shelter for the night. I have seen flocks of more than thirty but it is more common here to see two to twelve together. Even at a distance or in poor light they are easy to spot, due to their constant chatter and distinctive look, with plump bodies, big blunt heads, stubby tails and short wings that they must exercise with comical rapidity to stay aloft.

The meek and tranquil personality of this wild neighbor could not be more different from that of the first. This "Tortolita," or Mourning Dove was one of many who have chosen to nest amongst bananas that grow along one side of the back patio and provide me with breakfast fruit most of the year. The only sound I have ever heard these birds utter is a very soft and sad "ooWOO, ooWOO," which appears to be associated with mating; a similar sounding call may be used by adults to attract strayed young.

These birds are ubiquitous. I have seen up to a dozen in my back garden area at one time, and have had as many as three pairs nesting in my yard at once. The females are a dull gray; males a dusty rose color. This one peering suspiciously out at me between green bananas is a male; Mourning Dove pairs appear to equally share egg-sitting and food-hunting chores. The great thing about this nesting situation is that the cupped form of the hands of fruits and large leaves of the banana plants provide natural protection, not much nest-construction is required, and the eggs can't roll out.

The two eggs develop and chicks grow at an amazing rate. Evolving from a tiny, thimble-sized, naked black lump upon hatching to a fluffy hen-egg sized fledgling, takes only a couple of weeks.

Something that surprises those of us who grew up in northern latitudes is that birds like these can manage to bring up several new generations of young in one season. I witnessed one pair of these birds raise three broods this past summer. And inevitably, they lose young, either to predators, like cats, possums, rats, and other predator/opportunists, such as Great-Tailed Grackles (known here by their Mayan name as K'aues), or from parasites, chills suffered during sudden drenching rains, and falls from nests. I have witnessed the drama of all of these accidents of nature in my own few square meters of back yard.

I usually let nature take its course. One nest this year was inside my house, in a vine that grows in the interior patio, which is walled in but open to the sky. One evening I heard a hollow smack, like the sound of an orange dropping on pavement, and sure enough, one of the chicks was on the floor. It looked badly injured, so rather than try to lift it back up to its precarious perch in the nest and possibly spooking the other chick, I made a nest on the floor, right below, out of a rag, expecting that its returning parents would find and take care of it. It was no use; the chick only made it until morning. I think that the adult birds know when a cause it lost. To my knowledge they never attended to the injured baby. They did manage to nurture the dead bird's nest mate to young adulthood.

On other occasions I have taken a more active role. I have a laundry and storage room that is not completely enclosed, and flying animals can easily enter. Tortolitas frequently attempt to nest inside, and usually I spot their nest building in time to discourage them before they have laid their eggs. However, they build quickly, and a few times I have come home to discover a new nest, complete with eggs, in the area. Here are a couple of examples.

The nest on top of the door failed because the ledge was too narrow, and eggs kept rolling off. After finding the second smashed egg on the floor, I figured I was doing the birds a favor by taking away the nest and forcing them to look for a new nest site. The nest on the shelf by the water heater was a different story. When first I noticed the nest, eggs were already present. All went well until the chicks were starting to test their wings. They would fly around in the safety of the laundry room, and each night end up back safely on the nest, until one night, not paying attention, I went in, flipped on the light and spooked the whole family. The adult flew out the open door, one chick ended up under the washing machine and the other behind the water heater. I managed to wedge the chicks out of their predicaments, and kept them in the house until the next morning when I was able to place them back in the laundry area, on top of the washer, where they reunited with their parents. A day later, they were all gone. About a week later I saw the same pair of adults, accompanied by one of their offspring, now nearly identical in size and appearance to its father, resting in the orange tree.

Here are Mom and Dad, on another occasion, surprised in their sleep among the oranges.

I have many wild neighbors. More about them later.