Was he waiting for one of us to expire?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Pecking Order—Part 2
The usual factors that determine wild bird pecking order are size, age, hormone levels, and how much ownership of the feeder a given bird feels at the moment (its belligerency level?). As younger birds mature, or their hormone levels change, they become more likely to challenge the existing order set up by their elders (sort of like teenage kids who challenge their parents). The underlying factor that powers the whole thing is reproduction: the drive to send one's genes into the future. Those who get the lion's share of food today are most likely to stay healthy and generate offspring.
We have observed minimal physical contact at our feeder, when pecking-order jousts occur. It's mostly a case of a show of bravado—like teenage boys strutting before each other in a menacing manner. No one really wants to fight—just to force his opponent to back down, in the face of his excessive swagger. Now and then, however, we do witness a real bird battle, as the contestants go a little too far in their bluff and now must save face by actually fighting. The confrontation rarely lasts more than a moment or two, and neither fighter gets harmed—one immediately blinks and the duel is over.
Researchers have also noticed two types of pecking order: what are termed despotic and linear. When a despot is on the scene, all other birds make themselves scarce. A blue jay arriving at the feeder will scatter all the little birds, who stay away until he's gone. In contrast, barnyard hens set up a linear pecking order, in which each one knows her place in line—never challenging those above her, nor challenged by those below. We also see that linear pecking order in our wild birds at the feeder—at least between species. A titmouse will never challenge a wren, for example. Again, the linear pecking order may be occurring within a species, but our inability to tell one chickadee from another keeps us from knowing this.
So I have come to realize that the pecking order established by birds is a way for them to reduce conflict between them, rather than just be a way of picking on each other, as I used to view their interactions. It's another of those situations when we must be careful not to project onto animals the nature or our human social interactions. When I think about it, I can see many kinds of human pecking order that get established—most always based on power. Some examples are within families (so-called hen-pecked husbands), within social groups (the macho guys dominate), and between countries (those with the bigger armies get to peck).
Because the human types of pecking order are more familiar to me, I don't tend to see the inherent injustices that they express, unless I step back, pay attention, and pick up on the power relationships going on. I would guess that birds who might watch humans interact with one another would wonder why some of them so meekly accept the hierarchical structures.
We have observed minimal physical contact at our feeder, when pecking-order jousts occur. It's mostly a case of a show of bravado—like teenage boys strutting before each other in a menacing manner. No one really wants to fight—just to force his opponent to back down, in the face of his excessive swagger. Now and then, however, we do witness a real bird battle, as the contestants go a little too far in their bluff and now must save face by actually fighting. The confrontation rarely lasts more than a moment or two, and neither fighter gets harmed—one immediately blinks and the duel is over.
Researchers have also noticed two types of pecking order: what are termed despotic and linear. When a despot is on the scene, all other birds make themselves scarce. A blue jay arriving at the feeder will scatter all the little birds, who stay away until he's gone. In contrast, barnyard hens set up a linear pecking order, in which each one knows her place in line—never challenging those above her, nor challenged by those below. We also see that linear pecking order in our wild birds at the feeder—at least between species. A titmouse will never challenge a wren, for example. Again, the linear pecking order may be occurring within a species, but our inability to tell one chickadee from another keeps us from knowing this.
So I have come to realize that the pecking order established by birds is a way for them to reduce conflict between them, rather than just be a way of picking on each other, as I used to view their interactions. It's another of those situations when we must be careful not to project onto animals the nature or our human social interactions. When I think about it, I can see many kinds of human pecking order that get established—most always based on power. Some examples are within families (so-called hen-pecked husbands), within social groups (the macho guys dominate), and between countries (those with the bigger armies get to peck).
Because the human types of pecking order are more familiar to me, I don't tend to see the inherent injustices that they express, unless I step back, pay attention, and pick up on the power relationships going on. I would guess that birds who might watch humans interact with one another would wonder why some of them so meekly accept the hierarchical structures.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Pecking Order—Part 1
For several years we have been entertained by the various kinds of activity at our birdfeeder. Some dozen or so species come regularly for seeds—often in waves. There'll be not a soul out there for an hour or so, then when you look a moment later, it'll be swamped by 15 or 20 birds. Is this a follow-the-leader game or do they have specific times of day that are mealtimes and they all answer the call simultaneously? Why don't a sneaky one or two hit the feeder alone and have it all to themselves? Are they aware of being safer in a group, when many eyes keep a sharp lookout for predators? These are more examples of some of the mysteries of nature that I try to attempt to solve, by keeping a sharp lookout. As I said, it's one of our favorite forms of entertainment, and it's a blast when your field of research is also what entertains you.
When the feeder becomes crowded there is a definite amount of contention that arises between its visitors and it gets expressed in an explicit pecking order. As one might expect, the bigger birds generally are “top dog,” but size is not exclusively the determinant. Sure, a blue jay will scare off a titmouse and a wren will never challenge a cardinal. But one of the smallest birds is the fiercest: the diminutive goldfinch. He'll drive off a bird twice his size with a fierce display of that strong, threateningly open bill.
There is both an interspecies and an intraspecies pecking order that gets established at the feeder. We've watched the interspecies battles long enough that we can pretty well guess which kind of bird will intimidate another. Cute little chickadees stand on the bottom rung. Among the small songbirds, titmice come next, then juncos, wrens, and finally nuthatches.
But, as I said before, the smallest of the little birds—the goldfinch—rules the roost of the bantam birds. I sometimes wonder what gives them that level of bravado. If I could hold up a mirror to one of them—and if it could recognize itself and see how little it is—I'm sure I could destroy its puffed up self-confidence and cause it to cringe when a bigger bird comes round. But that's messing with Mother Nature—and that can get you into trouble.
My ability to understand intraspecies pecking order, however, is nil, since I am still unable to distinguish one titmouse from another. They certainly seem to be able to recognize one another, however. Oh how I wish I could put a dot of different color paint on the top of each of their heads! What might I learn?
The term pecking order originated long ago, when people watched how chickens in a barnyard flock set up a hierarchy. Once the order is established, it remains quite stable. Hens settle their squabbles and the order stays pretty much fixed—the one who becomes alpha fowl will tend to remain so. In the wild, however, bird hierarchy may shift through the season, as different species get ready for mating and hormone levels vary over time.
Researchers have also noted that an established pecking order reduces conflict within a flock of chickens. In other words, when a hierarchy gets set up, the birds engage in fewer battles than will an unordered flock. That surprised me, as all birds—especially chickens—seem to me to be constantly at each other. But I guess that's another projection of mine onto nature: what appears to me to be quarrelsome behavior is really a way of attaining a little peace for them. I can't expect birds to behave politely with one another, just as I can't expect politicians to care more for their constituents than they do for the big monetary contributions they receive.
Next time: Setting up the pecking order...
When the feeder becomes crowded there is a definite amount of contention that arises between its visitors and it gets expressed in an explicit pecking order. As one might expect, the bigger birds generally are “top dog,” but size is not exclusively the determinant. Sure, a blue jay will scare off a titmouse and a wren will never challenge a cardinal. But one of the smallest birds is the fiercest: the diminutive goldfinch. He'll drive off a bird twice his size with a fierce display of that strong, threateningly open bill.
There is both an interspecies and an intraspecies pecking order that gets established at the feeder. We've watched the interspecies battles long enough that we can pretty well guess which kind of bird will intimidate another. Cute little chickadees stand on the bottom rung. Among the small songbirds, titmice come next, then juncos, wrens, and finally nuthatches.
But, as I said before, the smallest of the little birds—the goldfinch—rules the roost of the bantam birds. I sometimes wonder what gives them that level of bravado. If I could hold up a mirror to one of them—and if it could recognize itself and see how little it is—I'm sure I could destroy its puffed up self-confidence and cause it to cringe when a bigger bird comes round. But that's messing with Mother Nature—and that can get you into trouble.
My ability to understand intraspecies pecking order, however, is nil, since I am still unable to distinguish one titmouse from another. They certainly seem to be able to recognize one another, however. Oh how I wish I could put a dot of different color paint on the top of each of their heads! What might I learn?
The term pecking order originated long ago, when people watched how chickens in a barnyard flock set up a hierarchy. Once the order is established, it remains quite stable. Hens settle their squabbles and the order stays pretty much fixed—the one who becomes alpha fowl will tend to remain so. In the wild, however, bird hierarchy may shift through the season, as different species get ready for mating and hormone levels vary over time.
Researchers have also noted that an established pecking order reduces conflict within a flock of chickens. In other words, when a hierarchy gets set up, the birds engage in fewer battles than will an unordered flock. That surprised me, as all birds—especially chickens—seem to me to be constantly at each other. But I guess that's another projection of mine onto nature: what appears to me to be quarrelsome behavior is really a way of attaining a little peace for them. I can't expect birds to behave politely with one another, just as I can't expect politicians to care more for their constituents than they do for the big monetary contributions they receive.
Next time: Setting up the pecking order...
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Spring Fling
There is something about spring that energizes the soul like nothing else. Following a couple of months of looking out the window and longing for some kind of weather other than cold and gray, knowing that warm days are due soon, my impatience builds to bursting levels. An isolated pleasant day in early March of 75 degrees just whets the appetite for more, but I know that it's just a taste of what's possible, not that the fierce grip of winter has yet to let go.
Then late March and early April finally arrives—seemingly several months past due—and true signs of spring are being flung in the air. The first tentative bird calls now become persistent solos on the part of males seeking to define their territory. Buds whose fulness were mostly in our imaginations a couple of weeks ago take on color and the real promise of sudden bursting. The color of green—mostly owned by pine trees throughout the winter months—begins to emerge from many places.
On nights following a soaking in the outdoor tub, I sleep in the comfy confines of my meditation hut; disconnected from the human world and more directly tuned into nature. A couple of days ago I emerged from the night's sleep, to step outside the hermitage at dawn and greet the day with a morning pee. As I stood there I was drawn in by various bird calls from around the clearing. In the center of our little Eden the resident cardinal was singing loudly, declaring to any foolish competitor that he was king here. Up towards the end of the drive I heard the gobble of a male turkey calling all hens to come and partake of the spring service that he was more than willing to provide them. His babble persisted for several minutes. I knew he was also displaying himself—tail feathers all splayed out, chest puffed proudly up, and colorful beard wobbling enticingly.
From somewhere overhead I heard what I first thought was a crow calling out with his raucous “craahk.” Looking up I was astonished to see that it was not a crow but four (4!) great blue herons cruising overhead, in two-by-two flight. Their call is similar to a crows, but more like a hoarse “fraaahnk.” A great blue heron is aptly named, being fully the size of a bald eagle (four feet long, with a six-foot wingspan). I was so blown away that I nearly peed on my shoe!
Now the daffodils are blooming, the forsythia are shouting out, and many other blossoming shrubs and trees are threatening to add their voice in the spring chorus. Only chilly, rainy days can keep me penned in the house. What am I sitting here typing for? I might be missing the latest call.
Then late March and early April finally arrives—seemingly several months past due—and true signs of spring are being flung in the air. The first tentative bird calls now become persistent solos on the part of males seeking to define their territory. Buds whose fulness were mostly in our imaginations a couple of weeks ago take on color and the real promise of sudden bursting. The color of green—mostly owned by pine trees throughout the winter months—begins to emerge from many places.
On nights following a soaking in the outdoor tub, I sleep in the comfy confines of my meditation hut; disconnected from the human world and more directly tuned into nature. A couple of days ago I emerged from the night's sleep, to step outside the hermitage at dawn and greet the day with a morning pee. As I stood there I was drawn in by various bird calls from around the clearing. In the center of our little Eden the resident cardinal was singing loudly, declaring to any foolish competitor that he was king here. Up towards the end of the drive I heard the gobble of a male turkey calling all hens to come and partake of the spring service that he was more than willing to provide them. His babble persisted for several minutes. I knew he was also displaying himself—tail feathers all splayed out, chest puffed proudly up, and colorful beard wobbling enticingly.
From somewhere overhead I heard what I first thought was a crow calling out with his raucous “craahk.” Looking up I was astonished to see that it was not a crow but four (4!) great blue herons cruising overhead, in two-by-two flight. Their call is similar to a crows, but more like a hoarse “fraaahnk.” A great blue heron is aptly named, being fully the size of a bald eagle (four feet long, with a six-foot wingspan). I was so blown away that I nearly peed on my shoe!
Now the daffodils are blooming, the forsythia are shouting out, and many other blossoming shrubs and trees are threatening to add their voice in the spring chorus. Only chilly, rainy days can keep me penned in the house. What am I sitting here typing for? I might be missing the latest call.
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