Mousing An Owl

Field Day #1 - Mousing an Owl

April 20, 2016 - 3:00 AM start for me today. No problems waking, simply too excited and ready for the day to start. Of course I was a bit too excited to fall asleep last night but that was expected considering this will be my first day in the field here in northern New Mexico. These days do not come as often as I would like but I plan on making the most of them.

Today we will be "mousing an owl". If you do not know what that means, don't worry… neither did I. I will tell you, my original thoughts were way off base and I was relieved to find out what it truly meant. In short, we will be trying to get an owl to accept our offering of a mouse. Why do you ask? Well…that is a little bit longer story.

We are going after a Mexican spotted owl . They are on the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service threatened species list, so there are not many of them around. In fact, we only know of a handful of pairs on the Santa Fe National Forest so every little bit of information we can gather from them, the better we can conserve them. A few weeks ago, one of the forest workers heard a new pair of owls calling in a hard to reach canyon. Our job was to arrive in the canyon before first light, locate the owls, then present them with a live mouse in an effort to locate their nest site. You see, soon after acquiring prey owls will often fly directly to their nest to present their bounty to their mate and/or their offspring, thus revealing their nest site. So, when you add all of this together, we are "mousing an owl" today.

I arrive at the ranger station shortly before 4 AM. My partner for today, James, is a wonderful gentleman who I could spend days simply listening to his stories. He is a native American, born on a nearby Pueblo. He probably knows this forest better than anyone alive and if only I had a fraction of his outdoor skills and knowledge, I would consider myself pretty darn woods-worthy.

We grab the few supplies that we need, namely two live mice fresh from the pet store, and we head out.

It takes about an hour to get to our destination, the last 30 minutes involve snaking our way through an old, narrow and no longer maintained logging road. Spotted owls prefer old-growth forests so the scene before us in our dim rays of light reveals we are traveling through a fairly dense forest. Having only been in New Mexico for a couple of months everything is new to me, everywhere I step I step on virgin terrain. Thankfully James knows where he is going for I would already be lost.

We finally arrived at the area we believe the owls are nesting. It is still dark.

We wait a few minutes to let the forest recover from our disturbance for there is one thing man is not when he travels and that it's quiet. Fortunately most forest creatures have short-term memories and within minutes the normal chirps and whistles of a dawning forest returns.

"What do we do now?" I ask James.

"We locate the owls," was his reply.

He pulls out what looks like a bullhorn but rather its a modified speaker that contains a recording of a spotted owl call. To me the call sounds like an abbreviated version of the well-known barred owl.

The call goes out…

"Whoot.....who-who....whooot"

Every ten seconds it repeats.

Five minutes go by without response and the first thought of striking out creeps into my mind. Then James' eyes widen.

"Did you hear 'em?"

I strain my ears (as if that's possible).

Then, almost as if an echo, I hear...

"Whoot.....who-who....whooot"

But this time it doesn't come from the bullhorn contraption.

A few minutes later and without warning, I see the silhouette of an owl floating silently above in the now lightening skies. He lights in a nearby tree.

I freeze.

Terrified to move, so I don't scare him off,  I stretch and strain my unblinking eyes to see what James is doing.

I can dimly make out that he is fidgeting with something from his pack. Maybe it's the mouse?

Damn...It all happened way too quickly!

Now I am stuck here, my position compromised... remaining motionless so as not to mess up this potentially once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Then James made his move.

I was temporarily blinded as 1.4 million candelas stream through the darkness.

"Wanna see 'da owl?" broke the silence.

I chuckled, "Ummm....sure."

James cast the spotlight in the nearby tree and there he sat… a beautiful full-grown adult male Mexican spotted owl. 

At this point you may expect me to say how I was almost moved to tears to see my first endangered (actually threatened) bird. 

I wasn't. 

Don't get me wrong, it was pretty damn cool but deep down I'm a mammal guy. Big scary mean mammal guy. Give me something with sharp canines, strength of multiple men, cunning and stealth to boot...and have THAT staring down at me from the tree, then maybe my pulse will race.

But like I said...it was still pretty darn cool seeing him perched on the branch above. 

And in a blink, he dove from his perch and disappeared into the canyon below.

Ten minutes later we heard the pair calling together. Undoubtedly it was the male and his mate a short distance away, somewhere up on the canyon wall.

James and I grab the gear, including the two mice, and began the trek uphill. The morning had broke.

About a hundred yards shy of the canyon wall the male once again called out. 

He was close.

Just up the hill from us he sat perched about ten feet up in a towering Douglas fir.

This time, James did begin the mornings' exercise. 

Unloading his gear and getting situated about from the tree, James prepared to "mouse the owl".

Did I mention these owls are extremely tolerant of humans? (As I typed that it makes me wonder if that was the cause of them becoming threatened.)

When all was said and done James had a little white mouse tied to the end of a string. Hey...you didn't want the mouse to simply run away now, did you?

"So that owl right THERE is going to come down and take THAT mouse with you standing right HERE?" I asked.

"Yup."

(As you can see, James was a man of many words.)

We waited anxiously. 

That I will turn his gaze and focused on the mouse.

With bated breath we stood motionless waiting to capture the awesome spectacle on camera.

Still we waited.

And waited still.

And then it happened...

...the owl...fell asleep.

Insert the proverbial "wha-wha-whaaa".

After thirty or so minutes of tethering the now thoroughly frightened mouse we concluded the owl was obviously quite full from a long evening of feeding. Either that or there was something mysteriously wrong with our mouse that only the owl was aware of (Ha!).

So... We gathered up the mouse, returned it to its cage, and set off on foot to try to find the nest by pure luck. 

Up to the canyon wall we went.

There were hundreds of potential nest sites ranging from patriarchal trees to time-scoured cliff crevices. Oh, we have an idea of where the female was nestled within the canyon but we could not confirm with absolute certainty. With a smile I am reminded that it probably means another day in the field.

James and I decided to head back to the truck. 

Along the way we stopped to pick up the caged mice who were still sitting at the base of the owl tree. Yes, the owl was still drifting in and out of sleep.

Strangely enough, both mice had expired while under the sleepy gaze of the owl.

Hmmm....maybe that owl was smarter than we thought.

Over the next three or four hours James gave me a tour of the forest that he and his people call home. For thousands of years they communed with and often pursued many of the creatures of the forest. He was an awesome tour guide, sharing with me the knowledge of where I too may one day pursue those same animals. 

When I asked James if he fished as much as he hunted, he calmly shook his head and plainly stated...

"You can't track a fish."

Did I mention James was a man of few words?

The day couldn't have ended any better. As we came around the final bend in the road I asked James one last question. It had to do with an unfamiliar plant I had seen throughout the day. I asked him what it was.

I was humbled that he provided me with the Native American name of the plant.

It was Nachur-charmin.

I asked him if there were any medicinal or other mystical uses for it. He said...

"Sure...ya' use it if ya' have to go in tha' woods...Nice 'n soft!"

With that he smiled.

Who knew I was driving around with a descendent of Mr. Whipple.

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Oftentimes in the field of wildlife biology, the further along you advance your career the fewer the field days become. Simply put, you get outside less and less. So went my time in Tennessee. From spending endless summer nights viewing whitetail deer from behind a thermal imager to tracking down elk on the Cumberland Plateau to hiking in the Smokies hanging countless bait stations in pursuit of the elusive black bear, there was always the opportunity to go afield. Then it changed. I was asked to manage people instead of animals and the days of donning a sport coat and settling internal and external "human" arguments grew longer and in all honesty, "less fun". Don't get me wrong, I still enjoy the office work because I am still talking about and dealing with things I love, but the days afield are special. And these are my days.

Somethin's Bruin...

Sara, one of the two adult cinnamon colored bears at the center in 1997. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

I can't help but chuckle while pouring through old photographs Dana Dodd sends me. As most of you know, we are trying to document the early history of ABR and as usual, it always brings back wonderful memories to see the old images we captured when barely anyone even knew the center existed. We were learning as fast as we were growing and given the size and popularity of the center today, it's no wonder they are viewed as one of the premier bear facilities in the world. Some of these old photos also make me realize how impressionable a bear can be, and if anything, it stresses the importance of the hands-off policy the facility incorporates. Dakota and Sara gave me one such lesson into a bear's often-complex mind.

First off Dakota and Sara were red (cinnamon colored), even though they were "black" bears. Many don't realize black bears come in all sorts of different colors. It's probably because on the east coast, almost all black bears are black, save for a few that bare small white chest blazes. Move further west however, and their hair color changes, often dramatically. It must go with the more "free-thinking" attitude out there. Anyway, color variations among black bears are spectacular ranging from black to cinnamon to brown to blonde. There's even a white color-phase (not albino) on Kermode Island in British Columbia and a blue color-phase (called Glacier bears) in Southeast Alaska.

Dakota, began to shed his thick cinnamon winter-coat in favor of

a lighter, more tolerable summer-coat. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

As stated earlier, Dakota and Sara were cinnamon bears. They may be the only "non-black" black bears the center ever receives. That is of course, until the Rocky Mountain Bear Rescue opens (hint, hint). As you could imagine, Dakota and Sara were not from Tennessee, nor were they even from the Eastern U.S. They were casualties from an often-illegal bear trade, hence, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service confiscated them and prosecuted the perpetrators. In the process of finding a permanent home for the bears they asked a favor of us, to give them temporary housing until all the paperwork was settled.

Needless to say, Dakota and Sara were habituated, raised as cubs not to be bears but to be pets. Though they were still young, they both could be classified as adults having been raised in captivity for a number of years. They were both remarkably beautiful yet painfully pitiful. They revealed their pitiable nature a few days later after releasing them on their own into the bear center's large enclosure.

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I had walked down to the enclosure a few minutes earlier and had heard the bears in distress. It wasn't a painful distress mind you, but rather the vocalization that signifies mental distress. Both bears were huffing and whoofing, making it quite clear that an intruder had invaded their space.

They were nervously pacing back and forth.

Knowing it wasn't my presence that disturbed them, I peered through the blinds to see what was causing them anguish.

It must have been a frightful creature, for Dakota, the larger male, would rise on his hind legs and then briskly come down and swat the ground. This, of course, was an effort to keep the invader at bay.  A natural display of aggression, in hopes of pre-empting an altercation by scaring away the competitor before a physical confrontation begins.

I still could not see the threat. Given the agitated nature of the two adult bears, for even Sara continued to pace, I too began to worry.

Had another bear entered the enclosure? After all, we were designed to keep bears in, not out. Did Sara come into heat and draw in a larger male from the area? Was there going to be an all-out bear war within the enclosure? ...a sometimes fatal encountered between two rival males over a lone female. And if so, what was I going to do about it? Heck...what could I do about it??

I peered ever-more intently.

Then I saw him.

The intruder.

He was well developed.

A noble suitor.

Probably three or four times the age of Dakota.

He was stealthy, for he blended in perfectly with the surroundings.

If he couldn't put up much offense, he was guaranteed to offer a formidable defense.

His shell would demand it.

(Hear the record being ripped off the turntable!)

His shell???

Yep...you heard me right.

His shell...all 7-8 inches of it.

The intruder was...

...a turtle.

An eastern box turtle to be exact.

With the combined ferocity of a pillow and the blinding speed of...of well, a turtle!

Yet, Dakota and Sara were terrified. After an extended display of huffs and bluff charges, Dakota finally worked up enough courage to approach the beast.

Albeit when he finally did work up the courage, he snuck up on his belly, tapped the turtle on his shell, and went tearing back into the brush, hind end going faster than front end....obviously fearing Donatello from the teenage mutant ninja turtles was about to release his fury.

It was painfully sad.

And I felt guilty laughing at the spectacle.

Here were two beautiful strong healthy bear specimens...that didn't know they were bears. How could they? They were raised by humans.

They were extremely intelligent so they probably assumed they were as helpless as a naked human child in the woods. And at that point they were. When bears are around humans for too long they may begin to think they're human. And given their faculties, primarily their strength and agility, they unfortunately become dangerous, not just to humans but to themselves.

This is why when wild bears become habituated, they no longer act like a bears, hence they live much shorter and much more stressful lives than their wild counterparts.

Needless to say, Dakota and Sara survived the brutal attack that day. The two were placed in a sanctuary, which was best for them, but unfortunately they never could live a life wild and free. Given the amount of free ranging turtles there are in the wild, I like to think they were both OK with that decision.

Turnaround

It's All in Simple Turn

There are two worlds out there, the one before you and the one at your back.

As easily as the preceding statement could turn into a pontification on your present being the product of your past, it is not. Every once in awhile I'm known to cut right to the chase.

When I say there's a world behind you I mean just that.

TURN YOUR BUTT AROUND.

Oftentimes we experience places for the first, and sadly, only time we'll ever be, especially if we are on the distant trail or taking the lonely backroad home. When I do, it always amazes me when I stop and simply turn around for the view and experience often changes completely. It's almost as if I am wearing another person's shoes or seeing the world through a stranger's eyes.

At exactly 180 degrees, instead of the western traveller you are now eastern bound.

Instead of the steep and steady ascent before you, you become witness to the valley below.

Should your head be down, your eyes behold the beauty of the heavens.

There's much to behold and half of it will always at your back.

That is of course....unless you stop and simply turnaround.

The Neonatals (Part 2) - The First Release

Time was of the essence.

That is a saying I have heard all too often but never truly understood the meaning, that is of course, until we were bestowed the neonatal cubs. As "fun" and as miraculous as it was to be caring for bear cubs that literally fit in the palm of your hand, their survival was directly related to how quickly we could find and place them with foster moms in the wild. So yes, if we wanted to give these bears their greatest chance of survival...time was truly of the essence.

Each passing day increased the chances

that a wild female would not be found.

We had been caring for the neonatals for almost two weeks and each passing day made it less likely that we'd be able to find a suitable foster mom. It was now mid-February and the wild bear mothers we were looking for had only another month or two before they would emerge from their den to greet the coming spring. If the bears were to emerge and become ambulatory all hopes to foster an orphan cub would be dashed because they would simply walk away from any cub that wasn't theirs. We desperately needed to find a healthy nursing mom still in her den.

When the call came that afternoon to "get a cub ready for the next morning," we could not have been happier.

Release Day

The dawn broke crisp the following morning and although it was overcast the news anchor gave us his word we would not be rained upon. In the back of my mind I couldn't help but wonder if he played a little trick on us knowing we were going high up in the mountains where the threat of rain is often replaced by the reality of snow. It mattered not, it was release day and no form of precipitation could dampen our spirits.

I went back into the makeshift nursery (a.k.a. the back bedroom) to gather Lina. She was the largest of the three neonatals so she was chosen the first to go.

Biologist Break - Unfortunately, in the mammal world, raising "kids" is a taxing endeavor not only on a female's mind but on her body as well. As great as it would have been to place all three neonatal's with the same foster mom she more than likely would not have been able to produce enough milk for three new additions (had we given all three). This added stress would undoubtedly have put all the cubs at risk, even her own natural cubs.

Lina, anxious to have a new mom.

So for now we were going to foster one cub at a time and lucky for Lina, her ticket was the first to be punched.

Although it was time for her feeding, the plan was to withhold the bottle that morning in hopes that her growing hunger would cause her to latch on to her new mom quickly and vigorously. Fortunately she still seemed content as I loaded her into my jeep and prepared her for the three-hour drive. Her new home was nestled deep in the mountains of the Cumberland Plateau, a wild and rugged area with a fledgling but growing bear population.

A few hours later I met the researchers at the park headquarters and was briefed on the planned activities. Having just received the call the day before I was pretty clueless as to what the day may hold, however, being a budding wildlife biologist I was all ears and I soaked it all in.

The Game Plan

Leslie, the biologist at Big South Fork, had located the bear the day before. In an effort to learn more about the newly established bear population, researchers had placed radio collars on numerous females and were anxious to record information on denning sites. The efforts finally paid off when Leslie had honed in on a den located in a hard-to-reach drainage strewn with a few blow-downs (toppled trees) with exposed root masses. Painting the mental picture in my head, it was easy to see why the pregnant female had chosen that location amongst the downed trees a few months prior. From the sound of it, such a site would provide the much needed warmth and protection the bear needed during the cold and barren winter months.

Keeping control of the cub

was no simple feat.

We drove to the trailhead which I soon found out was a sick joke since walking on an actual trail was not on the agenda. One does not realize how difficult cross-county trekking, or should I say cross county tripping, can be until they're forced to try it.  Now add the fact that your hands are cradling a sometime squirmy bear cub.

When we had finally reached the drainage where the den lie I was slightly disappointed in my minds eye since it completely missed the boat on what I was to encounter. It had painted a much rosier picture than what lay before us. I had pictured a few scattered trees, what lay before me was a scattered forest. The tangled web I imagined could better be described as a tangled mountain. It was absolutely beautiful. The perfect place to steal away for a long winters nap.

We began maneuvering our way through a giant-sized version of pick-up-sticks. Slowly but surely we made our way higher and higher and at last Leslie motioned to us that we were near. How she found the den that second day without the use of the tracking device I have no idea. Had it not been for the radio collar the day before it would've been like finding a needle in a haystack. Yet there the den lay about 20 feet in front of us, a small blackened hole beneath the root ball of a monarch of a tree.

A new collar and a check-up was in store for the sedated mom.

Frank and the other researchers went fast to work.

They meticulously loaded the drug into the jabstick that would deliver the much-needed insurance that mom would not arouse from her slumber while we intruded into her world. They assured me it is not much fun being wedged inside a bear den when mama bear begins to wake. It sounded as if they spoke from experience so I took them for their word.

Waiting quietly a good distance away they soon returned and assured me it was now safe to approach. Mom had been sedated. They now had a window of about thirty minutes in which to get their work done. This included taking measurements from within the den, replacing mom's collar, and recording vital statistics from mom and all three of her newborn cubs.

It was amazing.

Healthy newborns accompanied mom.

There I stood, deep in the forest, crouched at the entrance of a wild bear's den, about to be handed three tiny black bear cubs that were the spitting image of the one that was nestled fast asleep in the crook of my arm.

It was a flurry of activity and all I can say for sure was it went by way too fast.

I was in a trance-like state.

I was doing something from my wildest dreams. Dreams that began when I was a young child and dreams that carried me through life up to this exact point in time.

Even the cubs are weighed.

Before I knew it the words snapped my trance.

"Are you ready to place the cubs back in?"

This was the moment I had been hoping for.

With the help of the others we lined up all FOUR cubs and prepared them for their return to the darkened hole where mom awaited, deep in her slumber. But first we needed to prep the cubs.

The "preparation" was a little known trick to help ease the adoption of a newly placed orphan with a wild family. Out from within the confines of Frank's backpack came a fresh unopened jar of Vicks Vapo-Rub, the strong-smelling, chest-slathering menthol rub that most baby-boomers remember quite vividly. Ahhh...I can almost smell it now.

Lina getting the Vapo-Rub lathering before joining her new family.

Each cub received a healthy coating on its head and back, this included Lina AND each wild cub.

At first I didn't expect this. I figured Lina would be the only one covered to help mask her foreign scent, but why the other cubs?

The last cub getting prepped.

So I asked the question.

"It's so when mom wakes up all the cubs will smell exactly alike. And given that it smells so strong, she'll lick the cubs clean and by licking them clean, she'll put her scent back on to them. This includes her natural cubs AND the orphan."

Ingenious.

So after a thorough swabbing of each cub with the Vicks, it was time to bid the squirmy black furballs their final farewell. And into the darkness they went, nested snugly in the safety of mom's lush warm fur.

And into Mom's arms Lina went...where she should have been all along.

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Aside - I've often been asked if it’s hard to release a cub that I have cared for, on the contrary...it was always quite pleasurable. I would so much rather see a bear running free than confined in a cage, regardless of its size or intent. Understanding the extreme condition some of the cubs were in when they came to the bear center and knowing we gave them a second chance on life was all I ever needed to squelch any would-be attachment. Ahh...who am I kidding?

The Neontals (Part 1) - Lessons Learned

* Disclaimer - the hand feeding of black bears destined to be returned to the wild is NOT a recommended or standard procedure. The "neonatals" in the following stories were waiting to be fostered out and cared for by a wild female bears once they were located. The human interaction (bottle feeding) was necessary until suitable fosters moms were found.

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It was day 13 when the call we were hoping for came in.

"We found a suitable mother. Have the cub ready first thing in morning."

The news was met with mixed emotions.

Actual den tree of a black bear.

The past few weeks were a whirlwind of activity. On January 23rd, 1999, we received an unexpected call from the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission regarding an unfortunate logging accident that occurred on the rural eastern coastal plains near Newbern, NC. The day before, while cutting timber not far from the coast, a logger was caught by surprise when the tree he felled revealed a freshly awoken "momma" bear and her three very recently-born cubs. The event was undoubtedly a complete shock to the bear's system.

She took off running.

Although female bears are noted for their strong motherly instinct, their self-preservation instinct is programmed to override all other instincts as a last resort. As a result, when her world, her comfy-cozy winter den, came tumbling down, her one and only thought was to get away. And get away she did.

And there they were.

Three scantily haired black bear cubs. Eyes closed. Completely unaware of what was going on around them.

The cubs were left without a mom due to a logging accident.

(Note: Do not attempt to rescue baby animals.

Always contact wildlife professionals first.)

Each one weighed less than a pound and a half (~640 grams). And now, their sole comfort, their one and only source of protection and nourishment, was heading for the hills and not looking back.

In a valiant but fruitless effort, the logger tried everything in his power to reunite the mom with her cubs. Much to his credit, he left the neonatals in the downed tree den and vacated the area in hopes that she would return.

Alas... She did not.

Knowing the dire situation with newborns and their constant and high demand for nourishment, the cubs were retrieved and frantic calls began to be made. The following day the North Carolina wildlife authorities contacted the bear center and requested their services. It would still be a while before all the arrangements could be made and on January 29th, the neonatal's arrived. "Newbern," "Caro," and " Lina" had found their way to the Appalachian Bear Center (ABR).

The North Carolina neonatal cubs. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

As scared as those three tiny bears may have been, I promise you, there was a "Papa bear" who was even more scared than them.

Although I had cared for a few dozen cubs over the last two years, all of them had been weaned (off mom's milk) and the hands-off care techniques were fully in place. How in the world were we going to care for neonatal cubs that needed to be bottle-fed every 4 to 5 hours without imprinting on them? Better yet...where were we going to care for these cubs? If you recall, the bear center consisted of an outdoor enclosure (designed to hold larger cubs), a roughed-in storage shed, and a curator's residence/office (trailer).

There was only one real option. Oh well, we really didn't need that spare bedroom anyway.

And so it began...'round the clock feedings of tiny little black bear cubs that literally fit in the palm of your hand.

It was surreal.

Who in their right mind would ever believe they would actually get the opportunity to do this? I have no doubt many dream of it, but few ever have the opportunity for a dream like this to come true.

It was everything and nothing like I ever imagined.

I remember one morning pinching myself to make sure I wasn't still asleep. There I was, lying in bed, waiting to get up to feed three black bears that were fast asleep on the bed in the back room. In fact, I couldn't wait to feed them.

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There were a few things about this experience that were absolutely remarkable.

Without a doubt, remarkable trait number one that separates neonatal bears from other similarly-shaped animals such as puppies, are the claws. Or should I say, the razors.

Twenty tiny claws ready for action. (Photo courtesy of ABR)

Yes...there were twenty of them.

All moving independently.

Undoubtedly without malice...

...but undoubtedly my arms couldn't tell.

As you could imagine the local bookstore was fresh out of "What To Expect When Your Expecting - Ursus Style".

I could already read it in my mind's eye.

Chapter One - The DO's and DON'Ts of Feeding Neonatal Black Bear Cubs

Rule #1 - DON'T Place them on your bare arm while feeding them.

Rule #2 - DO realize how stupid you are if you place them on your bare arm while feeding them.

End of chapter one.

You see, it didn't take long for me to realize that once the cub latches onto the nipple of the bottle, all four appendages become mini razor rakes. If said cub is straddling your bare forearm, let's just say you'll be wearing long sleeve shirts in public for quite some time to avoid the many questions and strange gawks you are bound to attract.

WARNING! Bio Break (sorry, it's the biologist in me!) - In all actuality, the cub is instinctively programmed to begin this kneading motion as if he's treading water whenever he begins to feed. Remember, the cub is typically lying on the chest of its mother and this kneading action stimulates more milk to descend while he's feeding. In other words, it's meant to keep the mom's milk flowing.

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This leads to remarkable trait number two.

The Suck.

Omgosh...REALLY???

I had to remind myself to keep their lips pointed in a safe direction.

(Photo courtesy of ABR)

Does an animal really need the suction power to literally hang from a man's finger using only its lips???

Had I known about this trait prior to naming the cubs I have no doubt we would've been caring for "Hoover," "Bissel" and "Shark".

And needless to say, if you think razor-like scratches draw attention from onlookers...think about hickeys in some really awkward locations!

And for the record, "I'm caring for some really tiny bear cubs...I swear!" simply doesn't cut it as a legitimate excuse. Go figure.

WARNING! Bio Break #2 - Again, that suction is a biological adaptation. The cubs are born in mid-winter in a darkened den with eyes closed. They have very fine hair and little, if any, motor skills. In other words they are pretty darn helpless. Immediately upon birth that cub has one mission. Find a nipple and latch on. If your only means for warmth and food is your ability to hang on with your lips you can sure as heck bet they're going to have some powerful suckers.

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Last but not least remarkable trait #3.

As most of you know, caring for newborns is pretty simple...theoretically of course.

On paper, you put things in (food)... and you make sure things come out (what used to be food). Well, in the wild, momma bear sometimes has to assist the cub with the latter part. She does this by licking them which in-turn stimulates the cub to defecate.

Well...the line had to be drawn somewhere.

You have no idea how relieved I was when Dr. Ramsey suggested using a warn washcloth to mimic a bear's tongue. Thank goodness too because I don't think I would ever be able to explain that one if ever I was asked!

So picture if you will, almost two full weeks of trial and error, 'round-the-clock bear feeding. It was the most insanely nerve-wracking joyous painful heart-warming stressful wonderful dream I ever had.

Non-stop attention...a blessing and a curse. To be explained later.

(Photo courtesy of ABR)

...and then it was interrupted by the phone call I was so desperately hoping for.

(To be continued...)

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Author's Note: In case you haven't noticed, I absolutely love working in the wildlife field and try to lighten the mood and have fun at every turn. Although we sometimes deal in some serious situations, if you can't smile and laugh and enjoy what you do, step aside for I'm sure someone is waiting in the wings to take your place.