Bufo americanus; the American Toad

Identification:

This toad is common in the northeast. He ranges in size from less than an inch to a over three inches. He is most often a shade of brown, but is sometimes more reddish or greenish. He has wart-like bumps on his skin. The toad is most frequently observed in the evening when he attempts to cross roads or lawns. Although the name is highly suggestive, I rarely spot a toad sitting on a toadstool.


The Toad and I, the Toad and You, the Toad and Us

The American Toad is everyman. Perhaps this is uncomfortable. When pondering nature we may be more prone to identify with eagles, killer whales, and tigers. In our more pensive moments we may feel the poet Rilke speaks to our souls, almost penetrating the fog that obscures our rightful place in the cosmos as he muses:

...I am circling around God, around the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don’t know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song.

Note the glaring omission of the American Toad from amongst these wondrous possibilities.

Never one to duck controversy, I will argue that even the poet himself most likely bore more resemblance to Bufo americanus than to either a falcon or a storm. The toad embodies life as it is, warts and all. He is stout, easily damaged, and almost wholly lacking grace or elegance. From the time of his nonage, death and failure stalk his every move. Most specimens will not make it through the first five weeks of life as a tadpole. Things get only marginally better for those who successfully metamorphose. Though the toad can live for over a decade, most perish within two years. They are frail and prized as a delicacies by snakes. Their warty appearance has made the very name "toad" a byword for ugliness and repulsive mannerisms.

Despite these challenges, the toad persists. He hurls himself awkwardly into the unknown with artless pitiable hops. He struggles to eek out a living, dining on insects and worms. All the while he sings. In this he defies the world that treats him casually. His small life may little impact the indifferent earth. He may be gone in an instant. Yet in the spring he calls out across the still swamps and ponds, raising a strident refrain of hope and renewal.

Are we not like toads? Are our lives not brief? Do even our greatest civilizations not fall to dust and undecipherable whispers on stone? Rilke may envision himself raging over the seas like a thousand year storm, yet is not a thousand years a mere instant? I for one would be happy to call the toad my brother. My victories are like his, over mere worms and flies; trifles in the cosmos. A man must hold this knowledge in his depths, yet still toil, strive and sing as does the toad. Indeed if a man would be a storm is he yet a man? If a man know he is a toad, perhaps he is a man, and more.

The Toad; Warts and All

Having addressed the toad's larger significance, I will move on to some of his particulars. My treatment of an animal is never complete without assessment of the common wisdom, and comment on divers oddities. This leads me to the first major question; will touching a toad give you warts? Be assured, it will not. While the toad has bumps on his own skin, these are not contagious. He does have the ability to release a toxin through his parotoid glands, located in the two large bumps behind his head. However, this toxin will not cause warts or anything like instant death. To a human the toxin is merely an irritant. It is advisable that you avoid rubbing the toad rigorously into your eyes and mouth.* Some sources suggest that you wash your hands after handling toads. While this is a sensible precaution, I would also recommend not becoming too alarmed if you do come in contact with Bufo americanus. I spent many a happy hour in my childhood carousing with toads and never suffered ill effects.

The toad is a nocturnal animal. You may well see him during the day, but he is most likely hopping somewhere to escape the cruel sunlight and hunker down for a snooze. He is also not a big fan of cold weather, and burrows into the earth to hibernate for the winter.

Unlike many frogs, the toad strays from water after he is finished his tadpole days and becomes primarily a land dweller. Of course, being an amphibian he must find some source of moisture to absorb through his skin. Despite this, he does not confine himself to the banks of ponds and streams.

Handling and Care

In researching this piece I was a little surprised to find that the toad has built himself a reputation as a desirable pet. Now I certainly don't question the judgment of anyone who enjoys his company. As a child, I caught quite a few toads. However, with age my enthusiasm for interfering in the toad's daily life has waned. In general, I think he is best left alone. If you catch him you will notice he is likely to urinate on your hand. Obviously, he does so because the experience is unpleasant to him, as would be our own handling by well meaning cyclops. It is true, the toad may live longer in captivity, and his bodily needs may be effectively met. Still, he is a wild animal and his place is with his own. Certainly I do not judge, and you may do as you will. When I see a toad on my walks I still invariably stop dead in my tracks. Yet these days I quietly observe him only, carefully giving him no cause for alarm. I let him hop off nobly to his fate, and I remain behind, thankful for his inspiring example.






*obviously, popping a whole toad into your mouth and swallowing, or otherwise consuming a toad is most inadvisable, and would be beyond the pale in wanton disregard for both the toad's health and your own.

Further Reading

 

The Wind in the Willows

Siala sialis; The Eastern Bluebird

Identification:
The Eastern Bluebird is a small thrush with mostly blue feathers. It is light reddish brown on the chest, and has a white belly. Adults are a little over five inches. It has a cheerful call which can be heard here. Females are a bit more dull and grayish than the males.


Bluebird Habits

The bluebird is a lover of border regions. He particularly likes to perch at the edges of fields, meadows, or lawns. He can be seen making numerous short flights across these spaces hunting for insects. Numerous bluebirds are often spotted near specially constructed houses or "blue bird boxes" built to accommodate their needs. These are sometimes grouped along trails, allowing for ample sightings. the Sialis diet is not too different from what you might imagine for a typical songbird; various bugs, seeds, berries, the odd worm etc etc. Common wisdom maintains that meal worms are a species favorite, and that providing these can be instrumental in attracting bluebirds to a yard.

The bluebird is a year round inhabitant for much of the lower northeast, but ranges farther north in the summer. He is not averse to roughing it a bit, and can be seen enjoying snow in quite a few photos. His mating arrangements are rather liberal, resembling what some might call "open marriages." Pairs generally keep up appearances by sticking together for the kids, but take bluebird lovers on the side.

The Bluebird of Happiness (or Despair)

It's no wonder the blue bird has been pegged in the collective imagination as herald of all things joyful. The sight of an energetic sialis in full flight, his plumage sparkling in the morning sun, can soften even the hardest heart. Watching his short bouncing flights from fence to roof, to branch to wire over cropped fields stirs our spirits. We recall, or even feel for the first time our own sense of resilience and optimism. This is all well and good.

As you first begin to engage more fully in nature, quieting your movements and opening your eyes to your surroundings, the presence of bluebirds will become more apparent. You will spot them where once you saw only trees, wires, or "birds" of a generic and undistinguished manner. So many are content to stop here. The bluebird will make you smile. Its giddy call will be ataractic, lulling you with the seductive whisper "all is well."

My friend, all is not well. Nature's avian display of innocence and light bears us bittersweet tidings of joy and grief. While he seems well established and secure in his numbers now, the bluebird's history is one of tragedy and loss. To know the full measure of his sorrow, we must hearken back to earlier times.

Centuries ago the eastern woodlands of North America were variegated with a dazzling array of brightly feathered birds. On late summer afternoons flocks of sunny goldfinches weaved through the balmy air, narrowly avoiding collisions with scarlet tanagers and blindingly orange northern orioles up for their seasonal visit from the lower Americas. The azure bluebird was right at home in this psychedelic avian mix. True, here and there some duller sorts crept in. The grackle was never far off. The loathsome brown-headed cowbird ever threatened the sanctity of nests. Yet by and large this was a perfect time to be a charmingly colorful songbird.

Alas, this idyllic landscape was soon marred by the encroachment of some particularly reprehensible European birds. Notable among these are the house sparrow and common starling. Both were intentionally introduced in order to bring a bit of old world culture to the "new" continent. In the starling's case, their introduction was part of a deranged scheme to bring all birds mentioned in William Shakespeare's work's to America. If only one of Shakespeare's eloquence were alive to lament the darkening of our skies with dismal flocks of these unsavory creatures.

These winged stormtroopers of drab were relentless in their advance. They bullied, harassed, and overran our native species with gleeful abandon. They were particularly cruel to our innocent bluebird, usurping his nests and driving him from his ancestral home. Had they mastered the use of tools they would no doubt have put his young to the sword and salted his fields.

The bluebird population declined. He became less and less visible. Soon children were born for whom he was but a story, a portrait in a field guide. Fortunately, conservationists and bird enthusiasts found new hope for our embattled friends. Specially designed birdhouses were erected that keep out the hated starlings and house sparrows, and provide sanctuary to bluebirds.

Gradually the bluebird's numbers increased. Nowadays they can be seen flitting about by any observer with a bit of patience and knowledge of where to look. Still, all is not well. Our backyards still teem with invasive sparrows. While the bluebird maintains a healthy population, his sightings fall within the more common backdrop of plague-like starling flocks, sometimes stretching from horizon to horizon.

Thus, the bluebird bruits happiness, but also sorrow. We feel rightfully blessed when seeing him alight, but our joy contains the seeds of grief. We know his life is precarious, and he perches upon a razor's edge. On one side life; carefree, full of song and delicious insect meals. On the other; oblivion. We see this and it tasks us. Will we look within ourselves and see our own mortality? Will we see the fleeting nature of worldly pleasures? Will we learn to live fully, allowing both the joy of creation and the grief of loss to flow through us like ocean waves? Or will we fall? Perhaps raging against the starling horde, and the house sparrows' song of death. Or perhaps blinding ourselves to the pain; contorting our faces into pantomimes of grotesque but inauthentic happiness; ignoring the gorgeous frailty of nature in favor of chipper platitudes or modern convenience. Though the perils of obsessive gloom seem well marked, we must recall the Dane's sage warning that "for despair the most cherished and desirable place to live is in the heart of happiness." And so, the bluebird sighting does more than just momentarily lift our spirits. It brings face to face with ourselves, and calls us to probe the deeper mysteries of humanity.

Further Reading

The Sickness Unto Death: A Christian Psychological Exposition For Upbuilding And Awakening (Kierkegaard's Writings, Vol 19) (v. 19)

Pomatomus saltatrix; the Bluefish

Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons. Licensing information.

Identification:
As his name suggests, this fish has a blueish tint, with a lighter underside. While the young "snapper" blues are often between six to ten inches, adult fish can be over thirty inches. A bluefish over twenty pounds would be considered large. Fish have sharp teeth, and a forked tail. The spiked dorsal fin is about halfway back, giving the fish a sort of "large forehead" look.

The bluefish made his cinematic debut in the popular sequel, Jaws 2. In a particularly poignant scene, sheriff Brody spots a dark mass moving beneath the waves towards a crowd of bathers. Alarmed, he cries out to the swimmers, ordering them out of the water. He sprints to the surf, firing his pistol into the ocean. He believes he is shooting a prowling great white shark.

One of the more level headed beach goers points out his error. The shape is no shark. It is "just" a school of bluefish. The vacationers' facial expressions shift from terror, to relief, to disgust. The sheriff is shamed. Those bathers, and the predictably bullheaded town administration disdain and mock him for his vigilance. Again, it was "just" a school of bluefish.

Yet those truly worthy of disdain, if not merely pity, are they that underestimate the hazard posed by just such a school of Pomatomus saltatrix. Yes they can laugh. Yes they can jeer at the trigger happy simpleton of a sheriff. But had they exposed their fingers, toes, noses, etc. to the bluefish's raw fury, I expect they'd offer a more measured response. While Carcharodon carcharias has gained a reputation for maneating and boorishness, pound for pound he is less impressive than the fierce saltatrix. This bantamweight is the ocean's true undisputed terror.

I once witnessed my elder brother, a career military man and paragon of masculinity, laid low by a twenty inch bluefish. It took no more than a quick flop of the tail and cavalier snap of the old canines to wound him deeply, necessitating a trip to the E.R. complete with stitches. The bluefish thinks nothing of meting out such punishment. In this he bears little resemblance to so many fellow fishes in his weight class. The average fish is a poltroon, who avoids interacting with humans at all costs. These turn and make frantic retreats when encountering the mere shadow of the ominous Homo sapiens. Naturally, the bluefish spurns their company, unless he plans to eat them.

The Bluefish; an Impressive Fellow

The bluefish claims several braggable physical assets and characterological features that endear him to the amateur naturalist. Should you find yourself in the company of fishermen or beach goers, you can quickly establish your scientific credentials by expounding on this fish's virtues. While he is often dismissed by those who know him as only "a bit too oily" for the average palate, there is mileage to be gotten out of extolling his strengths. For one thing, he displays an admirable athleticism. He is capable of rapid accelerations and respectable vertical leaps. His swimming style is aided by his unique swim bladder, which can increase or decrease the amount of air it contains more rapidly than any other fish. This allows him to make sudden changes in depth.

The bluefish is also to be lauded for his cosmopolitan nature. Not given to provincialism, he ranges throughout the world's temperate oceans. He will also travel in unusually large schools. These can sometimes reach lengths of over a mile.

Of course, no account of the bluefish is complete without mention of his voracious appetite. Bluefish society frowns upon finicky eaters. He has two simple criteria for determining the merit of a potential meal. A) Can he see it? B) Can he fit at least some of it in his mouth? Yes, he will eat almost anything, though he primarily dines on fellow fish. In keeping with his other "pathy" traits, he is not averse to cannibalism. Ties of blood and kinship are all well and good, but nothing that should make one miss a meal.

Lest anyone make too much of the bluefish's penchant for violence and aggression, it's important to remind ourselves that despite my strongly anthropomorphic language, the bluefish remains a fish. While cannibalism and unbridled hostility would be somewhat off putting in a roomate or next door neighbor, they serve the saltatrix well in his daily struggle for survival. He is truly a marvel of predation. On the few occasions when I do swim in the ocean, I am more than happy to share the waters with this magnificent fish. Should I spot an approaching school, I will give it a wide berth, but view it fondly none the less.

Further Reading

 

Blues