No heat? Blame it on...

 When we first moved to the farm, the coyotes kept me up at night. Their yips and howls made me get out of bed, go outside and tell them to quiet down.

I've since learned that smaller critters can wreak havoc on everyday life.

This fall, tiny creatures have left me cold.

When I turned on heat in the workshop a few months ago, the clatter of clanking metal made me hit the off button. Something was seriously wrong with the heater.

The culprit?

A mud dauber had built a nest on the fan blade. The weight of the nest threw the blade off balance, causing a racket.

At a young age, I learned the difference between the friendly and mean wasps. The black ones, or mud daubers, meant no harm. The red wasps, with their honeycomb nests, required a wide berth. Their stings hurt, itched and caused me to swell like Popeye.

Yet, somehow, this innocent mud dauber had caused the heating woes.

A few weeks later, as the temperatures hit freezing and the wind blew, I lit a fire in our wood-burning stove. While we have a geo-thermal heating system, there is nothing quite as cozy as a fire on a cold day.

After lighting a fire, smoke began seeping out of the stove and stove pipe and filling the house. Something was seriously wrong.

The culprit?

A bird had built a nest in the stove pipe. We don't know what kind, but it was one small enough to climb over the dislodged wire netting. 

A new stovepipe cover with sturdy wiring was installed.

We now have fire in the wood-burning stove, and I can sit by it at night, listen to the coyotes sing, and just return to my book. 

A Childhood Sound Returns

The first bird sound I learned as a child was the distinctive Bobwhite quail.

His "bob-white" call rolled across the countryside--and soon rolled over my tongue.

And then it disappeared.

For years, the only bob-white sound I've heard have been around sheepdog trials. For many handlers, the come-bye, or go left, whistle is the sound of bob-white.

Until this spring.

For the first time in years, I've heard a Bobwhite quail.

These birds live in overgrown fields, shrubby areas and grasslands--something that's been lost to modern farming practices and development. Years ago, we established a wildlife strip along our fence rows and have turned a farm field into pasture. Maybe the quail find it attractive.

As I listen to him sing throughout the day, I watch the Border collies. Do they think this feathered visitor is giving herding commands?

They don't seem to notice.

Because they can tell the difference between a human bob-white call and that of the real thing.

How do they know?

When skiing in the woods, I find a lot of holes dug in the snow.

Judging by the tracks and the proximity to the trees, I assume that a squirrel is making them. Sometimes, but not often, I find shells near the holes.

Because the squirrel is not around, I can't ask him:

How do you know where to dig? Do you follow your nose, your memory, or some pull of the earth's magnetic field.

And, what is your success rate? If I find five holes around the tree, am I to assume you found five nuts? Or did you find just one? Or none -- and you went to bed hungry?

And, did you notice, as I did, that the grass, under all that snow, sometimes shows hints of green?

NOTE: For those who like scientific answers ... Scientists aren't sure how squirrels find their stash -- whether it's scent, landmarks or memory. But grey squirrels scatter their nuts throughout an area while red squirrels create little piles of nuts. Thus, the grey squirrel helps re-seed the forest more than the red squirrel. And squirrel connoisseurs often say that the grey squirrel is better eating -- not as gamy as the red.

The Thanksgiving Heron

I saw him before the dogs. In the early light, he was a grey mass nestled near the briars.

Though the dogs hadn't spotted him, he decided it was best to take flight. The great blue heron has to make that decision faster than most birds. His big body, with the gangling legs, long neck and pointed beak, just doesn't lift airborne as quickly as other fowl.

The Border collies, busy in their mouse hunting game, didn't notice until he was 20 feet in the air. They showed little interest in the great bird as he circled the area. Clearly, he didn't want to leave his pond.

I don't recall seeing the great herons when I was growing up in the 1970s. But, when horseback riding in the 1990s with my birder friend, I began to notice these prehistoric-looking birds.

"They bring good luck," she said, and we always delighted in spotting one on the way to endurance riding competitions. That would certainly mean we'd have a good horseback ride.

The great blue heron is no longer rare in Ohio. Though, my breath still catches when I spot one. I've seen this guy a lot this year, as he enjoys fishing in the pond that I pass when walking the dogs.

On this Thanksgiving morning, the pond already had patches of ice from the first cold spell of the season. Soon, this heron would be moving on in search of unfrozen water.

And so I lingered, watching the bird, reflecting on the joys I've associated with the heron over the years, and treasuring the joy of spotting him on Thanksgiving Day.

Be Wary of the Birds of Spring

Don't believe all that nonsense about happy bird songs of spring. Today, I was reminded of the more startling bird sounds. As I was walking near the corn field, I was looking at the ground below. Had it dried enough so I tractor pulling a manure spreader didn't leave tracks? The rustling six feet away caused me to jump sideways. Two Canada geese were resting or nesting, and when I was too close, they took flight. Birds that size taking off from among dried corn stalks can make quite a sound. After my heart returned to normal, I resumed my walk. Later, after working my Border collie on sheep, I exited through a sheep stall. As I walked by the hay bin, a hen emerged squawking. Apparently, she had decided the hay feeder was a good place for a nest, and I was too close.

Walking in Sunshine, on the Snow

Lately, I’ve envied the dogs. They’re lightweight enough that often, they run atop the snowdrifts. If I tried to follow them, my feet sunk a foot or deeper into the snow. Yesterday morning, the elements -- freezing temperatures, sunshine, and time -- fell into place, and I joined them on top of the ice-crusted snow. The two Border collies and I walked the wildlife area that borders our pasture and farm, and I saw the farm from a different perspective. Often, I was a foot higher than had I been walking on bare ground. Sometimes, I grew another two feet. The snow covered most of the grasses and weeds, giving the wildlife area a bare, clean look. However, some saplings, taller weeds, and grasses poked through, revealing the wildlife activity that continues through winter. Critters had eaten the bark of a sapling. Others had eaten the seeds from a plant. Tracks showed where the little critters, mice, found openings in the snow and burrowed under to the air pockets and ground below. Every once in a while, I was reminded of how fragile that snow was. Occasionally, the icy snow crust collapsed and my foot sunk into the snow.

Cat or Coon?

I wish we had white barn cats, I think as I watch a dark figure bound from the house to the barn. In the darkness, I can't tell if it's a tabby cat or a raccoon. Two of the three barn cats are tabbies, a color that blends into the landscape. The cats came to us as strays. I'm sure their color helped them survive. A white kitten would be an easy mark for a hawk, a dog, a coyote. Maybe that's why so many barn cats lack the flash of their indoor cousins.

An Unwelcome Visitor

Holding the gun, my husband hands me the spotlight. It is 5:50 in the morning. My predawn walk with the three Border collies turned out badly. Those predawn walks can be delightful when the meteors shower, snow falls, or sweet curing hay hangs in the air. Sometimes, when rain pounds or the cold wind bites, they are miserable. Sometimes, like when Tag met the skunk or when I walked into the snowdrift blocking the driveway, they bring unpleasant surprises. The three dogs and I were several hundred feet from the house when we heard the panicked cries. My two Border collies darted toward the house. The foster dog, who was on leash, had no choice but to wait as I picked my way over the ice-covered driveway. When I came into the yard, the dogs were circling a dark figure on the ground. I called off the dogs, and the raccoon hobbled away to the safety of trees. After sending the dogs to their crates, I gave my husband his morning wake-up call. “There’s a coon in the yard,” I say. Live on a farm long enough and you dismiss the notion that all critters can live in harmony. If the coon stayed, the chickens were in danger. Minutes later, we are standing in the freezing drizzle. “Hold the spotlight behind me so I can see the sights,” my husband said. The gun pops. The coon twitches and falls to its side. I forget my husband’s instructions and let my finger slip off the “on” button. Darkness surrounds us.