Never, Never Go Anywhere Without an Umbrella No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted. Aesop     Rescuing animals is usually a pain in the neck. This has always been true and isn't getting any easier. Everyone in rescue work has numerous stories of the animals who needed help but didn't want any. Anyone who has stopped their car and jumped out to carry a silly box turtle off the road can relate to the feeling. Natural hazards are tough enough and these days animals have to deal with cars, fences, and random attacks by humans. It's enough to put any animal in jeopardy and often they can't survive without help, but when we offer it they panic. They bite and scratch and fight every step.   Having never been part of a cooperative animal rescue, I've had to do the best I can alone. I don't come across many horses fallen in trenches or manatees hit by speedboats. My rescues tend to be along the line of pulling turtles and snakes off roads or birds and rodents from the mouths of cats. This may not be earthshaking, but it's very important for those saved. It makes a difference for them. Once in a remote wildlife area, I noticed a White-footed Mouse in an empty trash can. No food in there, no water, no chance of the trash guy coming soon. No hope. The can was chained upright to a fence (how does anyone empty it?!), and it seemed I left my Mouse Scoop in my other pack. I reached in and gently cupped the small body in my hands and asked it not to bite. The little guy, so soft and gentle, held still as I found a brushy spot to release it. As I opened my hands, small black eyes looked up briefly before the gray and white pixie ran for cover. Most of my rescues are like this but occasionally something more memorable occurs.   Above the Napa Valley of California is a beautiful State Park of forested mountains and chaparral called Sugerloaf Ridge. Trails lead to glorious views of surrounding valleys and ridges, and the less glorious views of all the land cleared and ruined for more vineyards. Hiking here one cold January day, I noticed movement just off the path and was shocked to see a tiny owl standing in the weeds. Only six inches tall including a long narrow banded tail, with white chest vertically streaked with brown, reddish brown head speckled with small white spots, and white-marked brown wings and back. An ivory bill presented a counterpoint to the bright yellow eyes. A very distinguished bird, but most striking is the pair of elliptical white-bordered black spots on the back of the head. Some naturalists theorize they are fake eyespots to fool predators. As I slowly approached, the owl's real eyes drilled through me momentarily, but soon lost interest and stared into the pale blue sky.   Watching quietly, I began to realize this Northern Pygmy Owl wasn't going anywhere. I slowly advanced and Pygmy ignored me until I approached within a couple of feet, then it turned and looked down its nose (bill) at me. A neat trick since I am six feet tall and Pygmy is six inches. Leaning forward, Pygmy ran away a few steps but wouldn't fly, and I became convinced it couldn't, even though it seemed in fine shape. My unproved theory is here was a completely feathered fledgling still dependent on a parent for food. Not yet able to fly, fallen from its tree, this bird had no way to return to the canopy. That being my best guess, I had to decide what to do. Whatever the problem, the ground was the worst place to be, where any predator could make an easy meal of the tiny creature.   The obvious solution--give Pygmy a boost! Easier said than done. I know very well that handling raptors with bare hands is remarkably low on the list of Smart Projects to Try. They have quite the knack of shredding flesh when frightened or upset. But I'm in the woods far from anything and there's no one else on the trails at this time of year. An attempt to use my hat is a flat failure. What next? Exactly. Bare hands. Oh well, skin will heal eventually. You never know until you try. (I'm the guy who once had a Red Crab hanging from his thumb by a pincer....)   I gingerly reached down and encircled the tiny body with my hands. That sure got its attention! Pygmy glared down at my fingers and up at me, furious at this dreadful social breach. It started clacking its bill in anger and that's an inadequate word for this noise, as it sounded exactly like a snapping, shorting electrical wire. Not at all natural and far too loud to come from this diminutive body, but I could handle angry yelling without difficulty and gently lifted Pygmy toward the tree. At no time did it struggle or attempt escape, acting as though it refused to believe I would dare touch it. We reached the oak tree but how to get this noisy mite to the top? I couldn't just chuck it into the branches, and the vertical trunk prevented climbing. Instead, I found an adjacent tree with a distorted trunk gently sloping to the canopy. Perfect. If I put Pygmy there, it could climb easily to safety. Could this be an easy rescue? Well, of course not. That's asking far too much.   As I opened my hands on the trunk, Pygmy immediately burst forth, trundled right off the edge, and fluttered to the ground. Blast. At least this showed the wings to be undamaged, bolstering my hypothesis of a flightless youngster. I tried again...and again...and again. It was like trying to observe an elementary particle; the act of observing it changes its position. My act of holding the owl made it always flee when I let go and not stay where I put it. I hate quantum mechanics....   We both had some exercise and I soon became confident holding Pygmy as it showed no aggression. By now I only used one hand and this gives you an idea how small a pygmy owl really is. My hands are average sized, and the fingers and thumb of one hand met around Pygmy's entire body. Dainty! The little fellow had calmed down greatly and only occasionally popped at me. At one point while I held it quietly, Pygmy even closed its eyes and began drifting to sleep!   In this calm and cozy moment, I made an extra effort to let go very slowly, and after scurrying from my hand the stooped form ran along the sloping column rather than leaping into the abyss. Thrilled, I watched the determined little body toil up the trunk, disappearing among the evergreen leaves twenty-five feet above the ground. I stayed a while to make sure no tiny bodies would plummet from the heavens. Fortunately, no sign of anybody; a rare case where I'm glad what I'm looking for doesn't appear. Pygmy was safe for now and hopefully a parent would be by soon with food. In essence, determination won out over quantum mechanics after all. Take that Shrodinger!   I greatly admire professional rescuers and rehabilitators who risk their own neck to help distressed creatures. Working long hours at minimal pay with no recognition, rescuers are sometimes criticized by people who prattle about "letting nature take its course." These critics become strangely silent when issues of factory farming and sport hunting come along, even though there is nothing more opposed to nature taking its course than these mega-industries. Most rescue work deals with problems caused by humans anyway; shouldn't we fix injuries we cause? Maybe the real reason some people get upset is that rescue work makes them feel guilty. While others are working hard to help animals the critics are doing nothing themselves, and that makes them look bad. The old saying is still true--if you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem.   Another rescue I remember with special fondness. Driving into Florida on a lightly busy two-lane highway, I spotted a snake's head poking from the short grass border onto the pavement. Dad stopped the motorhome (no quick process) and I ran back to where the snake had reached the middle of our lane. There was no way it could get across the highway before traffic arrived, as it moved very slowly. I had to act immediately, but--seeing my approach--it threw open its jaws and displayed a pink-white mouth. Oh great. A Florida Cottonmouth. Now what do I do? Catching non-venomous snakes by hand is something I do regularly, no problem. Some people also hand- catch venomous ones; some for science, some for thrills and bravado (yahoos), and some for show (Steve Irwin). Since I fit into none of those categories, I long ago decided to not risk the stray chance of being bitten, except in a super-emergency. Ah, there's the rub. Does this qualify? Does my conviction to save life whenever threatened by accident or malice take precedence over legitimate safety concerns? Given five minutes to think about this, I might have come up with a great answer, but I only had five seconds before a huge semi-truck appeared over the rise, heading right for us. I knew with absolute certainty that the truck couldn't miss crushing this creature.   Many people would be glad at the death of any snake, let alone an "evil" cottonmouth. However, what is the difference between a snake and a turtle, iguana, parrot, canary, goldfish, guinea pig, hamster, cat, dog, horse, donkey (insert your favorite animal here)? They all feel pain, experience the world around them, are intent on surviving and continuing their species, are well designed for their native habitat, and experience emotion. If you doubt the last point, I am happy to recommend a dozen books detailing animal emotion in a plethora of species. Does an animal need fur or feathers to experience emotion? Do you? After exhaustively studying animals, both in captivity and the wild, I can testify that they are all the same. They are all living beings worthy of respect and worthy of their own lives. For me, an animal's interest in staying alive and unharmed takes precedence over any interest of mine, except my interest in staying alive and unharmed. If forced to choose my life or an animal's, I will choose mine, but in many years of close contact with countless animals, that has never happened.   It seemed that choice had finally arrived, however, as we had only seconds before the thundering truck hammered us. One of us could easily step out of the way, while the other was doomed. What to do, what to do? After careful consideration of the situation and my options and their various possible permutations (taking a total of 1.9 seconds), I decided to get Official and Authoritative and try to pull off a bluff. Straightening to my full height, I put on my Serious Face, stared directly at the dark windshield, and pointed my right arm toward the other lane like a traffic policeman, refusing to take no for an answer. That was what I hoped it looked like anyway. I just prayed I wouldn't have to dive away at the last moment if the truck didn't change lanes.... I pointed twice to make my meaning clear (but no more, so as not to appear desperate) and waited an eternity (3.2 seconds). So maybe that's not an eternity, but Einstein says time is relative and he's always right. Then, miracle of miracles, the truck driver did pull over and passed us in the other lane! Buddy, if you're out there reading this, I want to offer a great big thank you for changing lanes. I'm always grateful when people choose not to kill me. That's just the way my family raised me.  So the crisis is over, the situation resolved. Wait a minute...no it's not. I'm still standing on a highway by a gaping cottonmouth (which had quivered when the truck roared past). Matters are far from resolved. With no sticks handy and only marsh nearby, I race to the motorhome and ask for a pole. Mom offers a long umbrella, which I gladly accept. Now we're talking. First try is to poke the snake,

persuade it to move with alacrity on its way. First try is a failure. Instantly Cotton whips into a tight spiral with head in the center, pointing upward, gaping open. At the time I was a little busy for aesthetics, but looking back I am amazed any snake could open its mouth so far. The symmetrical spiral of the stocky black body, with the shining pale mouth in the center like an uplifted flower was very attractive. Yes, it was. Really. In spite of what you are thinking.   At least now I have a possible solution. I carefully insert the umbrella's point between loops of the snake's body and drag it across the pavement. Crude but effective. Cotton flinches at every bump but stays stiffly coiled. I go slowly to avoid alarming anyone but am very glad when we leave the pavement. Just in time, as another car drives right where we'd been. Relaxing somewhat, I go tell the folks I'd been cottonmouth wrangling. (It had somehow slipped my mind to mention this when I first took the umbrella....) I casually say, "If you ever want to see a cottonmouth gaping, now would be a good time." Dad kind of slumps a bit to hear who my playmate is but otherwise they take the news in good stride and come to look. Once everyone's suitably impressed, I resume the umbrella facilitated migration. Going over the uneven grass is very trying for the snake but at last we make it to the marsh edge. Figuring my help is no longer required, I back away maybe ten feet. Suddenly Cotton springs away as if shot from a crossbow, launching into the marsh grass faster than it takes to say so. It's flat out gone. I just stand there rather stunned that any cottonmouth could move so fast. Over the years I've seen many cottonmouths from youngsters to massive old-timers. All have been super-slow, often motionless, but apparently that's their choice, not a limitation. I could say I'm grateful it never lunged at me, but that's missing the point. If there was ever a snake with an excuse to strike, it was this one. Out of its element, poked, dragged, almost certainly scared; what did it do to me in response? Nothing. Cotton did not bite the umbrella, did not attack at all, just gave the cottonmouth warning display. Finding itself in a strange world of cars and concrete and umbrellas, it did nothing but escape at the first opportunity. Would you like to hear a true secret of mine? No venomous snake I have ever met (and there have been plenty!) has ever struck at me. None. Ever. Where is the aggressive monster people describe? Where is the deadly killer of legend and myth and movies? It is right where it originated, in people's imagination and exaggeration. Now if you find a cottonmouth, you should leave it alone, for it is true that they are more territorial than most U.S. snakes and will defend themselves stridently when harassed. Still, self-defense is not a crime! Self-defense is considered noble in people. Besides, innocent until proven guilty. Someone you've never met might use a gun someday to shoot you. So should you kill every person you meet to prevent this from ever happening? No? Then why should you kill every snake? No North American snake will bite unless bothered or frightened. They simply want to be left alone. At the minimum can we at least not kill them on sight? Albert Schweitzer said, "Anyone who has accustomed himself to regard the life of any living creature as worthless is in danger of arriving also at the idea of worthless human lives."   When I talk about snakes, people ask me, "But you kill cottonmouths, right?"   I smile and reply, "No. I rescue them from highways with umbrellas." The look people wear in response kind of makes everything right with the world. That and knowing there are animals alive that wouldn't be without some help, even if they don't appreciate any at the time.