“What is that in the neighbor’s driveway?”

“Where?”

“Over there, across the road. That little black lump.”

“That looks like a kitten.”

I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of the “Cat Distribution System” meme before this incident. If you’re not familiar, it’s the idea that cats have a way of just showing up at random and becoming part of a human’s family usually when said human is least expecting it. I may not have known it, but I’ve been…blessed?…by the System many times over my life. It also seems to know that our home is a good candidate for the more involved cases, and this little black kitten-lump was certainly one of those. I hastily grabbed a blanket and marched out the front door and across our street to the neighbor’s back driveway. Just a heads up, if there’s an animal in need, I do not give a single fuck about how I look trying to help it. I will trespass. I will climb trees. I will stop traffic. No regrets.

I was prepared for the kitten to be a feisty feral, so I knew not to hesitate when I lay the blanket over top of him and picked him up. But to my surprise, I didn’t have to wrangle a spring-loaded ball of fur and claws…there was no reaction at all to my calculated ambush. This weak, emaciated little babe looked to be maybe 8 weeks old, and at first I wasn’t even sure he was alive. His eyes were crusted shut, the fur around his head and neck was crispy, and the skin on his lower jaw had been degloved. The first thing I did was wipe away the discharge covering his face with the blanket, revealing, behind his half-closed third eyelids, a pair of beautiful gold eyes. I brought him back across the street to the house, already pulling my phone from my pocket to call the vet and let them know I’d be on my way.

His temperature at the clinic was 94 degrees Fahrenheit. My dear readers, the normal body temperature for a cat is between 100 and 102.5. For context, it was the end of June, hot and sunny. This baby’s body was actively shutting down. The vet, who I had previously worked with for over 8 years at the same practice, let me know that any kitten she’s seen come in this cold did not make it through a night. I honestly expected that this ordeal might end in humane euthanasia, but I also didn’t want to jump to it. As we discussed the situation, I squirted some water from a syringe into the palm of my gloved hand, and the kitten started to drink from it. I swear it felt like a door opened up in my chest, rays of golden light bursting forth, and little tendrils from my heart reached out and wrapped around that pitiful baby. I wouldn’t be surprised if an angel got its wings in that moment. Shit. Now I love him.

“If he were to die, would you expect it to be a painful sort of passing, or would he just kind of slip away?” I asked.

“I would expect him to just slip away,” the vet answered.

“Then I think I want to give him a chance.”

A plan was set to leave the baby at the vet for the afternoon to receive some fluids and get warm, then I would bring him home for the night to be monitored and syringe-fed every three hours. I returned at closing time and met with the vet again. She examined the kitten further once he was admitted and discovered that the crusty stuff on his fur was actually super glue, and when they clipped it away, they found bite wounds underneath. Someone knew this baby had been attacked by a larger animal and sloppily super glued the wounds shut. My guess is that once they realized that didn’t fix anything, they abandoned him outside to die alone. Out of sight, out of mind it seems.

My first reaction was one of disgust and anger. In my area of New England there is no shortage of veterinary practices, rescues and shelters along with several programs for financial aid to pay vet bills. Worst case, some vets will humanely euthanize a suffering animal at no cost. So, while I get that people can lack personal resources and education and maybe this was the ‘best’ this person felt they could do…it also shows a lack of empathy, responsibility and foresight which I have a hard time understanding in this age of information. All it takes is one search on a smartphone.

I showed so much restraint in expressing that - thanks, therapy!

So, baby kitten made it through the night, and we named him Lazarus (the biblical myth was a coincidence in our choosing of the name, but very fitting). We brought him back to the clinic the next morning to be rechecked, and the vet found another glued-shut wound on his neck, directly over his carotid artery. Lazarus came so extremely close to an instant death with that attack it was remarkable. The next week was basically intensive home nursing for the little guy - keeping him warm, feedings every 3 hours, cleaning and applying lubricant to his exposed chin tissue, administering eye drops for the conjunctivitis, and he was so brave and cooperative for all of it. I brought him to work with me to keep up with his care (my supervisor may not have been thrilled but I couldn’t have cared less; again, I’ll do All The Things for the sake of helping an animal,). The only hiccup was when one of the bites on the top of his head abscessed, but we caught it quickly and he was treated at another vet visit.

For the majority of the first couple of weeks, little Lazarus mostly slept, his tiny body working hard to recuperate. He was wobbly and weak on his feet, his little meow had no sound, and he actually seemed to not be able to hear. But he was now eating and drinking on his own and little by little he started to Kitten again. A quiet purr and some kneading with his adorably big polydactyl paws one day, a mini play session with a catnip toy the next. An adorable little squeak or two started to come out when his little jaws opened to meow. He began showing interest in exploring his surroundings, and was soon tumbling around with our newest puppy in the house. Once he was strong enough, he had surgery to reattach the flap to his chin. Over this time his hearing seemed to come back (the hypothesis is temporary disruption of his hearing function from head trauma). And, of course we decided to keep him. I mean, baby makes 10, right??

As Lazarus’ coat got healthier and the fur over his wounds grew back, he was peppered (salted?) with white hairs, a striking contrast against the rest of his black coat. I learned that this can happen as a result of systemic stress or injury, and it wasn’t permanent, as cool as it looked. What was permanent was the little bit missing from Laz’s lower lip, slightly exposing his teeny bottom teeth. I’d call that a pretty great outcome after having his entire chin torn away and to be honest it only adds to his charm. What a little badass.

Now just over two years old, Laz has grown into glorious, sleek house panther. He’s affectionate, silly, and strong and we love the hell out of him. Whoever abandoned him missed out on an amazing companion, and while he didn’t deserve a single second of what he went through, I’m so proud that the result was being able to call this uniquely handsome sweetheart ours. Thanks again, Cat Distribution System!

If you think Lazarus is as special as we do, go ahead and subscribe, because he and the rest of my babies will be featured in subscriber-only articles! Thanks for reading!

While it’s the most recent out of the examples I gave, the baby squirrel adventure happened about 14 years ago. I was living back in the Midwest in the town where I was raised, the result of crashing and burning after my heart dog died suddenly when we were living on our own for the first time on the East Coast. My parents moved houses and were letting me stay in the home I lived in with them since I was 14 rent-free while I got back on my feet. There was a huge, glorious Linden tree right outside the front door. It was so big it almost completely obscured the split-level house from the road, the branches creating a canopy over the majority of the yard right up to the house itself.

I set this scene because of how I found these squirrel babes. Guys, all I did was step out the front door and right there, literally on the welcome mat of the concrete stoop was a baby squirrel - welcome, indeed! He wasn’t a neonate, but still too young to be out of the nest for long. retrospectively it looks like he must have been about 5 weeks old. Think a kitten old enough to have its eyes open and wonder around but still wobbly on it’s feet and dependent on nursing for food. I carefully picked up the babe and it immediately tried nursing on the tip of my finger.

There was no sign of mom. I don’t remember spotting a squirrel nest in the branches above me, but as much as I’d like to picture a momma squirrel wrapped in a shawl, purposely placing her kit at my door knowing I’d be able to take care of him, he must have fallen out of the tree. I did a quick sweep of the yard and sure enough, there was another babe in the grass nearby. We all know (we all know, right??) that wild animal babies have the best chance of survival with their mother, so the first thing I did was place them at the base of the tree to see if she would come back for them. She didn’t. I could only assume they were abandoned and maybe something…undesirable…happened to mom.

Time to call my mom! After relaying the story, we decided to bring the kits the 4 blocks to my parents’ house (small towns, amiright?) and make a plan. They appeared to be male, and we named them Henry and Abner because my mom loved old-fashioned names, and naming things is just fun. I did some internet research, which told me I could safely use a particular brand of puppy formula, but remember, it was 2012 and while it didn’t seem like it at the time, there wasn’t nearly as much information about obscure topics like what to feed the random baby squirrels you found in your yard as there is today. Turns out this answer was right-ish as far as an emergency, temporary food, but we should not have used it for the duration of their time as nursing babes. Had I known I should have made my own special squirrel formula or ordered some from a specialty store, you know I would have. The risk with puppy formula is diarrhea and therefore dehydration and possibly death because not all the ingredients and nutritional levels are compatible with a squirrel’s dietary needs.

And one of the kits indeed did not survive. I think it was too early on for the formula to have been the culprit. I wonder if perhaps little Abner was the one who fell from the tree and landed on the concrete step outside my door, he seemed less active than his brother from the start. He passed in my hands while I was trying to feed him. I desperately hope he didn’t aspirate, but I really can’t be sure. My sensitive Momma cried and insisted we bury Abner in a little antique box she had among her collectibles. It was tough and disheartening. Serendipitously I ended up finding a third kit in my yard, obviously from the same litter, when I went back home after losing Abner (and still no sign of their mom). This baby was female and we decided to call her Halo.

Both Halo and Henry did excellently on the formula, eagerly eating from a dropper, gripping it with their little hands, sitting up on their haunches, but it was probably helpful that they were so close to transitioning to solid foods. We made an enclosure for them with branches and pinecones, and cozy little pouch for them to sleep in. Obviously we snuggled the babies often as well. I remember them climbing all over me, burrowing under my shirt during a cuddle sesh on the couch. I’m sure I took video on my blackberry (anyone else miss having a physical keyboard on my phone, by the way?), but that thing’s long gone.

The enclosure went from the basement to the outdoors as Henry and Halo got a bit older and started exploring ‘real’ food. Eventually it was just there as a safety net and remained open for them to come and go as they pleased. It wasn’t long before they didn’t need that safety anymore and they fully integrated into the world of neighborhood squirrels. By the time Halo and Henry were out on their own I had moved back to New England, but my parents told me they’d frequent the trees near their house and even allowed some petting for a while. As far as I know they lived full squirrel lives.

That said, I don’t recommend trying to raise a squirrel the way we did. Looking back it was a pretty shoot-from-the-hip, uneducated venture. If there is a wildlife rehab within a reasonable distance, absolutely contact them for transfer. If you find a grievously injured squirrel, remember that even licensed companion animal veterinarians can humanely euthanize an injured wild animal even if they are not equipped to treat them. Sometimes this is the best option to limit suffering if nothing else can be done. We got relatively lucky with our experience and I cherish it - how many people can say they’ve kissed a baby squirrel? Totally a club I’m proud to be a member of.

Mushrooms are goddamn magical. I literally feel an adrenaline rush when I find a new, glorious specimen to capture. I actually didn’t realize I already had so many mushroom photos in my portfolio, but turns out many of my favorite shots are in this category! I hope you enjoy…

1. I took these photos of a Violet Coral Mushroom cluster in a New England cemetery. I was so awestruck by the color and truly felt like I had come across treasure:

   

2. Another coral mushroom! I believe this is Yellow-Tipped Coral, but please correct me if you know I’m wrong. This gorgeous cluster popped up on a friend’s property after a stretch of humidity and rain:

   

2. More from my favorite old cemetery (actually most of these are) - a few shots of some stunning American Fly Agaric mushrooms:

   

   

   

   

   4. Cemetery again! A cutie-cluster of Earthball Mushrooms:

   

   

   5. Another one from my friend’s property, I believe it’s some variety of Bolete Mushroom, please comment if you know which it is!

   

   6. I took a walk on a trail at the local university campus and spotted this amazing cluster of Easter Jack-o-Lantern mushrooms. This was my first real photography outing in several years and I am not exaggerating when I tell you I got choked up after this find. I thought the rush and satisfaction of taking a special photo was lost to me long ago, but I was wrong. It’s part of who I am.

   

   7. Finally, my most recent shots. Again, not sure of the exact type, but seems to be a variety of Laccaria Mushrooms. We found them growing between our fabric-pot herb garden after some rainy days. The slugs and isopods were really enjoying them!

   

   

   Please let me know if you’d like to see more posts like this in the future - if so I will be making them a regular thing as bonus content for subscribers. Thanks for looking!

Trigger warning, the next bit of this story involves animal harm. Skip the following paragraph to below the photo if you’d rather not read, it won’t ruin the rest of the post.

As a tomboy, I was of course running around playing with - and like - the boys in the neighborhood; think cops and robbers, football, scraped knees and dirty hands. One summer evening, two brothers from down the street and I found a big fat toad in a neighbor’s garden. The older of the boys picked up the toad and before I could do or say anything began treating it like a ball, touchdown celebration and all, his younger brother of course following suit. I remember pleading with the boys to stop. The sight and sounds of what they were doing to that innocent animal. The tight feeling of horror in my chest. I think I finally managed to get the boys to move on to another ‘fun’ activity and was able to return the toad to the garden, where it would likely soon die…and the guilt and helplessness of being unable to prevent what happened got filed into my permanent memory and sowed more seeds for my future as a firm advocate for the humane (anyone else find that word ironic?) treatment of nonhuman life.

And if you need a palette cleanser after that sad story, you have my permission to laugh at this photo of little tomboy Meadow…

I grew up and escaped the clutches of the state where I was born and raised (another story for my lucky subscribers, perhaps), and set out to build my life on the more urban East Coast, but having grown up largely unsupervised in small-town America, I still need to be able to ‘touch grass’ on the regular. only, as an introvert I need it to be my grass, where I can explore, tinker, and geek out over what I discover in relative privacy. And boy, do I.

Arguably the most enriching thing about where I live now is my encounters with the wide variety of life on my own little 1/2 acre property. Sometimes it’s astounding and rare, like the moose that strolled across the wooded area out back of our house one afternoon, or the Bald Eagle that favored the same limb of a tree along ‘my’ stretch of river during the early Spring.

Most of the time, though, it’s the ‘commoners’ that capture my heart. Don’t worry, there will be many-a-post about these friends to come. But if it wasn’t obvious, in this article I’m focusing in on toads - specifically ‘Hole Toad’, the American Toad that lived in a chipmunk burrow in my backyard. Hail Hole Toad!

I discovered Hole Toad by accident one evening early this Summer as I was playing ball with Lenore. The front half of the toads squat, bumpy body was out of one of the (too many!) chipmunk holes back there, probably on the lookout for some tasty insects. When I approached to get a closer look, she scrambled backward, down deep into the burrow. This was new one for me; I’ve seen plenty of toads, I’ve seen plenty of chipmunk burrows, but I’ve never seen a toad living in a chipmunk burrow - was this a Thing?

You know what this means, right? Time to research:

What I learned is that this is in fact a Thing. Toads do dig their own burrows, but if available, will happily occupy an abandoned mammal burrow. Call her a squatter if you want, but I for one fully support this behavior - work smarter, not harder, Hole Toad! A toad-dug dwelling can be up to a couple of feet deep for protection against frost in the winter during brumation, but otherwise usually goes down only a few inches, just enough to be fully covered by the soil. Toads do this digging with their hind legs, and then sort of shimmy their way into the shallow impression, which helps to agitate the loosened soil and cover the body. Hole Toad essentially took a free upgrade to First Class, where she’d have more protection, more room, and even multiple entrances thanks to the chipmunk’s propensity for creating tunnel systems. I did in fact witness Hole Toad utilizing two separate holes that had to have been connected underground.

Okay, but why do toads go subterranean at all? And don’t they need to be near water for reproduction? Well, this speaks to the more temporary nature of a toad-dug burrow. Typically these…dugouts?…act more as a bed for the night (well, day, toads are nocturnal) than as a home base. Toads are opportunists when it comes to a resting location, so a dark spot among garden plants, inside a log hollow, or an abandoned chipmunk hole do just as well. Staying moist is the goal here, because toads, like all amphibians, actually breathe, in part, by absorbing oxygen through their skin. This process does not work if the skin is too dry, so moisture is essential to survival.

I think the fact that the chipmunk burrow was relatively permanent and located in the middle of a green space where insects would be frequenting made Hole Toad stick around longer than she may have otherwise. I had the pleasure of admiring her multiple times over the month of June, and couldn’t help but create a lore around the idea that she was some form of deity or royalty. I’d whisper, “Hail Hole Toad” to her and entertained myself by taking photos and editing a crown onto her little noggin.

Yes, I am nearly 40 and still this dedicated to silliness.

Hole Toad eventually moved on, perhaps to procreate along my little river, perhaps to spread the Gospel of Hole Toad. I have seen other toad visitors since, one who takes refuge in the leaf litter under the back porch, one tucked in amongst our hostas…but none have taken advantage of the chipmunk accommodations like Hole Toad. Maybe she left a note telling the others she’d be back. I’d love to see her there again.

Thanks for taking the time to be here, friends. And remember, all toads are frogs, but not all frogs are toads!

Reeealllllyyy concentrate.

Got an image?

Now, remove a leg. Trust me, it’s fine.

Okay. Brace yourself…

Here she is: Lenore!

Adorable, right?? My partner and I certainly thought so, and back in the autumn of 2023 we had lost a very special member of our family, leaving a giant hole of love (ew?) to fill. We adopted Lenore (originally called Pebbles) from down south after she was found with a serious degloving injury to her left hind leg, requiring amputation. We simply can’t resist a strange, old, or special-needs critter so, by December we had her home, newly healed from surgery. She was quite hesitant on our non-carpeted floors for the first few weeks, basically scrambling between pet bed ‘islands’, but now she is so adept on her remaining three legs that I sometimes forget she’s missing the fourth. I’ll occasionally ask myself why she seems to be limping before my brain kicks in to remind me. Lenore has been an excellent addition to our family. She’s sweet. She’s spicy. She’s seven pounds of pure muscle. Oh, and her favorite color is green.

“But, Meadow,” you say, “dogs can’t actually see the color green!”

Guys, I know. And yet…

Time for some eyeball science: Let’s start with a few advantages dog vision has over humans. First, canines can see better in low light. There are a few reasons for this; one is that dogs have a tissue layer in the back of the eye called the tapetum lucidum (Latin for ‘bright tapestry’), which reflects light coming in back through the retina. Another reason is they have more light-catching rods than we do. And finally, dog pupils are able to dilate larger relative to their eye size than humans, again, allowing more light to enter. The trifecta of low-light vision!

Additionally, dogs have expanded peripheral vision because their eyes are wider-set than the average human. They also are better able to track linear motion like, say, a frisbee flying through the air, at a further distance than we can.

Alright, doggos, you win this round. But what might be some disadvantages of dog vision compared to ours?

A big one is simply visual acuity. That is, the sharpness with which one can see. Dogs are more near-sighted than we tend to be (though I definitely relate). They also are less able to shift focus from near to far - ever hold an object close to your face and deliberately focus on that object, then shift to focusing on what’s behind it and back again?

Just me? Okay.

The point is, dogs aren’t as able to do that because of differences in the location and size of the lens of their eyes. It becomes more difficult sooner for them as they age as well because the lens hardens to a greater degree over their lifetime.

So, perhaps humans win this round? Sounds like an evolutionary wash to me.

But the whole reason for this article was Lenore’s color perception, so let’s get into that.

Dogs have what’s called dichromatic vision, which means they have two types of color-perceiving cones rather than the three most humans have. Those cones can see blues and yellows pretty much as we see them, but reds and greens take on blue-grey or brownish yellow tones respectively. Here’s a great image that compares what we humans would see versus what a dog would see:

All of my research is telling me Lenore should be indifferent at best to the color green, but it truly appears to be her preference. How do I know? Enter the ball.

I discovered the summer after adopting Lenore that she LOVES to play ball. This little ZipZoom only has eyes for her ball when she’s in the back yard and she rockets after it, leaping into the air to catch it or bump it with her short little snoot like some kind of land dolphin until I have to scoop her up and bring her back inside before she overheats. Expert Lenore tip: don’t take the toy away from Lenore, lest she relentlessly obsess over getting it back. Instead, take Lenore away from the toy. For some reason, this is The Way.

Lenore is also a master of toy destruction, so even though she loves to chase her ball, she also loves to ruin it, methodically chewing away pieces of its honeycomb structure until its useless. That means I have to buy new ones pretty often. At the beginning, I’d grab whatever color was available at the store, or pick one I personally thought was nice. But the moment I introduced Green Ball, it was all over. If there are two ball options in the yard, one green, one not, she exclusively picks the green. Try to replace the green ball with a different color? Newp, that’s not gonna work! She will look for Green Ball no matter how many times you throw the nongreen replacement. BUT! If I buy another green ball, even if it’s a different size, and swap it with her most recently destroyed green ball, she is totally fine with it. It’s unwavering and repeatable.

What the hell?

She doesn’t care for red the same way, even though she doesn’t ‘see’ that color either. Blue, the color that should stand out to her most in the yard, means nothing to her. I haven’t yet found a yellow ball to try, but I suspect I’ll get the same results. There are hypotheses that what may appear to be a color choice by a dog is actually a texture or smell preference, but I am using the same type of ball for each color and swap. There’s also a study that indicates color shade influences preference more than brightness. I’d be interested to find a ball of a deeper/bluer green to see if she would have a different reaction.

At the end of the day I haven’t found a science-backed explanation for Lenore’s need for green. I do know that I love seeing her happy, enriched, and active, so if Green Ball does that, I’m all for it.

Does your dog seem to have a favorite color? Which color? I’d love to compare notes and see if my Lenoreling is as unique in this sense as she seems to be. Comment, share, subscribe, and let’s get a little study of our own going - for science!

Do you also adore Lenore? Subscribe for access to bonus content including more photos and videos!

Have you seen that meme going around about knowing you’re old when you start getting excited about the birds in your yard? If that’s the benchmark, I’ve been an Old for as long as I can remember.

Here in New England I get the pleasure of seeing some beautiful birds. Blue Jays, Cardinals, Bluebirds, a variety of Finches and Woodpeckers and many more come to my feeders.

One common visitor is the White-Breasted Nuthatch. This feathery friend is most easily identified by its tendency to walk upside down on tree trunks, craning its neck to look up and around. They mostly eat insects, but also enjoy seed and suet. Like all birds, the ability to eat properly depends on a healthy beak.

Enter Beaker.

When I first saw Beaker on our feeder, I excitedly called for my partner thinking we had an unusual new species to admire. This unfamiliar visitor had a bill that reminded me of that of the American Woodcock (also given the goofy nickname ‘timberdoodle’ as if Woodcock wasn’t bad enough). But, birds like Woodcocks don’t fly up to bird feeders - those long bills are used to probe the soil for earthworms, keeping their interests focused toward the ground.

What the hell is this bird? I thought.

I took some fuzzy photos through the window screen with my phone and performed a reverse image search.

No way, that’s a Nuthatch??

We continued to watch the little bird, whose beak was about as long as its body, and were able to better recognize the hallmarks of the White-Breasted Nuthatch species. Aside from the obvious beak-wonk, all other parameters - blue-grey, black and white coloring, small size, busy behavior - matched up. She seemed otherwise fine, but needed to tip her head to the side and use her extra-long mandibles to scoop seed into her mouth, or if she managed to get a chunk of suet, she’d tip her head back and let the piece roll in. Clever girl. But it was also a sad thing to witness. Can you imagine, say, trying to feed yourself popcorn with oven mitts on your hands? Forever? Not a good time.

I don’t think I need to explain why we named her Beaker. Nor why I I had no choice but to research the shit out of this anomaly.

First, let’s go over the characteristics of a normal Nuthatch bill and how it’s used. What our friend Beaker should have is a shorter, chisel-like beak which she’d use, among other things, to wedge acorns and nuts into the bark of trees and then whack ‘em with the sharp tip of that chisel in order to…wait for it…hatch out the nut.

Get it? You get it.

Miss Beaker’s elongated bill was not only disproportionate, but slightly maloccluded (misaligned) at the tip and appeared possibly more brittle than a healthy beak. My first two thoughts were that this was either a genetic defect or an acquired disease. My research led me to believe it’s quite possibly the latter. Namely, Avian Keratin Disorder (AKD).

Avian Keratin Disorder is best characterized by the keratin layer (rhamphotheca) of the beak growing about double the speed of a healthy bird’s, meaning regular pecking and feeding doesn’t wear it down as fast as it grows. Aside from the physical traits females with AKD have also shown erratic nesting behavior, but it’s not yet known whether this has more to do with physical limitations or some kind of hormonal factor.

As for the cause of Avian Keratin Disorder, it’s been strongly linked to Poecivirus among Alaskan populations of Black-Capped Chickadees, but is still being studied. Genetic disease is still undetermined since AKD appears to develop in adulthood (it can be tough to keep track of chicks once they’ve left the nest and connect them to a parent with the disorder). Nutritional deficiencies, parasites, and industrial contaminants (good job, humans) have also been considered as possible contributors to these beak abnormalities.

Researchers in Alaska have noted a clear increase in AKD since the 1990s, but the condition does exist less commonly elsewhere. Black-Capped Chickadees seem the most widely affected in the state, though the Alaska Science Center also lists other species like Red-Breasted Nuthatches - but not White-Breasted like our friend Beaker.

Still, if the beak fits…

I sent in a report to the Alaska Science Center about Beaker in case she is somehow connected to the Alaskan phenomenon, but there’s no way to know for sure at this point. If instances of AKD are indeed increasing and expanding geographically, this is worrying. My backyard visitor will likely have a shortened lifespan as she becomes less able to cope with the overgrowth, since it often leads to malnutrition among other problems, and she certainly does not deserve to suffer. And if the cause of her deformity is rooted in a virus, she could be a vector for its spread.

I can only hope little Beaker thrives for a long time and that perhaps her particular problem is not transmissible. She must have to put in so much more work to survive, and if I had a way to help fix her, I would in a heartbeat. The best I can do is continue admiring her and her ability to compensate for the challenges she faces with feeding and make accessing seed and suet on my property as easy as possible.

Good luck out there, Beaker. Your existence has value.

Other than the startling look of Zap’s disfigured wings, the little guy was doing great. He was steady on his feet, alert, and eagerly ate from a cotton ball soaked in apple juice with his curly proboscis. He sat calmly in a patch of sunlight on the porch, slowly flapping those useless wings. He was beautiful.

Over the course of that first day, I obtained for my new Butterfly Son a variety of food options ranging from organic juice to overripe fruit and even took a special trip to a local greenhouse for some zinnias - a preferred flower of Great Spangled Fritillary butterflies. I bought one of those mesh pop-up hampers as a makeshift enclosure for the nights, and picked out the perfect little log from our wood pile to act as his dinner table. Obviously it didn’t take long for me to fall in love.

I continued to examine my little friend for any other problem areas from his dramatic debut, and pretty much everything else about him seemed intact. Except…

Does this guy only have four legs?

Well, turns out, there are some species of butterflies that are brush-footed. They’ve got four long legs for walking and perching and their front two legs are short, fuzzy, and generally stay tucked against the body. These feet are used for smelling and tasting. I’m telling you, the wonders never cease!

My research told me that Zap’s butterfly life would last for two to four weeks in the best of circumstances, and I wanted whatever time he had to be comfortable and enriching. That meant multiple trips to the garden every day. It was so rewarding to watch him excitedly probing at a new marigold, extracting as much nectar as possible. I would hold him up in the sunlight and he’d do that slow flap of his wings that I interpreted as contentment. I’d help him cling to the flower at the top of a tall chamomile stem, riding it as it swayed gently in the breeze. He even (safely) met two of his dog brothers.

Indoors, Zappy had free reign of the enclosed front porch until he was safely tucked in to his hamper for the night. He had plants and twigs for perching, offerings of apricots, strawberries, apple juice, and cherry juice. I swear he made a face when he tried the cherry juice and quickly declined any more. I think the apple juice was his favorite.

Once, when I was having trouble figuring out what Zap was hungry for, I noticed he was swiping at my skin with his proboscis. I remembered something about butterflies gathering at mud puddles (adorably called ‘puddling’) to ingest needed minerals. I collected some of our finest compost and made him a sort of mud pie, which he immediately went for.

The routine went on for several days, and in that time, Zap’s sister Zip was still in her caterpillar stage. I figured they must not have actually been from the same hatching even though I found them near each other, but I decided to do some research anyway. That’s right, more kick-ass butterfly facts incoming!

At the time, I had no idea the sex of Caterpillar Zip, but my research suggested that she was in fact a female, and indeed very likely from the same clutch (deposit of eggs) as Zap. Her late-seeming progress was completely par for the course because the males of her species evolved to go into chrysalis and emerge around three weeks before the females. Why? Reproductive advantage, of course! In the wild, males spend this time patrolling the meadows and fields and establishing flight patterns for finding a mating partner. When the female ecloses from chrysalis, she is almost immediately ready for mating, and the male is waiting. They call this phenomenon protandry.

So, we were now nearly a week in to Zap’s butterfly life. Those wonky wings of his continued to take damage from tumbles off flowers and attempts to fly from my hands. His legs were starting to get looped in a couple of the holes in the chitin membrane causing him to flail, which caused more damage. I started finding Zappy on his back when I’d check on him on the porch. His quality of life was declining.

Back to the internet.

Do butterflies have pain receptors in their wings?

No.

Can I trim a butterfly’s wings with scissors?

Yes.

This was a last resort. Maybe if I trimmed the parts of the wings that were tripping him up, Zap could stay upright. I carefully snipped away the parts that touched the ground. His legs weren’t getting tangled anymore…but he was still ending up on his back. I wanted to give it time enough to know if there was a chance but not so much to prolong any suffering.

It didn’t work. Zap would end up on his back pretty much any time he was on his own. I knew had to do the right thing. The heartbreaking thing.

I took my Butterfly Son out to the garden one last time. We visited every flower. I let him wander on the ground among the grass and clover, and found him a nice warm patch of evening sunlight to soak up. I took a few final photos of this beautiful, valuable creature.

It took me a minute to commit to my decision, but as little Zappy calmly clung to a paper towel, I gently folded it into a loose envelope, and placed it in the freezer. His metabolism would slow and he would fall into sleep and slip away. The next day I buried him in the garden with the blossom of his favorite marigold…

I cried. Multiple times. Snot was involved. I am not ashamed.

Zip finally went into chrysalis a few days later, and emerged perfectly after a couple of weeks. She was a fine specimen, and I was so happy to watch her confidently fly off into the world. I wish she could have met her brother, and I wish even more that he could have gone out like her to experience the freedom of flight and follow his instincts to procreate, but I will forever treasure his life as it was.

Friends, I learned a lot of fascinating facts thanks to my time with Zap and Zip, Maybe more importantly, I learned that I need to be less impulsive about my nerdy enthusiasm for interacting with nature in this way. Had I left these two caterpillars where I found them, or even been just a little more educated before taking them in, chances are Zap would have had a routine emergence and lived out his life as evolution ‘intended,’ for lack of a better word. I mean, his existence had value whether I knew him or not. As for my regret for the path I unintentionally set him on? It exists alongside my utter joy in caring for him. He was worth it, tears and all.

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In the simplest terms, it starts with an egg, which becomes a caterpillar, which becomes a chrysalis, which becomes a butterfly. Each form of a single butterfly is distinctly different, yet completely the same creature. Dig deeper? It gets infinitely cooler! For one thing, there isn’t just one stage of caterpillar-hood, there are up to nine instars (stages) depending on the species, and for each one the caterpillar sheds its exoskeleton to grow bigger and sometimes look entirely different. Once they’re in the chrysalis stage, the caterpillar mostly liquifies, but certain structures remain intact, like the tracheal tubes. And, did you know that butterflies retain some level of memory from their caterpillar stages? Freakin’ amazing.

So, when all goes well, the final result is an elegant insect with delicate, intricately patterned wings, the legs of a dancer, a whimsical curly proboscis, adorable antennae, and fascinating compound eyes.

But, what if all doesn’t go well?

Let me introduce you to my friend, Zap, the Great Spangled Fritillary. I found Zap and his sister, Zip as caterpillars in the leaf litter from last Fall, near some wild violets - the plant these caterpillars eat. If I wasn’t clear, I am quite enamored with the lives of butterflies, so I decided to create an enclosed habitat for the two babies and watch them grow and change. It was selfish, I know, and I have regrets. You see, Zappy had kind of a rough go from the moment his little spiked and rubbery caterpillar body was ready to settle in and become a chrysalis.

When it’s time for a caterpillar like Zap to transition to a chrysalis, a drop in their juvenile hormone takes place and, similar to puberty, the caterpillar gets moody and agitated - It appears almost frantic as it crawls around quickly and intently in a search for the perfect spot to attach, hang, and transition into the next stage. Zap decided his enclosure did not have that perfect spot and squeezed his way out from under its lid and onto the floor of our three-season porch.

I didn’t find the little guy for a couple of days. I searched high and low on that porch, between slats of the blinds, under the old wooden bench, in the crevices of the wreath on the door. Then in one final attempt at finding him, I picked up a large river rock I had sitting in a corner…and there he was, attached to the side of the cold stone that was facing the wall, but still in his caterpillar form.

I probably should have just left him there, but despite what Zappy’s impulsive teenage hormones told him, this really wasn’t the ideal spot for becoming a chrysalis. I gently detached him from the rock. He was cold and curled and I was afraid he might not be okay. After some web searching for advice, I placed him back into the tank with his sister, near a scrap of paper towel for something to grip. It was another two days before he finally became a chrysalis on the floor of the enclosure.

Well, shit, I thought. Doesn’t the chrysalis need to be hanging above the ground so that the butterfly can unfurl its wings when it emerges? I went back to the internet for help and decided I surely possessed the fine motor skills it would take to ever-so-gently tie a thread around the cremaster (the tip of the chrysalis that attaches to wherever it will hang) and suspend him from a twig.

He was pissed. This little brown capsule thrashed and wiggled as its only defense to ward off a perceived threat, and my clumsy fingers and ridiculously difficult to grasp string were that threat. But, the mission was accomplished. I placed the newly dangling Zap-alis in a wide-mouthed jar and began the wait for his emergence.

Little did I know, the struggle had only begun for my friend Zap.

About two weeks had passed since the start of the chrysalis stage, and it was clear that Zap would be eclosing (emerging) any time now. The shell of his little transformation capsule was looking more papery and transparent, and I was determined to witness the Big Event. I checked on him first thing every morning and several times throughout each day. Finally one weekend morning I went out to the porch to check on him and his sister Zip, who was still a caterpillar.

“Zap’s still a chrysalis and Zip’s still a caterpillar!” I called to my partner for the third or fourth day in a row. I went inside and had a quick breakfast. Well, wouldn’t you know it, in the 30 minutes I took to sit down and eat, little Zappy made his debut as a butterfly…and something had gone wrong.

I passed by the door to the porch as I brought my breakfast plate out to the kitchen, and glanced out to see a mess of bright orange-and-black wings and flailing legs at the bottom of the jar - Zap had fallen from his suspended chrysalis shell, landed on his back in the moisture from his emergence, and was stuck. When I hurriedly, but carefully, lent my finger for his tarsi (feet) to grip and pulled him up, small pieces of those gorgeous, delicate wings tore off and stuck to the glass.

Guilt immediately washed over me - if I hadn’t brought him inside, if I hadn’t set him up in that jar, this would not have happened. I told myself I was keeping Zap and Zip to ensure a safe transformation and enjoy the magic of the process before sending them out into the world, and I instead contributed to this mangling. Like I said, it was selfish and it sealed his fate.

Zap’s damaged wings were still crumpled and I hoped there was still time to get him in position to pump fluid into them and allow them to fully unfurl. But it was too late. That short window had closed and, my little friend would never fly.

I resolved to give him the best life possible anyway.

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