Turtlecop! All Three Exciting Episodes! Next!

Although the scarf and helmet might suggest appropriate turtle use, the stirrups are ergonomically  unsuitable, as is the upright posture needed for this activity.

First Episode

I was nearly finished my Saturday morning at Tommy Thompson Park, on the Leslie Street Spit, when I saw a large dog merrily galloping across my line of sight. This dog and I were still far enough into the park to be beyond the signs that tell humans not to bring their pets to the park, and the sign that carefully explains why not to. While I realize that canine literacy rates in Canada are very low, I thought surely there must be a human owner somewhere about.

A minute later I caught up with bowser. He was on a ridge a few metres higher than the trail. He was defecating. I started to pull a pick-up bag from my  coat pocket. It was then that a guy maybe 30 years old, about twenty feet ahead of me on the trail, softly called his dog. I waded in with both flippers.

“First of all, you should be picking up after your dog! Second of all, he should be on a leash! Third, dogs aren’t allowed in here — the park is well signed!”

The poor bagless schmuck told me that he had just been explaining (the other guy with him was apparently a stranger) that when he was growing up here, he used to let his dogs run all over the place. Ignoring the logic that if he already knew his error, he should have already called his dog, I replied, “Well, it’s now a sensitive wildlife area, and dogs are not allowed! I don’t bring my dog here!” Handing off the bag to the hangdog owner, I went on my way. About twenty minutes later, while waiting for e.g. to meet me, I saw the young man leave the park, his big bouncy dog on a leash.

And I felt…really kinda crummy. I rarely intervene like that. If I hadn’t seen the owner, I would have simply picked up the poop and grumbled to myself about some people giving dogs a bad reputation. And I also didn’t know how much of my speaking up had to do with the fact that e.g. and Cai and I had come here one morning last summer, read the signs, and decided that e.g. would drive Cai over to the offleash area at nearby Cherry Beach while I explored the spit. If I’m going to abide by the rules, then by golly, everybody else can too!

Second Episode

When e.g. swung by with the car, I told her what had happened. Her first response was, “Anger can be a deterrent.” Then she proceeded to relate another example of citizen policing that she’d heard at the dog park that morning.

A woman walking her dogs saw a much younger woman eating take-out chicken pieces and dropping the bones on the ground. Older woman told younger woman that chicken bones can harm dogs. Younger woman started arguing with older woman and insulting her. When older woman walked away, younger woman threw the chicken bones at the dogs.

Final Episode

Yesterday, I played one of my least-favourite games: Homework Police. I had gotten one version of requirements from Jack’s mum, and was getting another from Jack. Much growling and squealing throughout the afternoon and evening ended with Baby Bear going to bed in tears, and Papa Bear (me) mad at everybody. This morning, as we were getting our coats on to head for the streetcar, I told Jack I made a lousy cop.

“From now on, if you’re gonna write your homework assignments on your arm and lose them during your swimming lesson, that’s your problem, not mine. Any time you want my help, I’ll be glad to help you; otherwise, you’re 11 now, so it’s time to be responsible for your own stuff. Okay?” Jack listened, silently, seriously, nodding. Then we headed out together to the transit stop. Jack got on the streetcar and waved; Turtle waved back, and threw away her badge.

Spit in the Lake (II)

Yesterday I wrote about viewing 15 species of anseriformes in Tommy Thompson Park. I also saw three charadriiformes, a piciforme, a gruiforme, a pelecaniforme, a falconiforme, and nine passeriformes, plus an Eastern Cottontail and a fat raccoon. Not bad for a garbage dump.

The Leslie Street Spit is an accumulation at the foot of Leslie Street, Toronto, of debris from demolished buildings. It was begun in the late 1950s and was originally intended as a breakwater for the harbour. While the need for the breakwater diminished, the rubble pile kept on growing, and with the dirt that came from new basement diggings, little by little the spit seeded itself. Grass and cottonwood trees and other sheltering or tasty plants started to grow. In the 70s a grassroots (!) lobby group called Friends of the Spit arose, which has battled to promote it as a wildlife refuge, and thwart plans for golf courses and carnival activities, ever since. Sometime in the 90s (I think) Tommy Thompson park was inaugurated.

During the week, dump trucks still rumble through with their loads, but on the weekends the 5-km spit is open to the public. People come to cycle, blade, jog, stroll, birdwatch. The Toronto Field Naturalists hold monthly nature walks. And the Tommy Thompson Park Bird Research Station allows people to see what they’re up to.

Thanks to some information from Themarvelousinnature, I was able to find the research station yesterday morning. It’s a tiny wooden cabin with a friendly verandah, one door, and windows on three sides. Inside, a desk stretches from one wall to the other. Completing the decor are a couple of chairs and a locker bedecked with photos of birds the station has banded.

When I showed up at 11, the volunteers were returning from making their rounds of the mist nets. Although they’d been at it since 6 am, on this day they had found fewer than half a dozen birds. I was lucky, then, to see them returning with one indignant male cardinal. I was invited into the building to see them inspect the squawking mite, who raised his crest as high as possible in an effort to prove that he was actually a crocodile, and they’d better not mess with him!

Dan, who was holding him, gently fanned out one wing, explaining that a lot of birds can be aged by the extent of moulting. He went on to say that this method doesn’t work on some birds, such as cardinals, who moult all their feathers. Then I was shown the band already on this fellow’s leg. It was the second time their nets had caught him; no wonder he was grouchy! They flipped through their binder for his band number, and found that the first time they’d caught him was in the autumn of 2006. A bird at least two years old, then. Giving the cardinal a last fond stroke on its ruffled crown, Dan pulled the plug from some clear plastic piping, maybe eight inches in diameter, which described a U shape from the desk top to the outside. He reached into the pipe, released the bird, and away it flew.

Follow-up Photos — and a Contest

Here are two updates on my entries of March 12 and 13.

1. (See “Long Winter’s Journey into Spring) After more than a week of house arrest and puny little walks around the block while his leg was healing, Cardiman got three days in a row of hikes in the woods — two in Owen Sound and one here along the local river. Friday’s hike was an hour long; Saturday’s and Sunday’s were more like two each. All that fresh air and exercise has been doing both him and me a world of good.

2. (See “Cute and Conscientious” and “Symbol of the Turtle”) Guess what? All three species of my family symbolically adopted a baby sea turtle in my honour! Here it is now, reading my latest entry. I think there should be a name-and-genderize-the-sea-turtle-stuffy contest. Winner gets…umm…uh… How ’bout, winner gets to name any topic, and I’ll write a 500-word tale about it? Deadline March 30!

Going to Blazes

The Bruce Trail runs along the Niagara Escarpment in Ontario from Queenston to Tobermory. Back in 1967 when it was officially opened, before Canada went metric, it was about 500 miles long; now it’s 845 kilometres (plus half again as much in side trails). We like hiking bits of it on sunny days.

At Inglis Falls on Friday, doggles and I walked a few yards of Bruce on our way around a loop trail. Yesterday at the Pottawatomi Conservation Area, we strolled or struggled along another 2.2 km — about a mile and-a-third — to the town line before retracing our steps.

Up we went along the edge of the cliff, from Jones Falls through cedar scrub into the birch woods at the top. The line of hard-packed snow was mostly level or gently sloped, but occasionally we had to clamber up a steeper spot. Two or three times I dropped the leash so that my kneeless fox and I could find our way over the tricky bits at our own pace, and not jerk each other off balance. Each time, he waited for me to catch up and take the leash again.

And a good thing, too. There was plenty of great sniffing to be had for the discerning nose, and the little herding dog could have taken off to round up red squirrels, mice, fox, chipmunks, cottontails, deer, or grouse. And he could have tangled with a coyote or fisher, and come out the loser. And he could have been sprayed by a skunk. And he could have been killed by a dose of porcupine quills. And he could have been bitten by a rabid raccoon. And he could have slipped on the snow right over the edge of the cliff.

Instead, my canine companion and I enjoyed a carefree hike, connected together by six feet of purple nylon strapping. We stayed on the trail, going from blaze to blaze, ignoring the impromptu paths to the precipice that other humans had made. He sniffed, and I saw, tracks of all kinds. We noticed the grouse droppings, the porcupine browsings, the pileated woodpecker chippings. We also noticed that I had left my bookbag and water bottle in the car.

Since dehydration can cause carelessness, I phoned my partner, who was down by Jones Falls near the parking lot, and she brought the bottle up to us. Meanwhile, I used a mossy outcropping beside the trail as a misericord, and Poggles scrambled up to sit beside me. The outcropping was on the inside, not the cliffside, of the trail, so that we faced towards the view. I gave my dog teeny chunks of cheese. We relaxed. There were no birds except a few chickadees calling “Yoo-hoo!” and some Canada Geese scrutinizing the cornfield down below. The only other sound was the far-off swish of traffic.

Suddenly, I heard a whistling. It was the wingbeats of a crow, who flew up the escarpment face, over the treetops, and away. Pupster didn’t care about the bird; he did, however, crane his neck in astonishment as a chipmunk crossed the trail and proceeded up a log about two feet from his wide eyes and flaring snout.

My partner arrived a few minutes later with the water and her camera. On our return, she took lots of photos; we admired the grouse droppings and the tree chewings and the various animal tracks; and back down at the river, we watched a chestnut- coloured weaselly minkish thing galumphing along the far bank.

We were safe, we were sated, and we were starving. A few miles down the road at the Chatsworth Coffee Time we sat in the car, lunching on burgers and the fattest, hottest, crispest onion rings I’ve ever eaten. Poggles had a couple of bickies in the back seat, and then settled down for the two-hour ride home.

You’re Nobunny Till Somebunny Cares

May you experience this holiday weekend in the combination of safe, sane, sacred, and silly that fits you best.

Inglis Falls

 
My partner first brought me here a few years ago, when I was going through a rough patch. Maybe it was after my dad died, I’m not sure; I just remember that sorrow, fatigue, aplatissement were my overstaying guests. My partner thought that maybe I would like the view at Inglis Falls, or that something might distract me while she shot a few pictures.

 A low wall surrounds the gorge where the water skips down a steep staircase till it reaches the Sydenham River. It actually does look pretty, with a limestone cliff backdrop and cedars and the remains of the mill at the top and a respectable volume of water. A bridge across the river at the top of the falls can extend your visit along a few Conservation Area walking loops or a section of the Bruce Trail. In low season, you don’t even have to pay for parking.

But it wasn’t the look of the place that caught my attention that first time; it was the sound. As I leaned against the wall, I relaxed into the waterfall’s voice as if into a pillow, and it sang a healing song, and smoothed the lines from my brow. I could feel the sound entering my ears and slipping smoothly down my bones into each limb.

Today we came to visit it again. My partner spent an hour capturing the ice ornaments and frozen foam while the dog and I walked a three-kilometre loop over hard white crust. Then she and poggles headed for the car while I went to the lookout. The voice of the falls came to me again with its healing. Time disappeared, nothing remained but its song.