By John Hadidian, Ph.D.
Albert Einstein once was asked what had led him to ponder
some of the great mysteries of the universe. He responded,
appropriately enough, that he really didn't know, nor did he
have any expectation that he ever would. "After all," he
quipped, "what does a fish know about the water in which it
swims all its life?"
Thirty-five years after first reading that statement, I
still think about its meaning. Right now I'm thinking about
Einstein's words as I look out my kitchen window and observe a
squirrel hugging the trunk of a dead red oak tree just on the
edge of my property. This tree has a cavity where a pair of
pileated woodpeckers successfully nested and fledged young last
year and which the squirrel's family in turn occupied this
year.
This squirrel is not reflecting about Albert Einstein or
pileated woodpeckers, however. She is poised about ten feet off
the ground, her feet splayed to grasp the trunk, and her tail
lashing furiously. She is glaring at the ground, scolding
loudly and repeatedly with characteristic staccato sounds. From
observation, I have come to associate this behavior as a
response to—or an alarm warning of—a potential predator.
And there he is, the neighborhood cat we all know to be the
nemesis of squirrels on this block, sitting in apparent
disinterest about fifteen feet away. Maybe he was just passing,
minding his own business, and the squirrel chose to remind him
that she is vigilant or to alert other squirrels about the
potential danger. Maybe the cat had already stalked, pounced,
and missed the squirrel and evoked this response. That part of
this drama remains unknown to me.
What I do know is that this response is pretty typical for
squirrels facing threats from the ground. Were the squirrel
menaced by a red-tailed hawk, her response would have been
entirely different. She would probably have become totally
quiet and pressed herself into the tree's crotch, trying to
make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
Every squirrel, dove, titmouse, or chickadee in our yards
communicates with others of its kind and perhaps with others of
different kinds as well. As we watch animals communicate, the
way I have been watching my neighbor the squirrel, we can begin
to make sense of that communication. This column will be about
watching and learning from wild animals—the ones who cross our
backyards and peer in our back doors—the ones we share our
lives with. They are part of the water in which we swim.
John Hadidian is director of The
HSUS Urban Wildlife Program
