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Prairie Dog Companion

Prairie Dog Companion

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First of all, I’m a sucker for animals that sit on their hind legs in cute poses. This is why Copper scores so many doggie treats from me. He learned early on that if he assumes this position his begging yield goes way up.

I would never think of feeding a prairie dog, of course, even without a sign to remind me. But that doesn’t stop me from admiring the little critters, their high-pitched territorial squeals, their fat little bottoms disappearing down almost-too-small burrows, their industriousness and sociability.

True, if you remove the bushy tail you have little more than a rat, but prairie dogs do have tails, which they shake like crazy when a stranger appears.

When I was young I wanted a prairie dog for a pet. This was before I learned that prairie dogs live together in colonies and to take a singleton away from this happy habitat would be to doom it for sure. So I settled for a white mouse. But every time I spot a prairie dog I have a secret desire to bring it home with me. It could be my prairie dog companion.

(No animals were harmed — or fed — in the taking of these photographs.)

“Long Live the King”

“Long Live the King”

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A quick trip to Kentucky last weekend plopped me down squarely in horse country on the big day. I watched American Pharoah clinch the Triple Crown only an hour away from the racetrack where he won the Derby.

There was a certain inevitability about the win, not just the odds and the sportscasters’ predictions but the three-year-old leading the entire race, his second-only-to-Secretariat pace, his supple gallop, his champion’s heart.

Only a few minutes before the race, the televised coverage took what I considered an unusual but  heartening turn. It showed a printing press whirring out a newspaper and speculated on what tomorrow’s headline would be.

Was I imagining this? A print newspaper? A headline? Not a click, a tweet or a post?

So yesterday, before I left Lexington, I picked up the newspaper. The Lexington Herald Leader‘s headline, which I regret I did not photograph, was “Long Live the King.” The Washington Post‘s, which I regret I could not photograph better, was “American History.”

American History in more ways than one.

The Foxes

The Foxes

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We were in a stand off, the fox and I. He had darted out from a small stand of trees in the neighbor’s yard, angling to cross the street and enter the woods beyond. I was in his way.

For a few seconds we took each others measure. I saw a sleek animal with perky ears and a bushy tail. He saw a long-legged creature with wires coming out of her ears. Neither of us was going anywhere.

I thought about my initial few fox sightings in this neighborhood, maybe half a dozen in the first 10 years. Now I spot a fox every few weeks. And last month, on one of the first warm days of spring, I saw a den of baby foxes a few feet off the Cross County Trail. They were sunning themselves on a rock, clambering over a tree trunk and batting at each other in a most fetching way.

Will foxes soon be as common as deer?  I hope not. I hope they stay elusive and cunning, playful and bold.  I hope they stay wild — for at least a little while longer.


(The baby foxes are in the center of this photo; you have to zoom in.)

Wild Cat

Wild Cat

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It would have been easy to blame Copper, but he hadn’t been outside yet yesterday morning when we noticed the cat up in the tree.  Not just any cat — a large, wild-looking one with a raccoon-striped tail.  And not just any tree — one of the tall oaks.

From what I could figure he was 30 or 40 feet up. The temperature was in the 20s, with a stiff breeze that moved the trunk from side to side. 
The cat had found a perch of sorts, and at times looked content, as if sunning itself. But the longer it remained, the more agitated it seemed, shifting position, making half-hearted attempts to claw its way down. 
Finally, there was real movement, a quick scamper, an impossible leap and — after a few heart-stopping seconds when it seemed as if the animal almost certainly hadn’t survived the fall — a glimpse of that same striped tail moving side to side. 
Within seconds, the cat had scampered out of the brush, under the fence and into the woods. 
Destination unclear, motivation unknown. It may not have been a wildcat … but it was a wild cat.
Fox Prints

Fox Prints

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Our first real snow of the season — white, fluffy, measurable — and my first real glimpse of it out the front window. As I open the blinds a fox darts across the driveway from the right. He was spry, lean, red, dashing. He was moving from one stand of trees to another, to the woods behind the house across the street.

Maybe I startled him, or maybe not. Maybe he always moves that quickly, bushy tail flying. A wild thing for sure. But a wild thing with proprioception, aware in his animal way of how easily he was spotted.

I wish I could have caught him on camera. His redness so much redder against the sparkly whiteness of the snow. But my camera was many steps away.

Instead, I made do with the prints he left behind.

Birthday Boys in Red

Birthday Boys in Red

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Today we celebrate two indeterminate birthdays. Beethoven was baptized on December 17, 1770, which leads most scholars to believe he was born on December 16 of that year. Happy 244th birthday, Beethoven!

Also on this date, Copper the dog came to live at our house. It was 2006 and things were pretty busy. Arguably too busy to add a dog to the confusion. But add we did, and once the dust settled (that would be the dust left by Copper as he ran away from us), we were left with a lot of joy. Not knowing his exact birth date, we’ve always celebrated it today. Happy 9th birthday, Copper!

Can’t think of much else Copper and Beethoven have in common. Unless it’s their Christmas attire.

Rituals of Democracy

Rituals of Democracy

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I made it to the polls last night with 30 minutes to spare. It was dark and you could barely see the volunteers handing out sample ballots.

Three members of my family* had already voted. It gave me a warm feeling to know that others had been there before me. Also a warm feeling to know that this was my last errand of the day, that after this I could go home and collapse.

And this morning, poring over the paper for results and analysis, checking online for the races the Washington Post didn’t cover. (Jim Gray, my father’s good friend, handily re-elected mayor of Lexington, Kentucky!)

The rituals of democracy, which seems flawed these days, but which, after all, is the best hope we have.

(This does not include Copper, though he purloined my “I Voted” sticker.)

The Deer Hunter

The Deer Hunter

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I had seen warning signs like this one along the trail for months — “Archery Program in Process.” But until last weekend I had never seen a deer hunter. He was decked out in camouflage and his face was smudged with paint. If he had been in a tree stand I would not have seen him.

But he was on a trail and I was, too. We passed each other, exchanged brief hellos. He held an elaborate bow, nothing like what I remember as a child. It was all metal and wires. It meant business. And he did, too. If I’d had more time to prepare myself I might have asked him to pose for a photo. But he was in a hurry and did not look happy. He was not dragging a six-point buck behind him.

I curse the deer that gobble up the daylilies and scrape the bark off the Kwanzan cherry. I think of them not as Bambi but as Super Rat. I wish they were gone — all but one or two I could spot across a sylvan glade once or twice a year.

But the idea of this guy up in a tree looking for movement, scanning the woods with his high-powered scope — well, frankly, it creeps me out. So I gave the deer hunter a wide berth — and I shivered as he passed.

One and Only

One and Only

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Yesterday I walked the Twin Branches Nature Trail, which is now part of the Cross-County trail. The last time I walked it there was huge earth-moving equipment deep in the woods and a new dam going in. I got hopelessly lost on the detour, was caught in a fierce summer thunderstorm and rescued by a homeowner who saw me shivering under a tree and invited me into his garage.

Sunday’s adventure was much calmer — although there was a little excitement. Here’s a sign I saw on my way into the woods. It was no problem heeding the warnings: Stay on the trail. Check. Do not overturn rocks or logs. Check again. Do not approach a copperhead. Check for sure on this one.

But my favorite part of the warning is this: [Copperheads] are Reston’s only venomous snake. Whew! I feel much better now.

Leaping Lizards

Leaping Lizards

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Alliteration aside, these critters really do leap. This little guy did. I was inching close to another reptile, a slender, smiling chameleon (they’re all slender and smiling to me), when I was startled almost to camera-dropping by this lizard.

One moment he was on the pavement and the next he was on the trunk of a palm tree, where I snapped this photo. And he stayed there long enough that I could snap several more.

There are no lizards where I live so I’ve been enjoying the fauna here. I probably look as strange to natives as the squirrel-gawking visitors to D.C. do to me.