I like to think of myself as a fairly observant, see-all-that-goes-on-around-me type of outdoorsy guy, but yesterday proved my skills have slipped a bit.
It was on my third time leaving the back door and heading across the deck that I (finally) noticed what looked like a dropped glove in the corner of the doorway.
Odd. I don’t have gloves in that shade of brown. (See how observant and aware I can be?) Even odder, the glove seemed to be wrapped in feathers. Certainly not my style.
What it was, determined when I scooped it up for a closer look, was a very dead and quite frozen saw-whet owl. Hmm. Most unusual.
Saw-whet owls are the smallest of all the owls in our region, easily contained in the grasp of one hand. Small, and very cute, often described as having a cat-like face, their bright yellow eyes display a certain charming character should you be lucky enough to find one.
In all my years of tromping around the local woodlots, I have heard maybe a half-dozen and actually laid eyes on two. (And those two were found by others who nicely pointed them out to me.) These owls are masters of camouflage and hide well within the thick cover of dense cedar trees.
A bit like a chickadee, saw-whets seem to tolerate human intrusions on their personal space. There have been instances where people have picked up the owls from their roosting branches and set them on their arms. Although I feel a line has been crossed to do this, it does demonstrate the docile character of this bird.
But do not forget these birds are predators, always on the lookout for mice, voles and, occasionally, another small-sized bird. In the summer, grasshoppers and small snakes also balance out the menu. But this is mid-winter and the snow lies deep upon the ground. Hunting is hard.
Saw-whets, like other owls, have asymmetrical placement of their ears: The right ear is high and opens upward; the left ear is lower and opens downward. By tilting and swivelling their head, the source of incoming sound waves can be determined with incredible accuracy, even if that source is under the fluffy snow.
These small owls are quite the hunters, and observers have watched as a single owl killed six mice, tucking each one in a tree branch. Just as the barred owl did in my story of a couple of weeks ago, saw-whets will sit on and thaw frozen food supplies.
But once the snow gets well over knee-deep (my knees, not the owls’) and the mice and voles stay mainly within that subnivean zone below the snow blanket, finding food is a real challenge. I fear this was the no-win situation the dead owl found itself in, as each day’s additional layer of snow made the availability of a juicy, warm mouse body further from reach.
I ran my finger along the breast bone of the little bird in my hand and, sure enough, it protruded above the surrounding breast meat, a sign of starvation.
There may well be one or two other saw-whets still hanging around the neighbourhood. They roost in hollow trees and nesting boxes. As mentioned, they have been heard in other years, their mating calls noted in late winter. Perhaps a mate or last year’s youngster is still out there.
I find it interesting that owls tend to start mate selection and establish territories in winter. The great horned owl is famous for filling our February nights with a rolling booming call emitting from the cedar swamp across the way.
Saw-whet males retain the territory year-round, and females are attracted to his ‘too-too-too’ calls. Once a cavity in a tree is selected, the female does all the incubating while the male brings food for her a couple of times a day. And if that’s not a full schedule, once the eggs hatch, the male continues to provide all the food for about 18 days.
During that 18-day newborn period, the female meticulously cleans the nest of leftover bones and fur, fecal sacs and other messy debris. Day 19 is Freedom Day for Ms. Saw-whet, as she leaves and does not return to the nest or the young ones. It’s all up to the mister to look after the brood until they fledge. And by all reports, the neat nest quickly becomes a bit of a disaster site.
When I fill the bird feeders today, I will sprinkle a layer of seeds on the packed snow below, perhaps luring a fat meadow vole or a shy white-footed mouse out into the open. Desperate times call for desperate measures.