Owls Aren't Wise and Bats Aren't Blind (30 page)

Raccoons are extremely vocal animals when they wish to be, and exhibit a wide variety of calls. These include a sound variously described as twittering or chirring, although it strikes me as more of a rattling; snarls and growls; and shrill, angry squalling that greatly resembles a fight between two tomcats.

Then there is another raccoon sound that few seem to have heard, but it’s one I can verify from personal experience. One summer night a number of years ago, with the bedroom windows open, my wife and I were awakened by an eerie sound that seemed to come from some indeterminate place and distance. It’s nearly impossible to describe the sound in writing, but it seemed like something from a movie about outer space—an
oinnnnggg, oinnnnggg,
oinnnnggg, oinnnnggg, oinnnnggg,
with each
oinnnnggg
in a series pitched a little lower than the preceding one. Another way of describing the sound might be that it resembled the plucking of a string with a lengthy reverberation, or perhaps something produced by a synthesizer.

So weird was the sound, which simultaneously seemed both far away and near at hand, that the hairs on my neck rose, and I was covered with goose bumps. I don’t mind admitting that I was frightened and began to wonder if there might indeed be some truth in tales of space aliens and flying saucers!

Finally, summoning what little courage I still retained, I took a flashlight and went out onto the lawn. A sweep of the flashlight at first revealed nothing, but then the sound suddenly seemed to come from a big maple tree by the corner of the house. When the beam of light scanned the maple, the culprits were revealed. Everywhere I shone the light, there seemed to be a pair of glowing eyes, and it was soon apparent that a mother raccoon and her large brood of little ones were in the tree and had been making that uncanny sound. I have no idea whether it was the mother, the young, or both making such an unearthly noise, but it clearly was the product of a raccoon’s vocal apparatus.

Several years later I wrote a short item about this experience for the newsletter of a conservation organization. In response, I received a letter from a gentleman who told me that he had encountered the same strange noise and had been able to identify raccoons as the source. Evidently this is not a common raccoon vocalization, or more people would have heard it, but coons are most definitely capable of uttering such a sound.

Raccoons are prolific, which is one of the reasons for their present overpopulation. Usually four or five young, though sometimes as many as seven, are born in April or May, following a gestation of a little over two months. In forested areas, where there are no den sites conveniently provided by humans and their activities, raccoons prefer to den in hollow trees. In the absence of a hollow tree, however, a hollow log, a crevice among rocks, or even a burrow in the ground will suffice. The male coon, called a boar, plays no role in raising the young; indeed, a female will drive a male away from her den if he approaches too closely.

Raccoon kits are blind at birth; their eyes open in about three weeks, although they don’t have full vision for a bit longer. They’re able to run and climb in less than two months, and can accompany their mother on her mainly nocturnal travels after about ten weeks.

Raccoons are medium-sized animals. The total length of an adult, including an eight-to-ten-inch tail, runs from about two feet to a bit more than three feet. Weight usually varies from ten to thirty pounds, although a very large male may occasionally reach thirty-five pounds. No doubt in some situations, raccoons grossly overfed on garbage, birdseed, suet, and similar goodies will even exceed that weight.

As previously noted, adult raccoons are savage fighters that few predators want to tackle. Wolves and cougars were probably their principal enemies historically, but these big predators are now absent from most of the coons’ range. Bears and bobcats may kill one occasionally, but humans are their main predators nowadays.

If adults are immune to most predation, raccoon kits are another matter, at least until they’re well on their way to adulthood. When they first start traveling about with their mother, the kits can easily fall prey to great horned owls, large hawks, coyotes, fishers, bobcats, bears, and any other predator large and strong enough to tackle fairly small prey. By fall, though, they’re able to defend themselves from the majority of predators.

Raccoons seem to enjoy water, especially wading around in the shallows searching for food. The mud along almost any stream or pond is apt to reveal quantities of little handlike prints—the evidence of this creature’s predilection for wet areas. Coons are also very strong swimmers when the need arises, although they aren’t particularly swift in the water.

With the approach of winter, raccoons put on layers of fat, much like miniature bears, and then go into winter quarters when really cold weather and/or deep snow arrive. But raccoons are not hibernators. That is, they don’t go into a deep sleep like the woodchuck, or have special adaptations like the bear, to help them survive the long winter. Instead, they simply remain dormant during the worst weather, but emerge to wander about seeking food during warm spells. Thus raccoon tracks can sometimes be seen in the snow during a winter thaw.

At one time, winter dens were most often in hollow trees, although hollow logs, holes in the rocks, or burrows sometimes sufficed. As already noted, however, all that has changed. Now a high percentage of raccoons den in or under some man-made structure. Male raccoons mostly den in solitary fashion, but a mother and her nearly grown kits will often den together.

In reasonable numbers, raccoons are fascinating animals, well worth studying and observing. Unfortunately, they’ve now become a serious problem for humans and most especially for some species of wildlife. With wolves and cougars gone from most of the eastern United States and Canada, humans now exert the only real control on raccoon numbers, other than such nasty diseases as rabies and distemper. Given present conditions, including the unduly sentimental view that many have of the raccoon, we can expect their overabundance to continue.

16

Not a Cat, But . . .: The Red Fox

MYTHS

Red foxes weigh twenty-five pounds or more.

Red foxes roll, tumble, and leap in order to attract curious prey within pouncing distance.

Red foxes are nonnative, brought here by European settlers.

LIKE A WIND-DRIVEN TONGUE OF FLAME, THE FOX FLICKERS THROUGH THE UNDERBRUSH OR, LIKE A CREEPING GROUND FIRE, MOVES SLOWLY AND STEALTHILY THROUGH THE GRASS IN SEARCH OF PREY. With its bright reddish-yellow or reddish-orange coat, neat black “stockings,” alert ears with black backs, and white beneath its body and pointed muzzle, the red fox
(Vulpes
fulva)
is unquestionably one of nature’s loveliest and most elegant creatures. Even its scientific name, taken verbatim from Latin (
Vulpes,
fox, and
fulva,
reddish yellow) pays tribute to the predominant color of the red fox’s handsome coat.

Red foxes aren’t always red, although that’s their usual color. Two noteworthy variations are the silver and cross foxes. The silver fox is basically a black phase of the red fox, so named because silver-tipped guard hairs grow out through the black in winter, giving the fox a silvery appearance. The cross fox is named for the dark fur, in the shape of a cross, spanning the shoulders and running down the back. These two variations, found mostly in far northern climes, were rare enough to be extremely valuable for their fur in the days before fur farms began producing them.

No account of the red fox’s appearance would be complete without mention of its glorious tail, commonly called its “brush.” This splendid appendage is so thickly furred that it has real substance if squeezed, yet it weighs virtually nothing. The tip of the brush is white and is known as the “tag.” No other North American canid, including other species of foxes, has this white tag. Resplendent in its winter coat, a running red fox, magnificent brush seemingly floating behind it, is truly a sight to be treasured!

Red fox

The fox’s tail evidently has considerable value to its owner. In extremely cold weather, foxes often curl up tightly and cover nose, paws, and legs with that thick, luxurious brush; no doubt this helps to reduce heat loss substantially. Further, the tail is useful in fox body language to convey such messages as dominance, submissiveness, aggression, or playfulness.

The red fox is unquestionably a member of the dog family. Even a cursory glance reveals that it looks very much like a small, slender dog that bears little resemblance to the cat family. Yet biologist J. David Henry, author of a number of articles and books on the red fox, has demonstrated after years of research that red foxes have a number of very catlike—and hence quite undog like—traits.

Henry, whose lengthy scientific inquiries have done for foxes what Maurice Hornocker has done for cougars and L. David Mech for wolves, has compiled impressive findings that document both catlike habits and catlike adaptations in the red fox. Consider hunting behavior, for example.

Red foxes hunt in much the same manner as small cats, and feed on the same prey. Whereas other members of the dog family tend to be endurance hunters that will often chase prey for long distances before exhausting it and finally killing it, red foxes are stealth hunters. Whenever possible, they stalk their prey and either pounce on it in very feline fashion, or try to run it down in a quick burst of speed. Further, just like a cat, they’ll sometimes toy with small prey before finally dispatching it.

Where other members of the dog family hunt in groups, at least part of the time, red foxes, like cats, are solitary hunters. Even a mated pair of foxes usually splits up in order to hunt in lone fashion. This solitary behavior is perfectly suited to the red fox’s stalk-and-pounce mode of hunting.

The fox has a number of physical adaptations that make it much more catlike than other canids (members of the dog family). One of the most striking is its eye structure, which is far more catlike than doglike. The red fox has two important optical characteristics in common with cats: vertical pupils that can narrow to a slit, thus dramatically reducing the light reaching the eye in bright sunlight; and a reflective membrane at the back of the eye, which causes light to pass over the retina twice, thus greatly improving night vision. Taken together, these two adaptations give the fox, like the cat, outstanding vision under light conditions ranging from deep darkness to brightest sunlight.

As almost everyone knows, cats can retract their claws, and, to a degree, so can red foxes. Partially retractable claws may serve at least two purposes. First, they permit quieter stalking, especially on stones or hard ground; second, they stay sharper, and sharp claws are an aid to both fox and cat in pinning small prey.

When a fox dispatches its prey, it does so in a manner similar to that of a cat. Most canids seize their prey and shake it vigorously from side to side as a means of killing it or rendering it helpless. Red foxes, on the other hand, have long, slender canine teeth, more like those of cats than of dogs. Using those long, sharp canines, the fox eschews shaking its prey and, cat-fashion, simply bites down hard to kill it.

The fox’s vibrissae—what we usually call whiskers—are catlike, too. Where other canids have proportionately shorter whiskers, the fox sports longer ones in the manner of a cat. Even a fox’s threat display toward one of its own species is similar to a cat’s: its hair stands up, its back arches, and it turns broadside in a stiff-legged prance toward its rival. Anyone who’s had much experience with house cats has seen this sort of performance, which is notably absent in dogs.

Red foxes prey on almost any creature they can catch and kill. These include large insects, such as grasshoppers and crickets; small birds; occasional larger birds such as grouse, pheasants, and ducks; squirrels; hares and rabbits; and snakes and lizards. They also eat berries and fruit when they’re available, and the Song of Solomon proclaims, “Take us the foxes, the little foxes that spoil the vines.” Evidently the fable of the fox and the grapes isn’t entirely fanciful.

One other item—young woodchucks—can be added to this smorgasbord of fox treats. Several years ago, close to the woods that border our fields, a fox trotted past me only a few feet away, a defunct, half-grown woodchuck clamped securely in its mouth. The fox’s entire demeanor, from head held high and forward to its high-stepping gait, immediately reminded me of the many house cats that I’ve seen carrying chipmunks and mice in that fashion.

Despite such wide-ranging tastes in food, red foxes are, above all else, preeminent mousers (as used here, “mouse” includes a variety of small, somewhat mouselike rodents, such as voles). Watching a mousing fox is a marvelous sight, one of the most arresting in the natural world.

We are indebted to J. David Henry for his insight into the various methods used by foxes to hunt different types of prey. He has observed, for example, that foxes hunting large insects, which are quite easy to catch, behave in a rather offhand, relaxed manner, but their demeanor when mousing is quite the opposite. Ears pricked up and head held high, the mousing fox is the epitome of alertness.

The fox has wonderful hearing, and, by turning its head slightly from side to side, can locate a mouse rustling in the grass with considerable accuracy. Using sight, smell, and hearing—but particularly hearing—the fox stalks forward step by cautious step. Finally, when it deems its prey within range, it crouches, sets its feet, and leaps in a high, spectacular arc, coming down with its extended front legs together, feet aimed at its prey in an effort to pin the hapless rodent to the ground. If successful, the fox either crunches down with its sharp teeth to kill the rodent, which it then gulps down, or carries its prey to a spot where it can play with it before administering the coup de grâce; in either event, this is very catlike behavior.

Although foxes are capable of leaping fifteen feet or more with considerable accuracy, most of their hunting jumps are much shorter—three to six feet. In a way, these shorter leaps are more spectacular than the longer ones, because the fox moves in a higher, narrower arc, ascending almost vertically and then plunging sharply downward in the same fashion.

The first time I observed a mousing fox, I initially didn’t know what to make of it. The creature was on the far side of a field from me, and periodically it jumped high in the air to come down front feet first. The first thought that crossed my mind was that it might be rabid, although it seemed rather too vigorous for a rabid animal. Then, after several unsuccessful attempts, the fox came up with a mouse in its mouth, and the light suddenly dawned!

More recently, I observed a fascinating variation of this behavior. It was winter, and we had had a light rain that formed a rather hard, somewhat translucent crust of ice. A mousing fox that could either see or hear a rodent beneath the crust was performing its normal mousing leap over and over in a series of unsuccessful attempts to break through the crust. Periodically it moved about, no doubt in search of alternate prey—then repeated the futile series of jumps. I finally had to leave and never did learn whether the fox ever succeeded in its ill-starred quest.

Even if this fox was unsuccessful for two or three days because of the icy crust, it still had a good chance of surviving, because, when hunting is good, foxes cache surplus food by burying it. Unlike some mammals, red foxes cache each mouthful of surplus food in a different location, and these caches are often widely scattered. Extensive research has revealed that foxes retrieve and eat most of this cached food, finding each cache mainly by an extraordinary memory for its exact location. The fox’s keen sense of smell also helps it locate caches, especially if the fox recalls only the approximate location of the cache, or if the site is covered by several inches of snow.

Foxes are also quick to learn where goodies come from, and some soon learn to follow a mower at haying time in order to snap up mice and voles killed or injured by the mower or deprived of the thick grass cover that makes them difficult to hunt. In fact, I’ve had some wonderful personal experiences in this regard, looking behind to find a fox trailing the haybine at what it regarded as a safe distance and gobbling up mice. The memory of one young fox, in particular, stands out. Following the haymower quite closely, it gorged itself on mice and voles until it could hold no more. Then it simply curled up like a tired child sated with goodies in a candy shop and fell asleep in the mowed field in full view of all!