Wee weird warthogs

Warthogs (Phacochoerus africanus).
Photo by Arno & Louise Meintjes.

I'm sorry I haven't posted recently; I've been going through a bit of a stressful patch.

However, outside in my front garden, there's a family that's clearly not stressed.
You could be forgiven for thinking they're feeling pious, because the two adults are down on their knees.

But they aren't facing Mecca.

Yes, you guessed it, they're warthogs.
Now I realise that you know all about warthogs. They trot past as non-speaking extras in every African wildlife documentary ever made.
Warthogs are passé.

But believe me, warthogs are weird. Pigs that live down burrows? Rabbits, wombats, prairie dogs – these are the critters that pop up out of holes. But pigs? And when tooth-and-claw threatens, warthogs don't just hurtle headlong down their holes like any self-respecting burrow-dweller. No, they skid to a halt at the tunnel mouth, whirl around (as much as anything pig-shaped can whirl) and reverse down backwards – now that's just perverse.  

When your the only pig bizarre enough to specialise in grazing, why not go the whole hog and gad about on your knees. This is said to give more leverage for snouting up grass roots, but I reckon they're trying to garner sympathy by looking obsequious. And it's premeditated: their gnarly knee calluses are present in the womb.
Photo by Brian Gratwicke.

But the reason I've been lured into writing about my common-or-garden warthogs is because, over the last couple of weeks, there's suddenly a whole lot more of them. Out in my garden - along with Mum and Aunt Mabel - are five little hoglets, currently leaping, spinning in the air and madly snout-jousting with one another. I've never figured out why warthog piglets are so appealing. I mean they're semi-bald and always look so... well, earnest. I guess it's partly because they're so tiny next to Mum (only 1% of her weight at birth), and they trot along in single file, tails stuck up and Mohican hairdos billowing in the breeze.

I first noticed something untoward in the world of hogs about two months ago. I pass several families (called sounders) on my way to the mongooses each day and, back then, all the mums suddenly disappeared. This set me in a panic because, around here, warthogs are popular guests at Saturday night's braai/barbie. But once I'd seen that last year's youngsters were pottering about normally, despite the lack of maternal care, I regained my composure and realised what was happening. You see when a mother-to-be's happy day arrives, she deserts her teenaged kids and retreats down a burrow. Here she'll stay, tending her tiny newborns, for at least a week. Even after she emerges, she'll still go hungry for several weeks, guarding her burrow-bound piglets and suckling them at 40 minute intervals.

Who wouldn't stay underground, if they looked like this? Warthog piglets don't leave their hole until 6-7 weeks old.
Photo by Martin Heigan.

Mother warthogs defend their piglets. That doesn't sound scary, does it. But then it fails to evoke the piglets' blood-curdling squeals, the dreadful roaring bellows and grunts of a charging sow or the hysterical yelping of an injured dog.

Maybe I need to go back a step. The summer before last I was letting my two huskies gallivant in the bush at the local mine when they flushed a young warthog. The little fellow took one look at the dogs and began hollering for Mum. His piercing 'I'm-being-torn-apart' screams were so shocking that Wizard and I stood transfixed, but Magic took off after the critter. Suddenly a large grey shape erupted from the bushes. Roaring and growling, Mother Warthog hurtled straight toward Wizard. I couldn't see what was happening because of the undergrowth but my heart contracted as a volley of dreadful yelping arose. Warthogs have a penchant for disembowelling dogs; their upper tusks can reach 60 cm (23") in length and the lower ones are razor-edged (honed by the upper tusks whenever the warthog chews).

Looking mean. The piglet's white cheek fur is thought to give an illusion of tusks (technically they're called tushes, not tusks, because they're canine teeth not incisors).
Photo posted on Flickr by Piglicker.

Straining to catch sight of Wizard, who - still yelping pitifully – was fleeing through the undergrowth, I suddenly realised that Mum was now charging straight at me. This didn't alarm me at first because warthogs often appear to be attacking you when they're actually just fleeing to a burrow behind you. I'd been fooled before. I was much more worried about Wizard. But as the massive creature hurtled down the hill toward me (mother warthogs weigh in at around 65 kg/143 lbs), I began to think, 'Surely she's not going to attack me too?' I'd never heard of warthogs disembowelling people. As she got closer and closer, I wondered, in a panicky sort of way, whether it was possible to play toreador with a pig. By that stage, of course, I really had no other option. Fortunately, when she was just one metre (3 ft) away from me, and I was getting ready to leap, she swerved sideways, dashing past in a flurry of dust.

Meanwhile, the piglet had given Magic the slip by squeezing under a fence, and both dogs were standing together on the track. Wizard, whimpering constantly, was trembling from head to foot, and his white fur was splashed liberally with scarlet. Heart in mouth, I rushed up to assess the damage. One of the warthog's tusks had speared his thigh, leaving behind a deep stab wound. But much worse, the other one had pierced into his groin and there was blood everywhere. Only after I'd flushed out the wound did I realise how lucky we'd been. The tusk had penetrated more than 20 cm (8"), but it had gouged up between the skin of his thigh and abdomen, slicing - but not actually penetrating - the abdomen wall. Although the wound was not life-threatening, it still took many painful weeks to heal.

Of course even as I write this, Wizard and Magic are racing up and down the fence, desperately eager to get out and chase those tempting little piglets. Oh, aren't dogs a blessing!

Pigging out. Unlike domestic pigs, warthog piglets don't own and defend a particular teat. They're so into sharing that females will suckle one another's kids. But milk-drinking is a frantic business: once flowing, the supply lasts only one minute.
Photo by Arno & Louise Meintjes.

Mother’s milk... and Dad’s too

This post is not about elephants. Or lions.

I am NOT going to talk about yesterday's dawn-chorus of roaring, or being woken this morning by the excited, come-hither calls of spotted hyenas.

In fact, today's post is about the very epitome of peace: the dove (well actually a pigeon, but who's splitting hairs).

You see, I've been spending the last few days with Ecthelion, whose favourite termite mound is shaded by a fruiting rock fig.

The roots of the large-leaved rock fig (Ficus abutiliflora) can split rocks and plummet down 60 metres/yards to tap underground water sources.

I arrive each morning to a festival of birds: hornbills, starlings, louries and pigeons, all hopping about among the leaves, gorging themselves on the tiny figs. With squawks of protest, most of the revellers flee as I approach, but the African green pigeons (Treron calva) are made of sterner stuff. They simply shuffle sideways or crane their necks to peer down at me from between the leaves. Dressed smoothly in soft greens, and decorated with epaulettes of lavender, they're designed to blend into the foliage. To aid the disguise, they've developed a preternatural stillness. I find it disconcerting. Their persona is not improved by their unnerving, ice-blue eyes, or a bill – blood red and sharply hooked – that hints of deeds far more sinister than fruit-munching. And when viewed from below, they reveal a hitherto unsuspected brazenness: brilliant yellow leggings and scarlet toes.

Would you trust this bird? Photo by Johann du Preez.

After a while the pigeons tire of glowering down at me and go back to clambering silently about the branches. When I'm not looking, they'll even hang upside down, parrot-like, to pluck the small spherical figs from the branch tips. If I move suddenly, they burst from the foliage in a clamour of wing clapping, and fly - swift and straight - to a nearby dead tree. Here they line up on a sun-drenched branch to soak up the warmth and delicately preen one another's feathers.

Like all pigeons, African green pigeons have some weird habits. Not the least of which is feeding their chicks on milk. No they don't steal it, they brew the stuff themselves.

Midway through incubating their eggs, something strange begins to happen to both Mum and Dad. A rush of the pituitary hormone prolactin (the same hormone that prompts milk production in mammals) makes the walls of their crop thicken up and blood vessels invade the area. By time the first chick scrambles from its shell, the adults' crops have trebled in weight and are sloughing off cells to form a cottage-cheese-like goo, called 'crop milk' or 'pigeon milk'. The newly hatched squabs (the in-house term for pigeon chicks; personally I'd go back into my egg if someone called me a squab) feast exclusively on this for the first few days, thrusting their heads right inside the parents' beaks to gobble down the goodies.

Pigeon milk compares well with mammal milk; it's very rich in protein, moisture and fat, but contains no carbs. And it's more effective at promoting rapid growth than the milk in your refrigerator. Parent pigeons, however, only produce the stuff for the first week or so, and then they wean their little ones on to solids.

Enjoying the morning sun. I try not to identify with this species' plump shape... I'm sure I'll lose weight once the summer comes... Photo by Arno and Louise Meintjes.

But why do pigeons go to all this trouble? The only other birds known to feed their kids on throat secretions are flamingos, who cough up a mixture of blood and fat. But flamingo chicks need to grow fast if they're to avoid being left high and dry when their shallow breeding pools dry out. Baby pigeons face no such deadlines.

The answer seems to be two-fold. Firstly, pigeon eggs are unusually small (relative to the size of Mum) and secondly, little pigeons are very well developed when they eventually hatch. As a result, pigeon chicks have squandered their entire food store (the egg's yolk) by the time they hatch. This is not normal. Most baby birds emerge with up to a third of their yolk intact. With this rich source of fat and protein embedded in their tummies, the chicks of other species don't eat for their first few days, giving their gut a chance to adapt to solid food. It's thought that pigeon parents cover this 'down-time' for their hungry chicks by coughing up pigeon milk.

 Figs are the favourite food of African green pigeons (Treron calva) who dine almost exclusively on fruit. I was going to call them fruitarians but apparently strict fruitarians (and some vegans) boycott figs because they contain insects! NB: figs are pollinated internally by a symbiotic wasp who ultimately dies inside the fruit.
Photo by J. Muchaxo.