I’m blaming the rabbits – they started the whole routine. As new arrivals in rural Arizona, we were surprised by the size of the jack rabbits in our new environment. Some of them were the size of medium-sized dogs back in Chicago. We guessed they probably outweighed our small bulldog, Shep. Since we had moved into the house in November, sightings were not as many as they would have been in the warmer months. Still, their size, speed and especially, their ears, which seemed to be able to pick up a car door opening 100 yards away, were for us transplanted mid-westerners, quite surprising.
Fall gave way to the low-lying sunrises and sunsets of winter, which spray-painted the hardier vegetation the colour of three-day-old, cooked asparagus. Most of the larger predators migrated further south into Mexico in search of easier prey and warmer nights. Temperatures never went much below thirty degrees during our first winter, a welcome change for our cold-weary souls.
By the end of February, things began to change. The daytime highs were in the 60s, and at night, it seldom went below 45 degrees. Mesquites started to send out their buds for new leaves, neighbouring cacti became a brighter green, the sun rose higher, both in its zenith and intensity, and wildlife started to check out the new area residents – us. Then, of course, came the bunnies – tens of them, hopping around as if there were no tomorrow. Unfortunately, that would be the case for many of them, given the return of the coyotes, hawks and road runners. In the moment, though, they were a gift of nature to view, so we did.
My wife, being the soft-hearted woman she is, decided to put down a large saucer-like plant dish for water for the little furry guys, which they loved. Being bunnies, they told their friends, and soon we had a small line waiting to fill up. They would allow us to watch as much as we wanted, but sped away the moment we took a step forward or stood up for a better view.
Inspired by that success, my wife felt the next best step would be to wander off the property a bit and put out some carrots for the growing crowd. We never thought about snakes and their dietary preferences, but that changed – quickly. Feeling bad, she decided to put down treats closer to the house, whose ground cover consisted of the sort of rocks snakes don’t like slithering across and where there were no low-lying bushes where rattlers could lie in ambush. That seemed to work – a bit too well. With the reduction of diamondbacks, other creatures began to investigate: quail, ground squirrels, mule deer, desert wrens, orioles, curious skunks, coati and, of course, the ubiquitous pack rats.
In June, the heat began to cook things. The frequency of furry visitors diminished rapidly, but ever-thoughtful, my wife kept placing cut-up carrots strategically around the perimeter of the house. One white-skied morning, while taking Shep out for his first walk of the day, before my first cup of coffee and without wearing my glasses, I opened the door to find a large, dead jack rabbit lying right next to our front entrance. “Coyotes” was the first thought I had, and I figured we had spooked him before he could have breakfast, so he left his meal there.
Shep was sniffing for the perfect spot when I glanced at the mesquite tree in front of the house and noticed a large V-shaped beehive in the crook of its trunk. Watching Shep, I thought it was weird that the bees had worked all night to construct such a massive hive. Intrigued, I looked again. This time, I noticed two large golden-brown eyes looking at Shep and me and a very long tail gently swishing slowly below the large V. Luckily, Shep was on a leash, so we slowly worked our way back to the door and went inside.
Putting my glasses on, I confirmed the fact that we had a full-grown mountain lion sitting in our front tree who was about to have a jack rabbit breakfast burrito when we opened the door, causing him to leap to an easy escape. I wasn’t going to do anything stupid, like trying to shoo him away or shoot him, which would bring a hefty fine and possible incarceration. I did what any responsible person would do – stayed in the house and called the Arizona Game and Fish Service.
Since it was just after 6 a.m., I was connected to the voicemail. I left my name, location and phone number. About two hours later, they returned my call. I was told that since we lived in a mountainous region, it would probably be 2-3 hours before they could reach us to relocate the animal. Their advice was to stay indoors, leave the animal and its meal in place and more than likely, both would be gone in an hour or two. Gratefully, they were correct. After that, I never went out of the house in the early morning without my glasses and at least one cup of coffee in me. Unlearned desert lessons can be costly.
By July, the desert began to live up to its reputation – it became ungodly hot, and the bunnies took to ground, only showing up in the very early morning and right before dark to avoid the heat. A much larger, slower and somewhat comical replacement arrived. I named him Ralph, the javelina, because he reminded me of the old Honeymooners’ character. He probably weighed close to 60 pounds, being at the high end of the scale for his breed. As it turned out, Ralph liked carrots just as much as the bunnies, leading to some interesting inter-species skirmishes. He was very gentle, though, simply nudging the little guys away from his chosen carrot with his snout. He became a regular visitor and began to remind us of a big, sloppy lap dog with bristles instead of fur.
On one particularly brutally hot afternoon, I found him lying in the shade at the corner of our house, which abutted the garage. His breathing was laboured. I took the garden hose and sprayed him for about ten minutes with a gentle shower of cold water. When I finished, he raised his head, looked straight at me, gave a soft grunt, lowered his head and proceeded to nap there until the sun went down. This became a routine, and one afternoon, he came right up to our front gate and raised his snout, looking for a carrot. Although not tame by any means, it was obvious he felt safe with us. We had no idea how safe – not until Alice showed up.
Alice and Ralph became very neighbourly. We’d see them often at dawn and many times at dusk as they patrolled the nearby area looking for edibles. After a while, they ignored the carrots and sought out the many prickly pear plants surrounding our property. On extremely hot days, they’d show up for a spritz from the hose, some fresh water and then trot off into the desert to wherever they spent their nights.
This went on for most of the summer. Ralph and Alice would show up every few days, say hi, turn down a carrot or two that my wife would put out in an effort to supplement their diet, get spritzed, grunt a goodbye and then trot off into the sunset. The carrot refusal was a bit puzzling. I wasn’t sure if they had developed a dislike for them or if Alice was getting concerned about Ralph’s weight. At any rate, carrots were no longer bought. Ralph and Alice’s visits became fewer during the fall, and by winter, they were only seen in the distance. We guessed they had made a warmer nest somewhere in the area, but left them to their privacy. We saw Alice once in February, by herself, looking almost as large as Ralph, then nothing.
Spring arrived, and with it, an influx of avian life took up residence in the many mesquite trees surrounding our home. Desert wrens, finches, and the finicky occasional orioles all dropped in looking for the various seed blocks we put out for them. Patiently, the very timid quail would wait their turn to peck at the blocks. Not very far behind them came the Cooper and red-tailed hawks, who were also hungry and very interested in our winged visitors.
In late May, Ralph and Alice showed up again, only this time they brought company. Trailing behind them were two little “Reds” – the name given to baby javelinas. They were both adorable and comical as they played a game of “tag”, trailing very closely behind mom and dad. When they were about twenty feet from the house, Alice snorted loudly and nudged her offspring in front of herself. My wife thought it was to show us what she’d been up to over the winter. I agreed and also felt that she wanted the young ones to get our scent to know we weren’t a threat. They took a few steps towards us, snouts up in the air, and then ran immediately back behind Alice. We named them Pete and Repete.
There wasn’t a carrot in the house as it was grocery shopping day. The only available produce we could offer was some old sweet potatoes, so we cut them up into small pieces and tossed them out to the family. Surprisingly, they liked their yams, as in really liked. After that, we always made certain to have a supply at the ready for the sporadic visits of our “tribe.”
As the summer wore on, water was always put out for the Javi family and other neighbouring wildlife. My mate, being the thoughtful person she is, decided we needed to put out a cheap plastic toddler-like swimming pool for the oppressively hot days. It was a hoot watching Ralph and Alice just plop down in the middle of the pool to cool off with their youngsters trotting around in circles in search of a way to join their parents. Somehow, they always succeeded.
The newborns grew quickly, much to our surprise. Within a few months, they looked like teenagers, having increased in size and curiosity. They still ran away if we approached, but not too far, especially if we were carrying out some sweet potatoes. By late summer, other javelinas started showing up when Ralph et al. weren’t around. We didn’t know if they were from the same squadron as Ralph and Alice, or if the word had gotten out in whatever way animals communicate good news. It didn’t matter, they were welcomed with water, a pool and some yams, if we had them.
Over the years, (we’ve been out here a while now), we’ve befriended several generations of these critters, and with us they have always been docile, cute and, sadly, threatened by their biggest predator, humans. Why anyone would want to hunt and eat these animals is beyond my comprehension. They’re pretty much blind, not particularly fast and seem to keep rattlesnakes away. That last fact was news to me until I did some research, stating that although they are mostly herbivores, they will attack and occasionally eat snakes. It seems that javelinas aren’t bothered by the venom, which is a definite plus.
The biggest threat to the javis is the unchecked building of homes everywhere in the southwest. Their natural habitat, along with that of all the other desert wildlife, has endured encroachment after encroachment by humans. A squadron of javelinas only has a 1-3 square mile area to roam and forage, seeking shelter mostly in washes. With all the ongoing land development, the range available to them is continually shrinking, as is their food supply.
When Ralph and Alice first entered our lives here in the desert, we had few neighbours, most of whom were “old timers.” Now, nearly two decades later, the once totally dark skies we had enjoyed are not very dark, and it’s becoming more difficult to see the once brilliant array of stars that were a nightly view. I know progress never ends. As I realise my mate and I are not going to be around forever, I worry about who will replace us. Will they put out water for all the animals in the summer and winter? Will sweet potatoes still be offered? Will Ralph and Alice’s descendants be okay or will human fear of the natural order of desert life end the fragile balance we tried to maintain with our presence? These questions can keep one awake on warm fall evenings.
