Socially Eminent Rabbits

Here is the mild-mannered monarch of our Point Dume garden, Sylvilagus audubonii. Audubon's cottontail rabbit, more commonly known as the desert cottontail, is a small package with a lot of personality and determination. All photos © 2014 S. Guldimann

A Rabbit Parable 

In Wildwood, a socially eminent Rabbit,
Of dignity, substance and girth,
Had chosen a suitable hole to inhabit–
An excellent burrow of earth.

When up came a Woodchuck, a genuine Groundhog,
Who wanted the place for his lair;
The Rabbit, impressed by a seventeen-pound Hog,
Abruptly departed from there.

But shortly thereafter a virtuous Badger
Slid down from the neighbouring shelf;
The Woodchuck he slew as a robber and a cadger,
Bequeathing the hole to himself.

 A Fox who believed in the law of requital
Appeared through the bordering fern;
He questioned the Badger’s Manorial title
Demanding the burrow in turn.

A battle ensued in a terrible smother,
Affrighting the hardiest soul;
The Fox and the Badger abolished each other,
The Rabbit returned to his hole.

So here is appended the mildest of morals,
Accept it for what it is worth:
“When all the Haughty are killed in their quarrels
The Meek shall inherit the earth.”

—Arthur Guiterman


We are blessed with a wide variety of four-footed wildlife on Point Dume. Coyotes, gray foxes, raccoons, skunks, opossums, long-tailed weasels and an assortment of native rodents live here, largely unseen by humans, but the cottontail rabbits seem like neighbors, they live alongside us, as well as in that separate, unseen world that just happens to occupy the same space as the one we inhabit. 

When I needed a photo for the top of the page I knew just where to find the front yard rabbit this evening. She's lived here for years and has no fear of the resident humans or the family dog. However the shadow of a hawk passing overhead or an unfamiliar sound will send her instantly into hiding. It's a tough life at the bottom of the food chain, and any rabbit who lives to be old and wise knows not to take chances. 

The front yard rabbit performs her disappearing act, vanishing instantly when she hears an unfamiliar sound, in this case, the click of my camera. 

Rabbits are on the menu of every native predator and are also the frequent victims of domestic animal attacks, poison, and vehicle strikes—the zigzagging dash at speeds up to 20 mph they've evolved to evade hunters doesn't help them to avoid cars. Every second may be their last, but despite their precarious existence, or perhaps because of it, they give the impression of enjoying life to the fullest. They lounge in the sun like contented house cats and nibble the flowers with evident enthusiasm. They don't dig burrows or form colonies like other rabbit species, but they seem to enjoy each other's company and often congregate in small groups (flocks? herds? pods?) of three or four.  

The front yard rabbit lounges in a sheltered spot, looking for all the world like a contented cat. 

Cottontail courtship involves a cross between tag and country dancing, with elaborate leaps and figure eight patterns. Occasionally, an importuned rabbit becomes annoyed and boxes the aggressor rabbit's ears, but on the whole, rabbit society is remarkably easy-going. 

There are two types of cottontail rabbits in the Santa Monica Mountains, S. audubonii and S. bachmani. S. Audubonii is the more common species. S. bachmani, the brush cottontail, is smaller, shyer, wilder. Brush cottontails stick to the chaparral. Desert cottontails have adapted to urban life and are found wherever there is enough food and shelter. This can be a problem, since the rabbit's idea of dinner includes just about everything humans like to grow for food and many ornamental plant species. 

Desert cottontails have remarkably good climbing skills and have been know to climb up stairs, onto decks, and even into pots to gain access to tender, tasty flowers and vegetables. The best way to prevent misunderstandings is to fence off anything that is off limits. Although we don't always follow our own advice here at The Malibu Post, leading to scenes like this:

"Oh look, a salad bar!"

"Nom nom, nom."

Around here, everyone agrees that the pleasure of having rabbits in the garden is greater than any rabbit-related aggravations, but there was a time when one of the neighbors did mind and poisoned everything in sight. There were no rabbits for many years. It was a reminder that humans recognize property lines but wildlife does not, and that poison can spread to a much wider area than the poison user may realize.

Not long after that individual departed, the rabbits began to return. We see them almost every morning and every evening all year long, eating, resting, playing, dozing in the sun. They may be small and defenseless and meek, but they love life and live it with joy.

Happy Easter!

Suzanne Guldimann
20 April 2014

The front yard rabbit dances by the light of the moon. 

Persephone's Return

The pomegranate's crimson flower is one of the first signs of spring in many Malibu gardens, which is appropriate, since it has a long and mystical connection with Persephone, the Greek goddess of spring, who in Greek mythology was bound eternally to the Underworld for the months of winter after eating a seed from the pomegranate offered to her by Hades. Photo © 2014 S. Guldimann

The vernal equinox officially occurred on Friday. Persephone, the flighty Greek goddess of spring, tarried in the Underworld this year. However, Spring, late even in Southern California where drought, not snow, tempered her arrival, is here at last. In the Santa Monica Mountains, annual flowers like lupin and California poppies have just beginning to spring up in the aftermath of our one big March rainstorm. 

In the garden, everything seems to be rushing to make up for lost time. The first thing one hears stepping out of the back door is the buzzing of honey bees so loud it sounds like live electricity. They are drawn to the thicket of wild pear saplings that are covered with white blossoms. The thicket is really rootstock run wild after the ornamental pear tree grafted onto it died. It's much tougher and more drought tolerant than the original tree. It also blooms spectacularly in the spring, produces a crop of tiny bitter fruit in the fall that are eaten by the wild birds, and ends the year in a blaze of crimson leaves. The bees aren't the only ones who have come to love it.

A domestic honey bee gathers nectar from the blossoms of the wild pear tree in the garden.  We've been seeing more honey bees lately, most likely due to revived interest in backyard beekeeping in the neighborhood.  Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

A tiny syrphid fly pollinates a lavender flower. These elegant little native pollinators are also known as flower flies or hover flies. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Most of the winter migrants have moved on, even the robins, but the dark-eyed junco is still here. I can hear its whistling song and geiger counter-like ticking, alternating with mad splashing from the birdbath, as I type this. Most of the local birds are busy building nests. 

I anticipate the loud, insatiable shrieks from baby crows and conure parrot hatchlings any day now—both species are nesting in the neighbor's eucalyptus trees again this year. The great horned owls are back, too. All three species nest early and are already raising their young by the time most of the songbirds are nesting.

The dark-eyed junco prepares to take a bath. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Bathing is a serious business for this energetic winter bird. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

The spotted towhee is another early bird. Its rusty squeak and high-pitched song is part of the spring soundtrack in the garden. You can hear it here.

Spotted towhees are ground nesters and will sometimes take advantage of manmade items like upended pots or abandoned construction materials to shelter their nests. I'm always careful this time of year about picking things up in the garden. I once found a nest under a fallen trash can lid, and another in an overturned bucket. 

A spotted towhee forages for breakfast using his claws to dig up grubs and other tasty morsels, including the bulbs of the invasive oxalis plant, which seem to be a towhee delicacy. This bird's bright coloring and fearless nature makes it a favorite garden resident. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

This spotted towhee nest was constructed under an old plastic trash can lid. It appears to be made mostly out of palm tree fibers and grass, but it's held together with thick, sticky black widow spider webs, and is lined with a warm, insulating layer of dog fur. I suspect humans could learn a lot from the towhee about the art of building with recycled materials. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Here's another backyard character who is busy building a nest. The Western scrub jays have set up shop in the center of an old bougainvillea vine this year. They weren't thrilled when the paparazzi showed up with a camera. I was told to leave, in no uncertain terms. Scrub jays are members of the crow family, and like their larger cousins, they're intelligent and have good memories. Ours know just where the squirrels stashed their autumn supplies. We often see them snacking on stolen acorns long after acorn season is over.  Photo © 2014 S. Guldimann 

Here's the rightful owner of the acorns. The fox squirrels aren't nesting here this year (perhaps the great horned owls are a little too close for comfort?) but they come to eat pinecones and play tag in our liquidambar trees. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

The liquidambar trees are one of the most dramatic manifestations of spring in the garden. They've gone from bare branches to an explosion of chartreuse leaves and rusty flower catkins almost overnight. Photo © 2014 S.Guldimann

Spring green is always transient in Southern California. It's arrived later than ever this year and will fade faster than usual, unless more rain arrives soon. All the more reason to seize the day and spend the rest of it in the garden, or in the hills, or on the beach, celebrating the presence—however fleeting—of Persephone.

Suzanne Guldimann

21 March 2014

A little madness in the Spring

Is wholesome even for the King,

But God be with the clown—

Who ponders this tremendous scene—

This whole Experiment of Green—

As if it were his own!

—Emily Dickinson

Stormy Weather

The sun breaks through the clouds at Zuma Beach, signaling the end of three days of rain. Malibu received much-needed rain and sustained comparatively little damage during the extended deluge. © 2014 S. Guldimann

Rain at last. My mother and I went down to Westward Beach on Thursday at sunset to watch the rain arrive. The sky was pearl gray and tranquil, the ocean calm. Everything was strangely quiet, as if holding its breath.

There's a feeling of community at the beach most evenings. Locals and visitors gather to watch the sunset. People walk dogs, runners run, children try to wheedle another 10 minutes on the beach from parents, surfers gather for a last wave if the surf is good, or to commiserate when it isn't. Sometimes you see old friends. Sometimes the Rock Man is there, burning white sage in an old abalone shell, "calling" the whales and the dolphins. If he's in the mood, he might tell you stories. 

There were no whales, no surfers, no storytellers on Thursday, but we met a friend, braving the weather to walk her dogs. We stood together for a while watching the light fade and the fog roll in.

Rain rolls across the horizon at Westward Beach on Thursday evening. © 2014 S. Guldimann

Far out over the ocean wild geese fly low, reflecting a second, illusionary flock in the still water. Their voices carried to shore, faint but clear. © 2014 S. Guldimann

On Wednesday, two gray whales, a dozen dolphins and the entire Point Dume sea lion colony were out at sunset. Only a lone dolphin was visible on Thursday, ahead of the storm. © 2014 S. Guldimann

 According to the garden rain gauge, we had a total of 4.5 inches of rain on Point Dume. A friend up in the Santa Monica Mountains reported 6 inches. © 2014 S. Guldimann

The rain arrived slow and sleepy and first, then fierce and strong, driven by wicked winds. It ended as meekly as it arrived. The deluge turned to drizzle on Sunday afternoon and almost imperceptibly faded away.

The oak titmouse, silent for three days, materialized at the top of the willow tree and sang a triumphant trill. As if that was the signal, birds appeared all over the garden. The crows went back to the difficult task of selecting the right twigs for their nests, and the dog, who is convinced he will melt if he goes out in the rain, was encouraged to venture into the garden.

The tree frogs are singing. Even the secretive California toad is whistling a few tentative notes, like a singer warming up for a solo. It's been a tough year for Malibu's amphibian population, but three days of almost non-stop rain appears to have done wonders. 

This tiny Baja California tree frog—formerly known as a the Pacific tree frog, but now dignified with the name Pseudacris hypochondriaca hypochondriaca—has a mighty song. This one has taken up residence in a backyard rain barrel, and fills the garden with his distinctive voice. Greatly emboldened by the wet weather, he's been out during the day, singing in the rain with all the enthusiasm of Gene Kelly. You don't need to live in tree frog country to be familiar with the sound. It's a ubiquitous part of old movie soundtracks, used by foley artists to evoke the ambience of summer nights, steamy swamps, tropical jungles,and  picturesque bayous, even when Pacific tree frogs have no business in any of those settings. © 2014 S. Guldimann

It's easy to mistake the California toad's melodic peeping for the call of a small bird. This is Bufo boreas halophilus. The California Herps website (one of the best places on the Internet for all kinds of information on local reptiles and amphibians) says that this species is diurnal and nocturnal, but while I've heard toads calling during the day, I've only ever seen them at night, even during wet weather when they are more active. You can hear their song here. © 2014 S. Guldimann

Not everything that emerges in the garden after the rain is welcome. Here's a newly-hatched specimen of that monstrous, unstoppable alien invader known as the common garden snail, looking remarkably dainty and delicate as it wreaks havoc on the flowers. I don't mind. Not today. © 2014 S. Guldimann

Let the rain kiss you.
Let the rain beat upon your head

With silver liquid drops.
Let the rain sing you a lullaby.
The rain makes still pools in the sidewalk.
The rain makes running pools in the gutter.
The rain plays a little sleep-song 

on our roof at night—
And I love the rain. 

— Langston Hughes