The View From Heifer Hill—May, 2015

A Dreadful Departure
Dandelion the Dreadful has had, by nearly any
porcupine’s standards, an interesting childhood. I
should know—I am her mother. Dandelion has gone
for rides in the car, been paddling in a canoe, and has
been pulled through the woods on a sled. She has
been rescued from a treetop by a group of people
with a 30-foot ladder when she lost her nerve on an
early climb.

On April 28, two weeks shy of her first birthday,

I decided that she had the skills and substance
needed to shine on Nature’s ruthless, splendid stage.
I planned to follow her for her first day or two to
observe her behavior.

When I first opened the door of her enclosure, she

followed me, humming anxiously. She soon relaxed,
ate a violet leaf, sampled some dirt, and then the
flame of independence kindled—off she went, across
the meadow and into the woods without a backward
glance!

For the first few hours she waddled along on a

meandering route, pausing frequently to sniff things.
Although she has always been an enthusiastic
climber, it wasn’t until early afternoon that she finally
headed up a tree. Ten feet from where she paused
her climb, out on a side branch, sat the world’s cutest
porcupine—another yearling, about half the size of
Her Rotund Highness.
The two spent the afternoon near each other in
what appeared to be amicable repose. Around dusk,
the little porcupine began to descend. The minute
he started moving Dandelion began squawking.
As her companion reached the trunk and began to
climb down her complaints escalated to shrieks and
wails. I have been the object of Dandelion’s wrath
on numerous occasions. She is not an animal that
tolerates having her plans thwarted; never though,
have I received the tongue-lashing this poor fellow
endured. Once on the ground, he waddled off into
the brush. Dandelion tossed a few more insults in his
direction and then went to sleep.

How to explain such rudeness? The other times I

have heard porcupines use similar curses were when
settling territorial disputes and when females were

Dandelion and her new “friend.”

repelling males that were interested in mating. Was Dandelion claiming the area as her territory
and driving the little one away? Then why spend the afternoon sleeping quietly near him? And
why not pursue him to chase him away? Porcupine mating season is in the late summer/early
fall. My best guess is that Dandelion’s imprecations issued from a porcupine imperative to
maintain a decorous distance until that very brief window when mating is likely to be fruitful.

I slept beneath her tree. The next morning she climbed down the tree and into my lap and up
onto my shoulder where she tried to suck my earlobe, a baby habit she had given up months
ago. She spent half an hour demanding my attention, at one point giving me a peevish nip. At
last she wandered off and disappeared into a fir thicket near the brook. I roused myself to go
look for her. When I got down to the brook, Dandelion was gone.

I picture her waddling off, her kit bag stuffed with her peculiar wealth of experiences. It is
evident that despite my parental lectures there is one skill she lacks: “plays well with others.” I
am guessing, though, that in the world of wild porcupines, Dandelion’s attitude will serve her
well. Bon voyage Dandelion the Dreadful!