“Mitey” Has Write Stuff  

Twenty-five writers entered The Peak’s “The Write Stuff Challege: Critter” contest.  “Mitey” by Betty Blake, a true and humorous account about sharing her home with an owl, won 1st place. “Good Morning, Good Night”  by Catherine Chong” was awarded 2nd place, and “The Amazing Diamondback” by Mike Kordik took 3rd.  Judges named three runners-up. They are, in order by their titles, “Did You Say Reptile Resort” by Ron Tartarella, “The Serpent” by Dan Scalf, and  “Under the Sonoran Sun” by Diane Berney. All the winning articles will be published in The Peak as space is available.

 

Mitey
First Place Winner, Write Stuff Critter Contest, 2007

By Betty Blake, WASP

Mitey came into our lives one quiet grey dawn. There he stood, all five or six inches of him hunkered down on the doorstep, a tiny bundle of fluffed out grey and white feathers peering through the screen with large unblinking yellow eyes.

Earlier that spring, we'd noticed a small screech owl sitting in a mulberry tree near the guest house. Then one day, another little owl peered out of a hole woodpeckers had made in the redwood siding. Apparently the family had made a nest there.

From our first eye contact, though, Madame Owl glared at me with a cold blinkless stare of disapproval clacking that she was not happy I'd discovered her home. Our relationship never improved.

Mitey is mighty small.

Watching our new tenants now became a daily part of our lives. Papa cautiously accepting us - Mama clacking loud staccato disapproval whenever we came too close. Then one evening we heard loud chatter in the mulberry and discovered three fluffy owlets huddled together on a limb while their parents gave them their first flying lesson. The next morning, a sleepy eyed owlet was on the stoop sizing me up with his big serious eyes. I scooped him up and set him back on a branch in the mulberry. He blinked his sleepy eyes, inched toward the fork in the tree and promptly went to sleep. Mama watched from a higher branch clacking her displeasure until I retreated into the house.

That night, the noisy flying lessons continued, but in the morning there he was again, on the stoop peering through the screen. Mama brought him a grasshopper. He gave it a gentle nudge, but he was too young to know what to do with it and she didn't stick around long enough to show him, so I brought it into the house and called the Zoo to see what to feed him. They suggested hamburger soaked in water so he wouldn't become dehydrated. It didn't take much coaxing before he was nibbling the bites off my finger as fast as I could retrieve them from the bowl. He was hungry! At dusk, I delivered him to owl school in the mulberry as usual, but from that first bite of meat, he was addicted and so were we. Our young son adopted him immediately, naming his new friend Mitey. Each evening we escorted him to his flying lessons, but his hostile mother never forgave me for keeping him away during the day. She'd sit on a high branch, a belligerent witch, threatening me with her feathers all fluffed up and wings outspread glaring down at me with those intense yellow hate-filled eyes. She never understood that I was her benevolent aide-de-camp.

 

Mitey's Mom is mighty mad!

  

One night, heading to the tree of learning with Mitey, I felt a sharp whack on top of my head. Apparently, Mama, no longer able to contain herself, had dive-bombed me to show her rage. She'd declared war. I was bloody but not defeated, though the nasty gash from her talons convinced me to make my future deliveries with a pillow on my head.

Mitey was now an experienced flyer. Still waiting for me on the stoop every morning but, now, when the door opened, making a flying dash to the kitchen table - chatting chi-da-doo, I was becoming quite fluent in owl-speak, myself. Then one evening when I opened the door, he flew off my finger and back into the house. That night he wouldn't let me near him and slept on the top shelf of the bookcase in the family room. In the morning, he was on the kitchen table as usual, but after breakfast he flew back to the bookcase and slept all day then spent the evening swooping down to catch moths in mid-air. He never missed. Apparently, we'd become his adopted family, or maybe he just preferred hamburger and raw liver to grasshoppers.

Mitey quickly familiarized himself with the entire house. Often disappearing for hours until found sleeping peacefully in a toy milk truck on the playroom floor - a couple of whiskers sticking out of the windshield. Other days looking behind the drapes, up the chimney, under the beds, in closets ... even dresser drawers, before there was suddenly a gentle swish of air and he'd just flown by. Mitey's feathers were so soft and fluffy they didn't make a sound.

Soon he became such a precision flyer that I'd hold his food in the air and he'd dive down to take it out of my fingers. His razor sharp talons never touched me as he picked up his carry-out meal, so I became his personal fast food service.

Life with Mitey was one surprise after another. Asleep one morning, I felt a gentle peck on the tip of my nose. Opening my eyes, I was eyeball to eyeball with Mitey, all six inches of him, staring at me with those big round buttercup-yellow eyes and I had the distinct feeling he was saying, "Get up, Mom! I'm starving!", because when I sat up he flew to the kitchen to wait for his breakfast. This became a daily routine - often my unwelcome but unfailing alarm, clock. What a funny little fellow he was. Looking at me with those wise unblinking eyes I knew we had an unspoken understanding though we still carried on a noisy running conversation in owlese too. I’d call out chi-da-doo and seconds later Mitey had settled himself on my head, remaining there, with a death grip on my hair while I did chores around the house. At first, I was afraid to touch my hair afterwards, imagining he'd left his calling card but he never - ever - made that mistake. Mitey did have an affinity for doorknobs, though, finally forcing us to remove them throughout the house; it’s difficult to open a door with a slippery doorknob and guests didn't always understand.

Mitey loved ironing day. Sitting on my head to watch the action or hopping down on the board to continue conversing eye to eye, I almost imprinted him on the shirt I was pressing. Dinnertime was another favorite. One night, feeling an urgent need to investigate the pot I was stirring, he nearly became the protein part of the soup dujour, swooping down through the steam for a closer look.

On another occasion, planning a surprise birthday party for a friend, I'd baked a rectangular birthday cake decorating it with gooey chocolate frosting and thirty-two candles. After dinner, I excused myself and hurried into the kitchen to light the candles, but the surprise was to be mine instead. Somehow, Mitey had made it in there ahead of me and skied an intricate slalom course the length of the cake without knocking over a single candle. I completed a major fast smoothing job with a warm spatula before lighting the candles and heading in to the guests singing Happy Birthday. As I passed the light switch I flipped it off with an elbow and fortunately in the dim candlelight no one noticed the rush repair job. The party was a great success, but the next morning the trim around the tops of two lampshades in the living room had been redecorated in milk chocolate.

The following summer, an old pilot friend of ours popped into town for a surprise visit. Big Brownie was a tall man with a large, well-tanned shining bald head. For Mitey, it was love at first sight. Here was a landing strip made just for him, and the moment Brownie settled himself comfortably in a chair, Mitey proceeded to shoot touch and go landings. He didn't immediately realize how slick the polished landing field was until he touched down and was unable to get traction without digging in with his landing gear. Understandably, Brownie never ever removed his hat in our house again.

Not long after that, it was unanimously agreed that the time had arrived for Mitey's move to new quarters in the greenhouse. After all, there was only a glass wall and sliding doors dividing it from the dining area so he could still see us and we could communicate through the screen. Mitey checked out his new digs with interest and promptly went to sleep in a ficus tree in the corner. We continued to converse in owlese every day, though I don't believe Mitey ever quite understood why he'd suddenly been banished from the main house and I didn't know enough owl to explain to him that it had to do with his bathroom habits. Somehow, it was never quite the same after Mitey's change of address. He'd been shifted from immediate family status to that of a houseguest, and I think he sensed it.

Eventually, Mitey left us to make his own mark in the world too. That funny little owl had brightened all our lives for several wonderful years, and we would never forget him. 

Betty Blake is on a winning streak. She was awarded 1st place in the 2006 Write Stuff: Critter Contest. She is a resident of north Scottsdale. Blake served in the military as a pilot during World War II from October 1942 through December 1944. She was one of the first female military pilots and  served as a ferry pilot with the Womens Air Force Service. Although female pilots were not allowed to fly combat missions, Blake and the other “gals” helped break down cultural barriers in the military and paved the way for today’s many  female military pilots. Blake has lived in Arizona for many years, raised three sons, and at one point wrote the society column for a Paradise Valley newspaper.  

 

 

Good Morning, Good Night
Second Place Winner, Write Stuff Critter Contest, 2007

By Catherine Chong             

Oscar

          A few years ago, my husband and I moved to Cave Creek with our 2-year-old daughter Zoe. He was enthusiastic, Zoe was curious and I, well, I was furious. I hated the desert and I desperately wanted my Washington state pine trees back. I didn’t want to be here and I was pretty sure the desert didn’t want me much either. The desert appeared to me uncultivated, hostile, and well, deserted.  We mutually disliked each other. I did love nature, just not this one. I harbored a deep resentment to coming here and I was not going to let go of it easily. So, I closed our doors and drew the curtains, but the desert kept looking in. I am stubborn- but so is the Sonoran Desert I came to find out.    

            The morning after our arrival we were rudely awakened by a sledgehammer-like drilling sound that seemed to come from our roof top. My befuddled husband ran outside to investigate and informed me, while still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, that it was “just a bird.”  “Like as in the size of an Archaeopteryx?” I incredulously asked, because what else could make a ruckus like that.

            I went to the local pet supply store and was somewhat disappointed to learn that we had a common woodpecker problem. I was told that this could be easily managed with an owl decoy which was to be mounted on top of our roof next to the chimney. The sales clerk proudly showed me several to choose from. As I examined one of the make-believe owls in my hands I feebly asked what kind of owl that was supposed to be. “Who cares, it does the trick,” the clerk said. The hollow, plastic owl was as big as a garden gnome, but black with huge yellow eyes and bushy white eyebrows. The little gold and white sticker on the bottom informed me it was made in China. Apparently, they had different owls there.

            Now, granted, I didn’t know a lick about the Sonoran desert, but I was pretty sure that owls were for the most part night active and I knew from our early wake up calls that woodpeckers clearly were not! So other than passing each other by to say “good morning” and “good night” how could one possibly hunt the other?

             I didn’t buy the plastic owl.  But the idea of an owl intrigued me somehow. I figured that maybe Zoe and I could observe real owls from the safety of our house without even having to take one step outside. I did a little bit of research and found that indeed there were a variety of owls which were home to the Sonoran desert. Itsy bitsy elf owls no bigger than your palm, majestic great horned owls as well as mystic looking barn owls with white plumage and curiously heart shaped faces. My newly purchased field guide to birds also provided information about screech owls which were supposed to be fairly tolerant of human activity and most likely to use a nesting box. Aha!

            After some time on the computer I found a web site run by a lady in Kentucky who sold owl nesting boxes. When I told her I was going to hang the box on a saguaro cactus in Arizona, there was a long pause, but after a minute she composed herself and politely asked for my credit card number. Then she blessed my heart and wished me good luck, probably glad to get the nutcase off her phone line. The owl box arrived two weeks later and I hung it up as instructed, 15 feet high, facing north. Then Zoe and I waited. Since the box is very close to our house, we had an excellent viewing spot right from our living room window.

            Then one morning, Zoe screamed, “come here Mama, look, look,” and sure enough, there was our little tenant, with his head peeking out of his new home. Zoe promptly named our screech owl “Oscar”. He is about 7 inches tall with grey-brown plumage. As he was taking in the early morning air, he looked as sleepy as I felt at 6 o’clock in the morning, (Mr. Woodpecker woke us up again at 5:30AM sharp!). Zoe loved Oscar the moment she spotted him. She learned to recognize his distinctive call, which is a series of hollow whistles that rise up in pitch and she knows where to look for him at various times during the day. “Finding Oscar” became a big part of our daily routine. His favorite daytime sleeping spot is the waterspout next to our house. It is cool and shady there during the morning hours and he dozes there until the sun comes around.  Then, he flies up under the eaves of our patio to spend the hot afternoons or to seek protection from rain or wind.  As dusk approaches he soundlessly moves to his hunting spot high up in the Palo Verde tree, where he waits stick still and perfectly camouflaged next to a dark brown branch. We wish him good night, and good hunting before Zoe goes to bed.

            Oscar has been living around our house for past 2 years now. What started as window-watching entertainment turned out to be the key to the outdoors. He opened up the desert for me. To track his whereabouts, Zoe and I stumbled upon a variety of plants and wildlife.

            At 4 years of age, Zoe can identify vultures and hawks. She can distinguish the bickering call of the cactus wren from the romantic coo of a mourning dove and she loves pointing out desert plants and cacti. Loving the desert was instantaneous for her. For me, it took a wise owl and a curious child - and I will be forever grateful to both.

             Of course, Mr. Woodpecker is still around. He is as trusty as an alarm clock and just as annoying. He wakes us up every morning between 5:30 and 6 AM by enthusiastically drilling his beak into the chimney flu. I fully expect him to fall down into our fire place one day, covered in soot and mad as hell. Maybe then I can have a talk with him about our early wake up calls and to ask his opinion about owl decoys.

     Catherine Chong lives in Cave Creek with her family that includes one persistent woodpecker and a non-plastic great horned owl.

 

The Amazing Rattlesnake
Third Place Winner, Write Stuff Critter Contest, 2007

By Mike Kordik
     A couple years ago, I went to dinner with my family at the Pinnacle Peak Patio Steakhouse, a rustic Scottsdale establishment with a purely western motif. As we were waiting to be seated, I took my four year old grandson to see the rattlesnake display that they maintain right off the main lobby. It was similar to a large fish tank except that it had been filled with sand, rocks, small tree branches and rattlesnakes instead of water and fish. I spotted four Diamondback rattlers in there and pointed them out to my suitably impressed grandson. But to my surprise he said “No, papa…there are six snakes in there!” So well camouflaged were the snakes that I could not spot two of them until my grandson pointed them out to me…and this was with my nose damn near touching the tank. I was impressed anew that Diamondbacks are truly an amazing reptile.

     Forty years earlier, on a beautiful Southern California summer day, my new bride, Nicki and I had decided to go to the Buena Park Alligator Farm to spend the day. It was close to our home and it had the saving grace of being reasonably priced. (Not like some of those other Southern California theme parks that forced young couples to mortgage their homes just to gain the price of admission). Besides, the Animal Park had gained some notoriety because their chief herpetologist had recently been bitten by an Australian Tiger Snake and had narrowly escaped death.

     After looking at the plethora of alligators for which the park had aptly been named, my wife and I went to their snake house where they kept a magnificent collection of some of the worlds most deadly snakes. I don’t know why but, to me, there is something fascinating about being separated from a potential near death experience by only a quarter inch of Plexiglas! It must be a “guy thing!”

     While in the snake house, the loud speakers suddenly came to life, announcing the rapidly approaching start of their famed outdoor snake show. Grabbing my wife’s hand I lead her to the show area which was nothing more than a three foot tall white adobe wall formed in a perfect circle, twenty feet in diameter. This wall had no gate or other means of entrance or egress. No seating was provided but my wife and I got there early enough to stand right up against the outside of the arena wall itself. This seemed fortuitous until the recently recovered herpetologist of Tiger Snake fame, vaulted the wall into the enclosure closely followed by a large King Cobra, tossed in by an assistant. Boy was I starting to miss the Plexiglas.

     While keeping a careful eye on the Cobra, which the herpetologist engaged using a long, hooked stick, he announced that, today, he was going to introduce us to what he considered to be “the most dangerous snake in the world”….and no, it wasn’t the Cobra currently rising in all its hooded majesty in the center of the ring, trying to get in a good lick on the boisterous but prudently cautious herpetologist.

     Thus, engaged, the herpetologist proceeded to lay out his criteria for determining the most dangerous snake in the world. “Actually, there are only two parameters that needed to be considered” he said, “the lethality of a snake’s poison and its ability to effectively deliver it.” For instance he said, the Cobra while possessing extremely deadly poison did not posses the world’s most toxic one. That honor was held by a sea serpent that lived in tropical waters. Fortunately for mankind, that serpent has an extremely small mouth, is non-aggressive, and was rarely found on land unless washed up by a storm…thus it could not be considered the worlds most dangerous snake. Regarding the issue of delivering the poison, the herpetologist, by carefully applying his prod, demonstrated that the cobra was relatively slow and, due to the weight of its extended hood, mostly struck its prey in a downwards strike. For this reason, he pointed out, most of the cobra bites on humans occurred in the foot or lower leg area.

     After removing the Cobra from the arena, his assistant threw in a Black Mamba. This sinister looking snake was visibly more aggressive than the Cobra and it purportedly had a more toxic poison. While somewhat more athletic than the Cobra, the herpetologist kept it under control rather easily. No! This wasn’t the world’s most dangerous snake either.

     One by one, we were introduced to the Bushmaster, the Tiger Snake, the Krait, the Taipan, whose single bite contains enough poison to kill 100 men and is easily the most deadly of the Australian Vipers and, finally, the Gaboon Viper, the deadliest of the African snakes. The herpetologist informed us that, as he had recently learned the hard way, the poison from any of these snakes is fatal 100% of the time unless antivenin is quickly administered. But, still the herpetologist refused to declare any of them the most dangerous snake in the world.

     I have to admit that being this close to these snakes was a frightening experience and I remember thinking that, if these snakes weren’t the most dangerous ones in the world that I didn’t want to ever come across the one that was!! But, no such luck, for next and with great fanfare, the herpetologist trumpeted the arrival of the snake he considered the most dangerous in the world. Immediately his assistant un-tied a canvas bag and dumped a Western Diamondback Rattlesnake into the circular arena. I remember my initial disbelief when the snake was revealed…it wasn’t any of the exotic and mysteriously dangerous snakes that lived in the Far East, Australia or Africa…it was just a plain old rattler! But, I had to admit, it was a big one! It had to be at least six feet long and it immediately coiled up as the herpetologist began prodding it with his stick. I remember that while he delivered his monolog, the herpetologist kept a noticeably greater distance between himself and the rattler than he had from the other snakes. He told us that, while the Diamondback did not have the most deadly poison in the world it had one that, if left untreated, was capable of causing death. Furthermore, what made this snake so very dangerous, he pointed out, was the fact that it was far and away the most athletic of the poisonous snakes! Capable of striking prey as distant as 50 to 60% of its body length, the Western Diamondback Rattlesnake could deliver its poison much more effectively than its more infamous, if not distant, cousins. To prove his point, the herpetologist took a balloon that was tethered to the end of a 5 foot stick and, holding the balloon up about three feet high or so, started to taunt the rattler with it. I remember the hissing of the rattler as it warned off its attacker; I remember the blindingly quick, upward and distant strike that popped the balloon; and I remember the stream of poison that shot out like a child’s squirt gun past the now collapsed balloon! Point made…and I never forgot it!

     The Buena Park Alligator Farm was closed in 1983 to make way for the expansion of Knott’s Berry Farm and other local businesses, but I remember well the lessons of their famed herpetologist. Furthermore, now that I’m a resident of Arizona living in a rural area; I take them even more to heart! I share land with these marvelous creatures and these guys aren’t in glass cages or behind thick, protective walls! I try to keep that in mind while making every effort to coexist with them amiably…for they are indeed amazing creatures…deserving of respect and a very wide berth! 

     Mike Kordick is a resident of Carefree.  Mike was awarded 3rd place in last year's Write Stuff: Critter contest. 

 
 

 

Did You Say, A REPTILE Resort?
Runner-up, Write Stuff Critter Contest, 2007

By Ron Tartarella

     In an arroyo located near the intersection of Pima and Jomax Roads in North Scottsdale a coyote was in close pursuit of a lizard with short, stubby legs. Normally, this particular lizard is sluggish, and lumbers along his way throughout the desert in dry gulches and near the foothills where cover and prey are found easily within his very limited individual range.

     A Shy Guy, For Sure

     And, even though he spends more than 95 percent of his life underground, he’s usually active above ground in the Spring and during Summer monsoons. Occasionally, he might be spotted under the moonlight on a warm Summer night. This particular 110-degree day finds our hero, “Tequila” Gila, as he’s known to friends and family, cruising around the High Sonoran like "molasses during a Flagstaff January," which would accurately describe his normal rate of speed, perhaps a bit faster than his good friend, Tommy Turtle, who was called up for "higher duty" a couple of years ago.

     “Tequila” was so dubbed because he appears to be in a stupor just about 23 hours during any 24-hour day. This is really not unique for a Gila monster, but “Tequila” acts like he’s taken too much “Sleepytime” tea. In the hot Summer months, in particular, Gilas naturally protect themselves from the dry heat; scientists refer to this condition as estivation. Tequila’s friends just seem to feel that he’s ‘extra estivated’, for some reason unknown to them.

     WHEW…another Close One!!

     However, with this predator, a coyote, breathing down his thick, beaded neck, Tequila was forced to take his 20-inch, 2-lb + , orange and yellow body into a convenient rodent hole at ‘world-class speed, thereby escaping extinction for another day. (Well, world-class for a Gila monster, that is). If he continues to elude predators in this fashion, he could manage to live up to 25 years. Tequila had to be more careful, more alert, he realized. If a coyote didn’t corner him, an owl, hawk, or eagle could sink its talons into his colorful hide at will, given the right set of circumstances, and then our hero would merely be another statistic. Because he’s considered an endangered species Arizona State law does protect him, but no individual or government can prevent road kills; they just occur almost daily. And more Gilas turn up as road kills than those taken by predators.

     Family Guy, Too

     If he doesn’t look after himself, Tequila realizes that he won’t be around to help protect his wife and offspring. He’s proud of his family and wants to do more for them. His wife, Heidi, laid seven eggs over a year ago, and so she and Tequila now have seven healthy girls and boys; among the girls, there are Heather, Haley, Hadley, and the boys are Harry, Henry, Horatio, and Howard. Heidi enjoys partially submerging herself in clean, clear water for hours at a time to cool her body; one of Tequila’s chores is to find these little bodies of water for her. Then he would join her to cool himself as long as one of his sons spelled him from one of his other responsibilities, namely ‘on watch’ for airborne predators.

     Also, he ensures that there’s food for everyone, in the event that his family is unsuccessful during individual hunting trips. The Gila is venomous, and his bite is more dangerous than a rattlesnake’s; but it’s strictly defensive, not offensive. His bite has been likened to that of a pit bulldog, since once he grabs a hold, he’s not likely to release it for at least 15 minutes.

     High Sonoran Shopping

     Among the Gila monster’s delicacies are birds, rodents, and rabbits, usually newborns, since he prefers taking those animals that don’t run or fight back. Of all foods available to him, however, quails’ eggs are his favorite, without question. Hunting is usually done during daylight hours.The Gila’s tail is ‘telltale’, because if it’s fat and round, it simply means that he’s well nourished, but but if it’s thin and even shriveled, he’s hungry, and possibly has spent too much time underground. All excess calories end up in his tail as fat storage, to be consumed by his body at a later date.

     Content In Scottsdale

     Tequila entered this world in January, 2000, in one of the 13 eggs deposited by his mother in a hole scooped from moist sand where the sun’s heat helped them to hatch. Turtles’ eggs are buried to hatch in much the same fashion. The Gilas enjoy their residency in north Scottsdale, as all conditions suit them. Rabbits, rodents, and birds abound, as do quails’ eggs. The climate is favorable, and as mentioned earlier, state law protects them to some degree.

     A Born Leader

     He was always a leader, and from day one, Tequila proved his leadership abilities when he was the first to crack his shell to see daylight over seven years ago; he has five sisters and seven brothers to offer as living proof ! He’s always squeezing his brains, trying to generate ideas to improve their lives, and he sprouted what he thought was a winner when he suggested that a reptile resort would go well in Scottsdale. Naturally, she told him that he’s ‘loco’! But his wife’s comment didn’t faze him; he knew in his heart that his idea was sound, and that he should persevere to fruition with his project.

     A Dream Come True

     “After all,” Tequila concluded, “the two-legged inhabitants have their private clubs, hotels, high-priced resorts, and golf clubs, why shouldn’t their four-legged neighbors enjoy some luxurious living, as well”?

     He felt that he would have to enlist the services of some Beavers that he might have to ‘import’, if none could be found in Northern Arizona. Everyone knows that there’s no more qualified engineer than a Beaver. Since Beavers are well-known for their building prowess, Tequila knew that he could put their skills to use for the ‘lean-tos’ he had in mind for usage as sun shelters. Beavers can move lumber like no other animal. Individually, Beavers take down 800-1,000 trees annually, which does not make everyone happy, but they do some good work, too. “Beavers”, he conjectured, “can also divert some clean mountain water to my resort property where I’ll establish my ‘cooling ponds’, that Heidi likes so much, for bonafide club members, of course.

     “What about club fees?” asked Heidi. “How much will you charge?” Tequila crunched a few numbers, and that unlike their neighbors, he would establish three levels of membership. There would be a). full membership, b). social membership, and c). casual membership (for irregular drop-ins). The ‘casuals’ would be charged on a “pay-as-you-visit” basis with one quail’s egg in return for the right to spend any part/all day, and two eggs for an overnighter. The social membership would call for three quails’ eggs to cover a membership fee, plus monthly dues of one quail’s egg, and lastly, the full Membership fee would be five quails’ eggs, plus two eggs to cover monthly dues.


     “This is most enterprising”, Tequila beamed proudly, “and this should not only serve as a gathering place and ‘watering hole’ for locals, but it may very well become a world-renowned roadhouse for passers-through and other travelers.

     Making It Happen

     Management Note: Since we do not deal in dollars at this juncture, we have decided to use Quails’ eggs as our rate of exchange until such time as our success dictates otherwise.


     “Let’s see now,” he whispered to himself, “We’ll offer sun shelter, cooling ponds, under- ground shelters (for particularly shy guests), and then as time delivers us success, perhaps we can print a menu, offering “any way you like’em” quails’ eggs...sun-cooked hard, sun-fried, sun-poached, and for the purists, simply raw-in-the-shell.” “As time permits and space allows, we can develop games for young and older alike. We can lay out our club name, roadside signs, and other ads on the sand with stones, as long as we can find a good speller in the family,” offered Henry. One sterling idea led to another, and gave rise to more energy for the project throughout the family. There was genuine excitement !! Tequila wasn’t loco, after all!!

     “I’ve heard of a fine, local magazine, The Peak, where we can begin advertising for the resort,” chimed in Heather, “as it delivers terrific results for local businesses, so everyone tells me!!” “Let’s get to work!!” barked Tequila, “We’ve got a deadline to have everything in place by Nov. 1st!” “TELL YOUR FRIENDS, TELL YOUR RELATIVES, TELL ANYBODY…THAT OUR DOORS WILL BE OPEN AT THE SCOTTSDALE REPTILE RETREAT NORTH…JOMAX & PIMA ROADS…BY NOV 1st !!

     Ron Tartarella is a resident of north Scottsdale. Ron placed second in The Peak's 2005 Write Stuff: Tall Story Contest and third in the 2006 Write Stuff: Critter Contest.
 

 

The Serpent
Runner-up, Write Stuff Critter Contest, 2007

By Dan Scalf

     The creature lay wedged between a creosote bush and a granite slab overhang. The sun baked warmth of the rock radiated towards the sinister appearing creature giving it the energy that it needed for the day’s hunt. The dappled sun shone through the twisted branches of the creosote, enhancing the way its diamonds melted into the desert floor. The reptile adjusts itself slightly with a flicker of its tongue. Tasting the air, it contemplates a reason for betraying its concealed location. Its rough scales disturb the sand and gravel creating a scratching noise with the desert morsels. The dry segments of its tail vibrate lightly with each small movement of its four foot length. Hikers from the desert community, oh so near by, walk on a much used trail. Some are pleasant, others are not. Knarled, sun baked leather hiking boots come within inches of its well disguised pattern. If only they knew. It has no desire to see them or experience them. The snake is a lethargic creature and enjoys its solitude. This type of intruder is at best a tolerable annoyance. They are here to encroach for the day in this delicate environment and then be on their way. The others come to cause death and destruction. To this intruder the snake’s rattle would make a macabre souvenir. It waits motionless to determine their intent. Puffing laboriously as they pass by, the hikers disappear in a glare of sunshine. They are harmless and the reptile goes back to basking in the warmth of the solar rays. Having a potent means of defense, its long fangs can quickly inject a dose of warm, yellow liquid. Wonderful, liquid poison. Reserved only for those trespassers of the latter kind. This creature simply wants to be left alone, to go about its business as it has been destined to do for hundreds of thousands of years. It will not hesitate to use its ominous defense mechanism but is much more content when the intruders give it a wide berth. This is a fact that is lost on many of them.

     After gaining its life sustaining warmth, the serpent concentrates on receiving some much needed nourishment. Its elliptical eye and forked tongue scan the desert floor for its prey. It has been several weeks and it is ready to feed. Any small rodent will do. Just a tiny expenditure of its venom and it will all be over. The creature will be free to lie in its torpid state for another several weeks. This is the life that has been chosen for it and one by which it is quite content. Little do the intruders know that without its presence, they would soon be overrun with cute, fuzzy critters that they love from a distance. The serpent opens its mouth, preparing the surgical instruments for their upcoming deed. They are very sharp and quite prepared. Behind these half inch needles lay others ready to go into action should the originals meet with misfortune.

     So far the serpent has led a somewhat uneventful life. The occasional passerby has been of the harmless type. It has managed to dodge the ever threatening roadrunner, javelina and the skittish yet opportunistic coyote. Not so for many of the others, especially the very young. They are prime tidbits of nourishment for many of the desert dwellers and are an easy target. Given life in July and August it is rare for them to see their one month birthday. Probably for this reason and because of the ever increasing number of intruders that have yet to learn to tread lightly, this serpent has found less and less competition for its bi-weekly meals.

     A young kangaroo rat emerges from its mothers nest to explore the vast expanse of desert before it. Its age betrayed by the exuberant way in which it darts about the desert floor, oblivious to any lurking dangers. It scampers among the palo verde, saguaro cactus and mesquite bushes. Little does it know that there are many forbidden dangers about. The young rat stops for a moment to forage in the shade of a palo verde tree. Sitting on its haunches it takes in this land of endless opportunity. Another hiker comes lumbering over the hill scaring the young rodent to a nearby creosote bush with a granite slab overhang. The adolescent rat enjoys its new found freedom. It is good to be out of its mothers den where it must compete for daily nourishment. Quietly the untried rat turns its head just as two surgical daggers enter its soft, young flesh. Death comes quickly. Its bodily sacrifice sustains the serpent for another several weeks.

     The satiated reptile stretches its jaws, aligning the fangs until next time. It makes its way to its lair among the scattered granite rocks and vegetative litter. Soon, all that can be seen is its rattle tipped raccoon tail disappearing into the small cavern. It is all part of the cycle that keeps the desert alive and thriving. Every creature, no matter how sinister it may appear, serves a purpose in this delicate ecosystem.
 

 

 
UNDER THE SONORAN SUN
A True Desert Drama

Runner-up, Write Stuff Critter Contest, 2007

By Diane McCoy-Berney

 

The Cast in Order of Appearance

     The Scene


     The humidity is high and today's morning is heating up rapidly as a typical July morning does in the Sonoran Desert. The weatherman predicts monsoon showers for sometime this afternoon. I really want to believe him. The thermostat coaxes the air conditioner to kick on repeatedly. The blast of cool air feels great.

     As I watch a patch of desert through a picture window, a white-winged dove is preying upon one of the last remaining red-colored fruits of a stately saguaro cactus. Some of the fruit pieces drop to the desert floor below. A cottontail rabbit darts from the shade of a nearby mesquite tree to eat the fallen fruit. As I observe these desert animals, a mockingbird mimics the beautiful song of a red cardinal. I take a sip of coffee and make my way towards the dining room window to see what kind of activity is going on at the small waterhole in my front yard.
The waterhole is a shallow cement-lined depression near the base of a large chainfruit cholla. It is surrounded by granite boulders, brittlebush, barrel cactus and graythorn. The waterhole can be approached by all desert creatures so it does not take long for it to quickly become a stage to a host of true wildlife dramas. What would today's drama be? Would it be a love story? Would it be a die hard battle to the death? Would it be a great escape or a sad story of a lonesome dove? One thing is a certainty; to a casual observer, the curtain will open to a cast of talented desert players. Sometimes there is an audience and sometimes there is not. On this morning, I am in the front row.

     Act I

     While peering through the slats of our saguaro shutters, I witness a roadrunner standing motionless in the driveway. The endearing roadrunner is famous for his performances in cartoons with a "wily" foe. I have not sighted this member of the cuckoo family since spring. I call for my husband so he can also observe this grand bird. Together, we watch from behind our shutters. Even though a roadrunner prefers running rather than flying, ours appears frozen as if in a still-life painting. His gaze is fixed in the direction of the waterhole and we sense that a true desert drama is about to unfold.

     Suddenly, our attention is diverted to a slithering motion. A snake is headed toward the waterhole. It is a western coachwhip also known as a "red racer" because of pink scaling and the ability to move quickly. The speed of this fast-moving diurnal serpent serves it well while escaping a predator or the wheel of an oncoming car while zipping across a sizzling asphalt road.

     The roadrunner continues to focus on the coachwhip and remains motionless. I tell my husband how a roadrunner prepares a lizard for consumption. The lizard's body is clenched in the roadrunner’s beak and the gruesome process begins. The helpless lizard is repeatedly smacked against a boulder or impaled against a cactus. In an even more incredible process, compared to a matador facing a bull, a roadrunner distracts a snake using each wing like a bullfighter’s red cape. The rattlesnake tries to strike at the roadrunner’s wings. Eventually the snake tires and the roadrunner kills and consumes its prey. Olé!

     The coachwhip does not notice the motionless roadrunner. The snake continues to slither toward the waterhole. After entering the waterhole he lifts his head in and out taking sips of tepid water, unaware of the roadrunner or the roadrunner's intentions. Meanwhile, the mockingbird breaks into a repeated chorus of "chug-chug-chug" that mimics a cactus wren.

     Act II

     Who will emerge as the winner? The odds are evenly stacked because the roadrunner and the coachwhip are born with the gift of speed and both have a strong will to survive.
The roadrunner's gaze is fixated on the snake. Our eyes are fixated on the scene in front of us. Without warning, the roadrunner, neck outstretched, lunges forward into running motion towards his target. At that second, the coachwhip's "spa treatment" comes to an end but fortunately for him, not his life. Using his instinct and speed, the coachwhip exits the waterhole, and ends up relatively safe beneath a huge nearby brittlebush where the roadrunner cannot penetrate.

     The roadrunner, with his adrenaline pumping, is using its gifts of speed and agility. Determined to secure his next meal, he runs around the brittlebush. To confuse his prey, he changes directions often while jabbing his oversized beak into the dense shrub. This time, the roadrunner is not successful in capturing prey because of low branching, untrimmed shrubbery. The coachwhip lies protected beneath a tangle of woody unpruned stems. Meanwhile, the mockingbird, selecting from a huge repertoire, makes whistling sounds like those of a European starling.

     Act III

     There is no time for an intermission as the show goes on. The brittlebush becomes a "pseudo" alarm system of noisy, shaking leaves caused by the abrupt movements of the bird and snake. Naturally, all this commotion has shaken up another character. To our surprise, a packrat, slumbering in his den directly beneath the waterhole is rudely awakened and instinctively senses danger. His only defense is to flee from one of many escape tunnels. Unexpectedly, he comes face to face with the coachwhip under the brittlebush. The packrat, refusing to play the victim in this drama, dashes down a runway towards a creosote bush. In an incredible plot twist, the hungry roadrunner quickly changes his menu choice and chases after the fleeing packrat. The roadrunner is at the packrat’s heels as they head backstage to the west side of the yard. In an instant, these two cast members are out of the limelight and are not seen again. Meanwhile, the mockingbird, who instinctively sings facing the south in daylight, continues to witness the entire scene from his rooftop balcony seat. He vocalizes a series of buzzing and clapping sounds.

     Act IV

     A desert spiny lizard has been stirred up by the frenzy of activity under the brittlebush. This feisty, ten-inch lizard is notorious for defending an ample territory not only around the waterhole, but around a sizable chunk of front yard. The lizard runs from beneath the brittlebush to "size up" the situation from a few feet away. It is a good move on his part because he is prey to the coachwhip. Not comfortable with the proximity of the coachwhip, the lizard begins a ritual of "pushups" to reveal his stunning turquoise and purple belly. The coachwhip, cautiously slithers toward the spiny lizard, who side-steps a few feet away to continue his display. I tell my husband it is not certain why lizards do pushups. Some thoughts include that lizards "flex muscle" to intimidate. On the other hand, the pushup routine may be a way to communicate, "I see you, so don't waste your precious energy trying to catch me!" One thing is for certain in today's drama, the desert spiny lizard is not trying to attract a mate. Nevertheless, the mockingbird breaks into the melodious song of a curved-bill thrasher who is trying to attract a mate.


     Final Act

     We do not know why the coachwhip slithers away, but as an audience to this true event, we gain appreciation of the real life dramas of all desert animals. The underlying theme is one of survival. The curtain drops.

     Later on, the cast instinctively prepares for the heat of the day. A white-winged dove is perched in a paloverde tree while a cottontail rabbit rests hidden beneath an untrimmed mesquite tree. The desert spiny lizard is "defending" his territory around the waterhole and evicts a female whiptail lizard who attempts to take up residence. The coachwhip is probably crossing a sizzling blacktop road as the packrat slumbers in his den and the roadrunner rests in the shade. As if not knowing what to sing, the mockingbird changes his chorus a dozen times or more in less than a minute. All the while, my husband and I make dinner plans for later on.

     Our lives are easy compared to the lives of desert animals. We live in the comfort of our air-conditioned homes. We drink chilled bottled water. Our food is ready-to-eat. At night we activate an alarm system to ensure a peaceful sleep. As I get into bed, I reflect on today's true story that unfolded at the waterhole. As I fall asleep, my prayers are filled with gratitude. I am able to experience an endless variety of true-life dramas each day under the Sonoran sun.


     Special Note: This drama took place in less than two minutes.

     Diane McCoy-Berney is a resident of north Scottsdale. She was awarded 2nd place in the 2006 Write Stuff: Critter Contest.