Man-Made Hazards and the Backyard Steward

A drowned rabbit reminds me of our collective responsibility to nature.

The other morning at the desert house I stepped out into the garden and found a dead rabbit floating in the hot tub. I surmised that it had fallen into the water by accident, with no means to get its footing had exhausted itself attempting to jump out, and had drowned. The thought of this drama unfolding while we obliviously slept made me immeasurably sad.

I went around the corner of the house to fetch a bucket and returned five seconds later to the presence of a raven, which had plucked the dead rabbit from the hot tub and placed it on the ground for eating. The raven spooked when it spotted me and flew away, and I proceeded to dispose of the rabbit carcass.

The sight of the raven gave me mixed feelings. I never take joy in denying a wild animal a meal, but I wasn’t about to watch that rabbit disappear in the yard one bite at a time. In any case, ravens are abundant in the Coachella Valley, as are cottontails, both species having adapted to the human-built world.

In fact, the raven’s opportunism reminded me of a Sierra Magazine article I’d recently read on raven predation of the endangered desert tortoise (Gopherus agassizii). In the 45 years that conservationist Tim Shields has been studying the tortoise in the Mojave Desert, their numbers have declined by 95 percent, while raven numbers have exploded 1,500 percent. The ravens followed human settlement, using our houses for shade from the hot sun, tapping our water sources, feasting on road kill and trash. And, I now see, eating hot tub kill. The latter sounds amusing, but it isn’t. These ravens, living the good life in our shadow, multiplying beyond the limitations a more balanced natural world would provide, have been hell on baby tortoises, whose shells remain soft for the first five to eight years of life.

In previous posts I have written about the danger to wildlife from fences and walls. The story of the ravens and the incident of the drowned rabbit remind me of the many other ways we bring harm by changing landscapes. And I must plead guilty in some instances.

We did not build the hot tub—which is flush to the ground like the pool, probably making it more dangerous to small critters, especially in the dark—but we can’t deny some measure of responsibility. We humans too often think only of ourselves when we build things, and the cumulative damage of that attitude to the natural world is substantial.

Last year, only a few weeks after we constructed a fountain as the centerpiece to our new patio in Pennsylvania, I found toad eggs floating near the water’s surface. If any tadpoles survived to maturity, the baby toads would have no way to escape over the sheer walls. Before it was too late, we introduced bluestone ramps to the fountain so the toads would have a chance of finding their way out. Maybe I need to do something similar for the hot tub and the pool.

When we change the landscape in unthinking or inconsiderate ways, we run up quite a butcher’s bill in nature. The aforementioned roadkill. The disruption of migratory paths. The inescapable window wells. The water used up or relocated or left standing where it shouldn’t be. The windows that kill birds. The wetlands drained. The pavement that strands untold little creatures in baking sun.

The insurmountable curbs. Oh, yes, those.

Another mistake we’ve made was to run natural stone curbing up both sides of the driveway at Puddock Hill. It’s beautiful, but we have at times discovered snapping turtle hatchlings trapped on the driveway, the six-inch rock face presenting an insurmountable obstacle. Fortunately, we pass up and down the driveway frequently enough to see the problem and help the turtles. But let’s face it: most collateral damage from human infrastructure goes unnoticed and therefore seldom even remarked upon.

As backyard stewards we should pledge at first to do no harm. If we’re planning a project, especially one involving water or hardscape or unnatural barriers, we should consider and attempt to mitigate its impact on creatures great and small. Don’t build what amount to traps in the landscape. If you do have a trap, find a way to help the critters escape or at least monitor it carefully so you can intervene where necessary.

There was a time when the world would not miss a single rabbit or toad or reptile. That time lies behind us.

Tragically, we found yet another drowned rabbit in the hot tub just a day later. People don’t tend to cover their hot tubs in the desert. Maybe we’ll be the first to try.

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This mature silver Bismarck palm (Bismarckia nobilis) is one of the nicest trees in the neighborhood, but it’s native to Madagascar:

Another non-native plant, but from closer by, this Mexican petunia (Ruellia simplex) would not survive in the desert without irrigation:

Native beavertail cactus (Opuntia basilaris) blooms in a neighboring town: