The Nature of the Beast (according to Susan McCarthy)

Consider the ravens

Long ago, starter birdwatchers in an Arizona desert spotted a huge black bird. Perched commandingly, unimpressed by puny humans.

 Could it be – a raven? In the desert? Weren't they forest wilderness birds? A handy bird guide said the raven was “Common only in the Far North and in the West, especially near heavy timber.” No timber in the Chihuahuan Desert.

A more authoritative bird book said, “Resident of wild regions.” This desert was fairly wild.... A western bird guide said, “Habitat: Mts., deserts, canyons, coastal cliffs, boreal forests.” Okay! Deserts! Common Raven, Corvus corax! World's largest songbird! Yay!

The resident of wild regions has become increasingly common in urban regions. In the last 25 years, there's been a population explosion of ravens and crows in cities. If you can find a wild region, you can still find ravens residing there. But other ravens have decided to join us for dinner.

 My San Francisco neighborhood is full of them. They swoop over City College, bursting out of the pines. They holler from roofs. They strut in the gutter, disemboweling that helpless urban victim, the fast-food bag. Ravens evolved as carrion eaters. In a forest, ravens track wolves. If wolves kill a moose, ravens wade in, grabbing bites. In my neighborhood, ravens keep an eye on people, especially the ones walking away from Beep's Burgers.

What changed to make residents of wild regions feel so comfortable in the city? Lots of garbage around, but that's not new. Probably what changed is raven culture. Young ravens stay with their parents for months learning what's safe, what's dangerous, and where food is. 

There are several hundred ravens in San Francisco, and not nearly enough places for all those giant birds to nest. So most birds around town are non-breeders, hip young consumers with spare time and a burning curiosity about the world and which parts of it can be eaten. They know the best dumpsters, the most spacious dumps, and the most generous handouts.

 Many people feed ravens. People love the contact with wild animals, and ravens are cool. They are huge and hilarious as they high-step toward your offerings. Sometimes feeding them lets you observe their intelligence. I met a woman who feeds ravens at Fort Funston. When she arrives, ravens gather even before she parks – they recognize her car. She scatters peanuts across the iceplant, and dozens of ravens search for them.

 Another time I met a man sitting on a bench overlooking the sea. A raven stood on the seat next to him. Another perched on the back of the bench. He doled out snacks. He said these ravens knew him well, and described their family structure. (He said they were father and child.)

  I love ravens. Feeding animals is fun, and it feels like a win-win. Certainly the ravens would vote for it. But I don't feed them, and I think no one should.

 

The problem is that ravens are clever wild animals who find their food in many ways. One way is robbing nests of other birds and eating eggs and nestlings. The ravens of wild regions have always done this, and city ravens have kept up the skill. Stuffed with garbage and treats, urban ravens have plenty of leisure time to look for nests of little birds. It would be nice if well-fed ravens didn't feel like robbing nests, but no. They still enjoy the hunt.

 Nature's way, even if it's kind of depressing, right? Are we supposed to try to convert wild animals into kind vegetarians?

 No. It's nature's way for ravens to rob nests, but it's not nature's way for there to be so many ravens. We've created surplus predators, whose numbers aren't controlled by prey supply. Nature's way includes predators starving if they destroy prey populations. City ravens don't starve, because they have garbage and handouts. Many ravens means many sharp black eyes looking for nests. A project to bring California Quail back to Fort Funston failed, apparently because ravens got all the quail chicks. But they didn't starve, because there are still plenty of french fries scampering around the parking lots.

Rangers in state and national parks are trying to discourage visitors from feeding ravens. (I know, they discourage you from feeding everything, and why can't a chickadee have a damn crumb, but they're particularly worried about ravens.) In 1989, in Big Basin State Park, near Santa Cruz, biologists discovered only the second known Marbled Murrelet nest. Thrilled, they began observing the nest, which produced one silent thoughtful chick. Just as the chick was almost old enough to fly, ravens killed and ate it. They'd been observing too. The Big Basin ranger campaign to make sure no garbage gets left around for ravens to eat is called “crumb management.”

 To speak of surplus predators is also to speak of outdoor cats. Same deal – we support them in high numbers, which have nothing to do with prey supply. They behave naturally, but not in a natural context. Both cats and ravens are clever, fascinating creatures. Interacting with them puts us in touch with a fragment of wildness. We shouldn't do that in a way that lays waste other fragments of wildness.

 I dislike telling people they shouldn't do fun things (feeding animals) and I dislike depriving animals of fun things (free food). So here's a loophole for city dwellers. Next time you have a moose carcass, I think it's okay to leave it out for the ravens.

 

 

 

 

Urban sophisticates

Pier 39 on the San Francisco waterfront is an open mall, with music, performers, a merry-go-round, people who will do a caricature of you-with-an-enormous-head, and stores for the left-handed or sock-mad. There's an aquarium and a marina. You can catch a ferry.

The pier was originally for commercial shipping. Then it was redeveloped as a tourist attraction. There was an opening ceremony in 1978, at which then-mayor Dianne Feinstein wore a “discreet but attractive swimsuit because of a bet with the developer,” according to the New York Times of that era. (Sadly, I can't find a photo.)

In 1989, some small boat docks on the north side of the pier were vacant during repair work. Unexpectedly, sea lions started hauling out on these docks. They napped. They grunted. They barked.
 

Business owners and boat owners complained. Noisy! Stinky! Unsanitary! Bad for business. A permit was requested to scare them away by detonating explosive charges. Others objected to the request. The controversy made it into the newspapers. This alerted residents who didn't ordinarily go to Pier 39 about the easy-to-view sea lions. We rushed to the spot to view the pinnipeds (Zalophus californianus). It was a great angle, and the sea lions were very close, and delightfully blasé about being viewed.

Since we were there, we drank lemonade, bought left-handed scissors and gala hosiery, and were manifestly good for business. We made plans to bring our out-of-town visitors.

The permit request was hastily dropped. Pier 39 began promoting the sea lions.

Most of the sea lions leave in the summer, to catch breeding season in the Channel Islands, and return in the fall.

What are the sea lions doing here? Resting. It is said that the sea lions who hang out at Pier 39 used to hang out at Seal Rock, but moved for some reason. How mysterious. Why on earth would they do that? Why wouldn't a wild animal prefer to hang out in a wild place? Look how great Seal Rock is:


The two places aren't that far apart, but Seal Rock is outside the Bay, and Pier 39 is inside. It's  speculated that there are fewer predators inside the Bay. Fewer predators makes it easier for scrumptious types to relax.

San Franciscans pay close attention to the doings of the sea lions. Earlier this year, almost all of them vanished from Pier 39 and there was much worry and much press coverage. Were they starving? Had a shark or a killer whale scared them away? Was that them up in Oregon?

Then they came back. There was much rejoicing, especially among the merchants.

Things don't seem normal among the sea lions this year. Mothers are giving birth to pups early, and in unusual places. Five were actually born at Pier 39.

El Nino may have something to do with it, or domoic acid, or declining fish stocks. The species isn't endangered, but it's not having a good year. If there's anything I can do to help, just say the word. And I know I speak for the small-business community when I say so.

Dog on a train

 

La Dolce Vita di Lampo

Lampo slept in the station at Campiglia Marittima, a busy railway junction. In the morning he'd jump on the train to Piombino and walk Mirna Barlettani to school. Then he'd take the train back to Campiglia.

When the Turin or Rome Express stopped in Campiglia, Lampo would gaze meaningfully at the kitchen window of the dining car, barking if necessary. The cook would toss bones and meat out.

In the afternoon, Lampo took the train to Piombino and walked Mirna home from school. Then he returned to Campiglia.

From Campiglia, Lampo might catch a train anywhere. He'd hop onto any passenger train (never a freight) and ride calmly until he heard the conductor coming, when he'd hide under a seat. Lampo visited every station within 200 miles of Campiglia, becoming a well-known personality.

He was back in Campiglia by 9:00 pm, to catch the train to Piombino with assistant stationmaster Elvio Barlettani, Mirna's father. He'd spend the evening with the family. He was grossly favored over their dog Tiger – Tiger got bread and macaroni, but Lampo got meat, because that was the standard he was accustomed to. Then Lampo caught the last train back to Campiglia.

If it was very hot, Lampo might stoop to the bus. Having gone to a beach on the Tyrrhenian coast with the Barlettanis, Lampo knew the way. He'd go to the bus terminal and mingle with beach-goers getting on the bus so he could spend the day there.
 


Storia di Lampo

When Lampo jumped off a freight train in August 1953, and started living at Campiglia station, he already seemed used to solo train travel.

Talking with other railroaders, Barlettani concluded this was the same dog who had been mooching around the Livorno (aka “Leghorn”) station. When the Livorno stationmaster called the dogcatcher, railway workers shouted to warn the dog, and flung him into a freight car pulling out.

When the dog made Campiglia his base, the staff named him Lampo (Lightning). At first he traveled locally, but then he got ambitious, traveling for miles wherever trains went.

Lampo became famous among railroaders, who recognized him and exchanged stories of his travels. Then journalists, scum that they are, wrote about him and his fame spread.

Naturally there were authorities who thought poorly of this. Barlettani was told to make Lampo play it cool for a while. He took Lampo home to Piombino (a small spur station), and enlisted station staff there to keep him from getting on the train. Lampo busied himself defending the Barlettani home from deliveries, and from their friends and relations. He kept trying to catch a train. Every night, when the whistling and clatter of the outbound train could be heard, he'd fling himself at the door.

They let him ride the trains again, but one day he got caught in a door. The train was stopped so the doors would open and release him. This irregularity was witnessed by an inspector. Higher-ups ordered that the dog must go.

Barlettani conferred with station staff. They decided to put Lampo on a freight, not let him off till it was far to the south, and eject him in open country far from a station.

Of course he came back. When Lampo stepped off the Rome train five months later, he looked terrible. He had been tied with wire and string before getting free. He was gaunt and sick. A vet said he would die in hours. However, after a night's sleep in Campiglia station (his choice), Lampo felt much better.

He was far more famous now. “The station echoed with cries of joy.” The authorities relented; conductors pretended not to notice any dog; crowds came to see him. Lampo resumed traveling. Journalists, jackals that they are, filmed him for TV (alas, none of this seems to be on YouTube). He was known all over Italy, and in France. Word even got to San Francisco where Barlettani's aunt lived.

Lampo carried on his career for eight years. In 1961, age unknown, he was killed by a train in Campiglia station. Elvio Barlettani wrote a book, the 1963 Lampo: the Traveling Dog.

Perché viaggiate, Lampo?

When Lampo first appeared, no one was startled. In Italy in those days, when people had excess dogs or cats – which was often, for neutering and spaying was not commonly done – they frequently put the animals on freight trains to take their chances elsewhere.

None of the others took up regular train travel. However, Barlettani's macaroni-fed dog Tiger, an unambitious German Shepherd, was terrified of thunderstorms. One evening a storm hit just as Lampo was catching the train back to Campiglia, and panicky Tiger hopped on after him. Another day, in  another storm, Tiger took the train by himself, having apparently learned to escape the horror this way. But the dimwit had not learned discretion, and passengers were terrified to see this huge Alsatian.

Barlettani writes that Lampo “wished to travel, not only to get to know a little about the great world, but also to learn about the life and reactions of men.”

Very philosophical, and in my opinion not wrong, but not the whole story. The book does not touch on canine sexuality. But Lampo was male, and apparently not neutered. Dogs usually weren't. One photograph in the informative book seems to show an intact male. And a blog post mentions that at Campiglia station today there is a statue of Lampo and some newspaper clippings, one of which says Lampo's daughter will play him in an Italian TV movie. Either it's a very old clipping or “daughter” means some more distant descendant -- but if he had descendants he wasn't neutered.

Male dogs often like to range large territories. Part of the incentive is the chance to meet as many interested females as possible. Using the Italian rails, Lampo had the biggest territory of any dog in Italy. Maybe in the world. Unlike dogs belonging to most travelers, Lampo set his own agenda. If he met a ravishing bitch in Siena, no one would rush him away to Pisa.

He surely had many daughters and sons. They don't seem to have inherited his methods, since I see no indication that Italy teems with independent rail-riding dogs.

Update: I have now learned of an Australian dog who traveled about by bus in the 1970s in the Pilbara region. Variously called Bluey, Dog of the Northwest, The Pilbara Wanderer, Red Dog, and Tally Ho, he had a transport workers union card and a bank account. In the film about him, he was played by Koko. If only he and Lampo could have met....

Easy birding

Ten thirty at night, driving through Oakland's Chinatown, we glimpsed a large bird perched on a sign. We went around the block and there was a black-crowned night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax) on the LEFT TURN ONLY sign, two more on a jewelry store awning, and another on a pho restaurant awning. We knew that night herons scavenged fish parts in local dumpsters, but no dumpsters were in view.

We pulled over and watched from the car. A heron might fly from an awning to the top of a NO PARKING sign, or shuffle along an awning. They weren't alarmed when cars drove by, or when waiters from the restaurant on the corner came out for a smoke. They flew to more distant spots once when a pedestrian appeared. (Clearly they found him suspicious – what's he doing here at this hour? Our presence in the car didn't bother the herons, though the waiters seemed to find it strange.)

Mostly they stared intently down toward the sidewalk. Odd. Night herons spend much of their working life staring intently into water looking for swimming prey. I could not see the sidewalk from where we were, because parked cars were in the way, but nothing seemed likely to be swimming there. If the restaurant had kindly put fish offal out, why wouldn't herons just go down and get it?

I speculated that the night herons were waiting until dumpsters got put out, and staring intently just because staring intently is their habit.

A heron suddenly popped into view, flapping up from the sidewalk, as if fleeing a kerfuffle of some kind. We realized there were more night herons on the sidewalk, either consuming or awaiting some fishy bonanza. The ones we saw peering intently were envious bystanders. Perhaps they were low-status birds – young birds? – wondering when it would be their turn.

The scene was one of social complexity, awaiting its naturalist, a Goodall of the dumpsters, a Schaller of the streets.

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