Just Saying: Wildlife report

A recent census of squirrels in Central Park tabulated 24,000.

Along with pigeons, I’m guessing that squirrels are probably the most noticed wild animal species in Manhattan. On the Upper East Side, where we have an apartment, dogs, usually gathered in packs of five to seven and led by a human walker, are the biggest domesticated species and they are everywhere, all day long.

And then there are the rats.

I don’t want to know how many rats are in the city. Every pile of garbage supports them, but they mostly stay out of sight. They are most visible in subway stations, hanging out in the rail beds. They don’t scamper, they just trudge along as if they own the space, which in a way they do. Not much food on the rail beds but we don’t have to worry about the rats finding plenty of stuff to eat, what with garbage piles as far as the eye can see.

I couldn’t help myself — I looked up rats on Wikipedia and learned that a 2014 study estimated 2 million rats in the city, which, unlike the squirrel number, seemed surprisingly low. I would have guessed that for every human there were five rats, or 40 million or so. No matter how many there are, there is no effective way to get rid of them.

I have this notion that if all the rats could be magically eliminated in a single second, the sudden weight loss of all their grubby bodies would make the island of Manhattan heave up and slowly drift off into the Harbor.

I am no fan of squirrels, quite rat-like in personality, but with better tails. We have two and only two in our back yard here, so there is some squirrel zoning law being adhered to on the Island.

Over time, there has been one noticeable change in their behavior. When we first put up the birdfeeder we stupidly used the simple hook that came with a feeder to attach it to the dogwood outside our rear bay window. You know where this is going. The squirrels blithely knocked the feeder to the ground with some banzai attack and feasted on the spilled seed. So we got a piece of chain from the hardware store and a spring clip to secure the feeder to the tree.

The feeder is one of those squirrel-proof models whose plastic sheath slides down over the feeding holes when a squirrel jumps on it. In the early years, the squirrels repeatedly attacked the feeder to no avail, but with some spectacular leaps. Over the years, this aerial bombardment of the feeder stopped.

My preferred explanation is that an elder squirrel passed along the futility of such attacks and the behavior modified. But I kind of miss the flying leaps at the feeder. Of course the lawn below the feeder is carpeted with the millions of seeds the birds flick out in their profligate eating style, and the squirrels (just the two) leisurely get their fill.

Like most Island homes, we have the usual assortment of creatures roaming our lot: bunnies, deer, turkeys, chipmunks, insects and birds of all sorts. Recently, a new visitor has taken up space, burrowing beneath our shed/cottage. I’ve never seen it but Jane spotted it once and we’ve decided to call it a woodchuck, although we don’t know that for sure.

What harm a woodchuck could do underneath the shed is unclear, but over the months its presence offended our sense of Island order, whatever that is, and we contacted an Islander who specializes in trapping and removing such critters. He baited and set a trap at one of the burrow’s two entrances and we waited.

In the night after the trap was set I imagined I heard the plaintive wailings of a trapped animal, but I had no interest in checking out the trap in the dark. The next morning the trap was woodchuckless and remained so as we made our way back to the city. We have yet to hear from the trapper. (The woodchuck will not be harmed, simply transported and released in a more appropriate setting.)

Like most Islanders, we wish the deer would stay away, and if we never see another turkey it will be too soon. The bird feeder provides mesmerizing hours of avian frolicking, but I hate the bullying grackles.

Of late, one bird has become a minor nuisance, a stately woodpecker. It and its forebears have been around since we bought our place, and its rapid-fire pecking (oh, the headaches!) form a sort of Island sound track.

Starting in the spring, the woodpecker decided to peck on the shingles outside our bedroom — at 5 a.m. sharp. At first I would get up, raise the window and yell at the pecker. He just went to another section of shingles. Now I sleep through it, adapting, just like the squirrels.