By Anne Muller

Not only will you doubly be helping animals who need homes, but you’ll be providing quality of life for the guys you adopt!

My Mom used to say, “How would you feel?” and I’ve lived my life always asking that question.  Early on, I realized that as much as I love animals, I’d hate to be the only human animal among other species– forever.  A stuffed toy of a human wouldn’t satisfy me for more than 5 minutes.

With my Mom’s question in mind, I always had at least two of a species.  It allowed me to be guilt-free when I had to leave for the day, and it also taught me the deep bonding between animals, their interactions, and their deep grief over the loss of their companion. 

Starting in the middle of a long sequence of pairs of our precious dogs, we adopted Taco to be a friend for Suni, and when Suni passed away, we adopted Lulu (Louie) to be a companion for Taco, and when Taco passed away, we adopted Chico.  Chico and Louie loved each other in their own way.  Skipping over many of the wonderful moments they had with each other, while Louie was in her final hours Chico did not stop licking her face.  He knew she was going to die, and he stayed near her and continued to try to bring her back.  I left for a bit to let them be with each other when Chico let out a loud, prolonged  howl. I knew it was the moment of Louie’s death.  

Please double your adoptions, and by providing your companion a friend of his or her own species, it will exponentially increase the amazing joy and fascination that will be brought into your life as well.

By Cynthia Hacker

I love frogs! In the Hudson Valley, and in much of the east coast stretching from Georgia to Canada, we have “wood frogs,” whose sounds resemble that of clucking chickens! I have a few places where I love to catch this amazing chorus. In a curious location on the Crag Trail and Bonticou Road intersection of Mohonk Preserve’s Springfarm area, there lies a small body of water called a “vernal pond” that forms each spring. The wood frogs that gather there put on quite a show. The sound is almost deafening! But make too much noise yourself, and they will stop. Give it a few minutes and they will forget you are there and once again begin to sing. I have found many of these vernal pools with singing frogs on other trails in Mohonk Preserve, as well, including the Overcliff Carriage Road, where I encountered clear cold waters with a whole slew of frogs at play. 

To learn more about frogs, their habitats, and the calls they make, visit:

https://animaldiversity.org/collections/frog_calls

Calls have been pouring in since the beginning of May.  But the day after Memorial Day was perhaps the busiest day we’ve had so far.  That day a call came in from Steve Howell in South Carolina.  Steve had scooped up a tiny deer in the middle of a road on a dark night.  The fawn would have been killed if he hadn’t intervened.  He took the fawn home, tried to find help and discovered our hotline number. 

We gave him several numbers of deer rehabbers in his area, and at 10 pm,  Lora Avant arrived with her husband to bring the little deer back to their center.  You can see that it was difficult for Steve to let the baby go!

Steve was so impressed with Lora that he called Wildlife Watch back to thank us for the referral.

Of all of the animals that are found, fawns are the ones that evoke the most emotion in people.  First there’s  surprise or shock upon seeing the fawn, then there’s an overwhelming need to protect the fawn, along with a desire to nurse.  While we normally suggest that people put the fawns back where they found them, there are times when circumstances make it impossible.

We’re so happy that our hotline allows us to connect the compassionate public with nearby wildlife rehabilitators.

We later contacted Lora to see how the fawn was, and ask if we could let our readers know of a wildlife rehabilitation center in her area.

She recommended Wild Things in Georgetown, SC. Lora wrote: The little buck is doing great! He is drinking about 2.5 ounces at each 4-hour feeding and has made himself at home with the two other little buck fawns. They are jumping and playing and nibbling on the grass.

Please visit their FB page here: 

https://www.facebook.com/wildlifefreedom1

And their website:

https://wildthingsfc.org/?fbclid=IwAR3MgJTnB0XuMUcMlAhVsbjWXNPMudjz50o6bvroAxtsb3_O8sV8bIPALQ

The Wildlife Watch Hotline - 877-WILDHELP receives hundreds of calls every year from across the country, and a few from Canada.  Police departments, conservation agencies, SPCAs, veterinary offices, and federal, state, and municipal offices have referred callers to Wildlife Watch for help. 

Your contribution to Wildlife Watch will help us to expand our volunteer service by allowing us to cover phones 24/7 and update our lists as new wildlife rehabilitators come on the scene.

By Cynthia Hacker

It’s been one year since our world changed, and many of us are reflecting on the last 12 months. March 2020 brought a threat to our shores we had never experienced. For the first time, we faced our own mortality in a very real, very scary way. I had always found peace and healing in the outdoors, but this year many of these spaces became quite crowded. I needed to go “off-the beaten path.” It was here that I found a simple, life-affirming connection and comfort with my “other neighbors.” The nonhuman kind.

In spring, life was beginning in the outdoors, while inside, we heard the sad stories of human life waning. It comforted me to see and hear all the new life of Spring in a place called “Giant’s Ledges Pocket Park,” a parcel of land that spans the northern part of the Shawangunks, connecting the iconic Bonticou Crag to the hamlet of Rosendale. One early April evening, when ki’s (Spring’s) magic was already in full bloom, I took the gradually climbing, woodsy trail, carpeted in fragrant, soft pine needles, to an inviting rocky cliff, where one can perch and look out on the valley below. I sat on the summit listening to the sounds of kin around me. The first to hit my ears was the music of the peepers in the leafy green chasm below. It is one of my favorite sounds in nature. These kin tell you that life is renewing and warm weather is coming. It’s funny, as you sit and begin to listen to the sounds of nature around you, it is as if a veil suddenly lifts, and underneath, you discover even more layers of “music.” I then recognized another familiar voice—it was the song of the Red-winged Blackbird, a friend I knew well from grassy flatlands. Ki sings a very strong, beautiful melody, easily recognized by his sharp, chirpy notes. Ki’s bold red and black colors also make him easy to spot for my not-so-sharp eyes. 

Pretty soon, the forest was alive with song. Birds have been around a long time; they are resourceful and they know how to survive. They thrive because they persist. Here, kin were singing out with the spirit of life. At this same moment, in the world of the human, kin were singing out from the streets, from porches, from windows—it was the time of the 7pm “applause” for healthcare workers. It’s no secret how separated most of us have become from the natural world, but here, I could feel the two songs mixing together. Perhaps all kin cry out in the same vein. We are so much more connected than we realize. 

Summer came and brought with it more lush green growth, more achingly beautiful days, and cerulean skies with what I like to call cartoon-perfect “Simpsons” clouds. Being outside was easy, and we enjoyed a little more socializing. This time, my attention was captured by kin of the six-legged variety. It began with the arrival of the dragonflies in the late spring. On New Paltz’s River to Ridge trail, hordes of them flew overhead, with gossamer wings and zigzag movements. I stood, my mouth agape, mesmerized as they danced overhead, their flight patterns reminding me of fancy airshows. They would zip through the air at full speed in one direction, then inexplicably and seamlessly U-turn toward the opposite way. I never knew they could fly so high or so fast, and I wondered what their movements communicated to each other.

At the Peterskill area of Minnewaska, I was treated to more dragonfly action, seeing them land on streams, leaves, and even my arms in the warm summer sun. Kin were sometimes neon blue, magenta, or even green—and they stared at me with their mysterious alien eyes. It feels like a gift when a dragonfly alights near you, or decides to buzz around you. You feel like you have been visited by someone special. Having evolved over 300 million years ago, they are one of the oldest creatures on earth, and these kin have captured our fancy for a long time. Folklore is filled with their stories.   What’s most astonishing is ki’s ability to transform. A dragonfly will molt and change an average of 17 times, with most of the changes occurring during the time they spend underwater before they even take flight. Ki’s amazing flight is the direct result of the ability to change. We, too, must learn to change with grace so that we may continue to evolve and thrive.

Summer continued to wow me with insect kin of all types—the fireflies at night reminding me there is still hope even in darkness; the monarchs, with their regal saffron-oranges and striking blacks, gracing me with their late-summer visit; and the occasional spotting of the praying mantis, reminding me that it is good to get very still and sit with your thoughts. Like summer, these beauties are only here for a short time. Next year, we will get to know their children. Until then, we make peace with saying goodbye to the warm embrace of summer nights and learn that life is, indeed, ephemeral.

Hudson Valley Fall 2020 was another masterpiece, and predictably brought throngs of tourists to view it. I was schooled by others not to get too angry—I mean, can you blame them? Who wouldn’t want to see this marvel of color? And, truthfully, it’s just another reason to feel and express gratitude for being able to live here and see it every day. So I did.

I often headed over to the Shawangunk Grasslands in Wallkill. One would think miles of flatlands and grasses would be boring, but I soon learned that was not the case. Look deeper into the grass and you will see that it is not one, but a multitude of different plants, each ki with another shade of golden, blending together in glowing harmony, lit by the sun. Here amongst the grasses, I found some very cool residents. Chittering on the dry ground, boing-boing-ing around my knees, there was Grasshopper, a new teacher and friend. Almost looking like a piece of dried grass himself, he played among my feet, bouncing along, occasionally springing into a short flight around my face, and then landing again in the grass. I found ki to be a very whimsical creature, though I knew well enough not to think the behavior was for my entertainment. Grasshoppers, I learned, are even older than dinosaurs; these kin have very strong survival skills.

Curious about my new friend, I began to read. I learned that ki has the amazing ability to catapult, jumping the equivalent of a football field. Ki is also a music-maker, creating individual rhythms through stridulation, or rubbing their hind legs and wings together. Then I found something even more interesting in an article by NPR titled, “What an Insect Can Teach Us About Adapting to Stress.” Normally solitary creatures, grasshoppers only form swarms under stressful conditions. The process of stridulation not only produces pretty music for my ears, but also produces serotonin for the grasshoppers, allowing them to feel good, and thus, more sociable. When these kin cluster together, they can share resources and survive; this “new version” of themselves can literally save them. We, too, can no longer see ourselves in the same way. Like the grasshopper, we must accept and grow, to survive.

Nature continued to bless me with so many gifts that this winter felt like one continuous Christmas. Early on, I got some of my old hikes back with a much less crowded Minnewaska. Now trained to really look at things, I delighted in noticing how in the first month of winter, the previous three seasons were also present. When I fixed my gaze upon the forest floor, I saw autumn leaves, their now tan skins mingling with the dark soil underneath. Remnants of the first snowfall dusted the leaves and remained in patches on logs, branches, and tree roots, its fresh white contrasting with pillows of bright green mosses. I could even see summer buds, though now blackened by winter, down in the brambles by the stream. Rocks with glints of reddish orange peaked out along the streambeds, adding even more color to the unique collage. The air had a freshness like no other time of the year—with the rushing water, dripping snowmelt, and carpets of moss and lichens, everything felt alive. It was a wonderful time to be in the forest.

For Christmas, I received the gift of meeting my first owl at the Grasslands. One day, I found the parking lot unusually crowded. People were everywhere with big, clunky camera set ups, and most trails were closed. I was quickly informed by the photographers to be quiet, as the Short-eared Owls were wintering here. Since they are large birds, I spotted one within seconds, but coincidentally, I had just been gifted a pair of binoculars from a local swap group. I eagerly took them out and saw my first owl face up, close and personal. Perched on one of the many posts in this popular birding sanctuary, ki was both majestic and strange, with a concave face that was at once beautiful and odd. I watched ki twitch that face back and forth, eyeing the land, until taking flight once again with a grand spread of his wings.

In January, no sooner had I commented on what a nice, balmy winter it had been than Winter decided to be, well, winter. A long stretch of snowfall kept the Hudson Valley wrapped in a powdery white blanket for much of February. A self-professed non-fan of snow, I groaned. Winter was a long season to begin with, I thought, and now with COVID-19 numbers on another very scary rise, I worried how I would ever get through. But soon enough, I was seduced by the beauty of the white stuff and I did something I’d never done before: I fell in love with winter. I couldn’t get enough of it--the way the snow glistens in the sun, the way snow will let the wind create works of art on its surface. Walking in the woods on a snowy day was like entering another world, a hidden treasure. In a way, winter is the most personal of all the seasons. The quiet is so close, it feels like a friend, a sort of ki of its own.

On what we knew would probably be the last big snowfall of 2021, my partner and I ventured into the woods as the flakes fell, and played in the Narnia-like magic that is winter. I purposely went off the trail, submerging myself in the glitter I knew wouldn’t be here that much longer. I even made a snow angel and lay on my back, studying the treetops. I couldn’t believe it. I would miss winter. Ki had taught me to allow more stillness, to get between the spaces of my thoughts. To be present, and experience a deeper knowing.

A WARNING TO PEOPLE WHO GO TO 

VETERINARIANS DURING THE PANDEMIC

By Anne Muller, Editor of the Wildlife Watch Binocular

If you’ve taken your companion animal to a veterinarian during the pandemic, you know that veterinarians are not allowing their human family inside. That can, and in my case has resulted in being given instructions loosely in the parking lot that, if not clearly understood, or if not given at all, can result in injury or death of your beloved companion

When there is no in-person contact with patients’ families, new protocols need to be implemented.  When giving a product as potent as insulin to a family member to administer, the first step is to demonstrate with a diagram, zoom, or in person, just how to measure a unit on the syringe they’ll be using.

What should have been the beginning of a new medical program for Bee turned into a nightmare for which I will never forgive myself or the veterinary office.

I understand that veterinary visits are being done in an unprecedented way, and that the protocols have not yet been worked out, but I implore everyone, vets, staff, and human companions of patients to be crystal clear about dosages and techniques for helping their companion animals.  Veterinary offices should not assume anything.  They need to give clear instructions using detailed diagrams or photos, even in the parking lot.

My boy didn’t deserve to die, I didn’t deserve to have not been shown the correct dosage and to live forever with the guild of having killed my boy with an insulin overdose. I was the person he trusted most in the world.    Compounding the tragedy, BeeBee misses his brother terribly and has been grieving for him, as have I.

I can only pray that this helps someone else. The veterinarian said they will be changing their procedures based on what happened.