Something new every day
As regards the wonderful world of natural science I’m a complete philistine. Nobody could ever accuse me of following in the footsteps of the likes of David Attenborough, Matt Baker or Chris Packham – though I’m bound to confess that in the late 1950s, as small boy of six or seven, I became an avid follower the television programmes of Hans and Lotte Hass, the king and queen of underwater nature films, albeit a prime personal motivator at the time was my pre-pubescent crush on the latter.
All the above registered, in the past week (by chance) I have had two brushes with the world of nature that have been notable in terms of bringing home to me some biological facts about the animal kingdom that were previously were unknown to me and which I think might be of potential interest to Rust readers.
Four or five days ago, whilst staying on the south coast with my father, I used this organ to report upon some minor developments regarding an increasingly-tame male pheasant that was beginning to respond to calls and then partake of handful of seeds being lobbed onto the lawn off the end of the terrace.
As part of our pre-lunch drinks session in the warm sunshine, a smartphone was used to try and discover a little more about the life cycle of a pheasant – including why our chap, in wandering about the garden, would occasional stand upright and flutter his wings expansively whilst emitting a loud squawk of some kind and then quietly continue upon his walk.
We figured this was either some sort of ‘territorial marking’ act, or alternatively an “I’m here and you can come and get me!” invitation to any lady pheasants who might be within earshot.
The hope of our gathering, sipping our stiff gin and tonics or glasses of white wine whilst scoffing canapes on the terrace, was that it might be the latter, simply because – unlike previous male examples of his species we had previously entertained – our current visitor is never accompanied by one, two or even three pheasant hens as he struts his stuff around the garden.
But to get to my point.
The key – and in one sense startling – facts that we learned about pheasants via the internet that day were as follows:
On average, pheasants live only three years.
The ‘display’ ritual referred to above is indeed a call primarily designed to attract females.
They breed in March/April.
When pregnant the hens retire to nests built upon the ground. They tend to produce 12 eggs per breeding season, laid (in three batches of four) some days apart. The eggs take roughly 23 days to hatch. Of each batch of four eggs, upon average only one chick survives to adulthood.
Some of that made me sit up.
Previously I had fondly imagined that the odd pheasant I have spotted from time to time going about his business was enjoying a lifespan of – oh, I don’t know – 10 or 12 years minimum. To discover that they only live three was a bit of a shock. It makes you feel a bit sorry for them.
No wonder our chap is walking around the garden frantically waving his wings about and bellowing. I’d do exactly the same if I was going to live only three years – and, wait a minute – there’s another problem here.
If I was human male child who was to live only three years there’d be no point in flapping my arms about and announcing my presence with a testosterone-filled roar. I wouldn’t be able to anyway, given that (unless I was very lucky) I wouldn’t be troubled by any personal testosterone production – or indeed puberty – because I’d be pegging it about ten years prematurely.
Hmmmn ….
Fast-forward to yesterday when, back at home in suburban south London, not long before lunchtime The Boss and I spotted a fox lying, we thought basking in the warm sunshine, on a park lawn.
In fact, as our investigations showed, he wasn’t basking in the sunshine – he was lying there badly injured, presumably after being hit by a car or something. As we approached he looked up, clearly in pain, and then stood, ‘favouring’ one leg by holding it in the air. Rather than destress him further – or get attacked by him – we retreated and went back to our home from where we could still keep an eye on him, and phoned the local branch of the RSPCA.
About 45 minutes later an inspector arrived and we led him to the injured party.
After a brief escape attempt seriously hampered by his injuries the fox was caught, examined and placed in a cage.
We had a brief conversation with the RSPCA man before he took the fox off to be assessed at a vet’s. Again, that produced some fascinating facts.
The fox yesterday was possibly three years and/or close to four years old. He had practically no teeth. His wasn’t a recent injury – he was covered in flies who’d be laying eggs in his wounds. He had a badly broken leg. Although they’d do what they could for him, most probably the kindest thing would be to put him to sleep.
Here are some other facts we learned yesterday:
Our fox was remarkably old – most urban foxes live no more than 18 months. (In the countryside they can live up to the age of 2 or slightly more).
If domesticated, given the necessary injections and fed properly, a fox might be able to live as long as 10 years.
The fox population in Greater London is basically stable – there are roughly 250,000 of them and roughly that number die every year.
The Boss, an animal lover, asked what the chances were of our fox being nursed back to health and put back into the (urban) wild. The response was that it was highly unlikely. Male foxes are very territorial and – if one was removed from his territory, another would take over within 24 hours. If later the original fox was then put back there, a fight to the death would follow almost immediately.
And there you go. As I said (sometimes against all expectations perhaps) you can learn something every day …
