Should only monarchs reign over milkweed?

Once again this year we've not seen any monarch caterpillars on our abundance of milkweed plants. Numerous monarch butterflies have been visiting our swamp milkweed and common milkweed plants, but nary a caterpiggly have we found.

several instars of milkweed tussock moth caterpillars

Photo by J. Harrington

On the other hand, we have an overabundance of milkweed tussock moth caterpillars (Euchaetes egle) on several of the milkweed plants near the house and along the road. It did take us awhile to identify the creatures that have been decimating the common milkweed plants. Several were eaten right down to the stem and even parts of that looked like they were missing.

monarch butterfly not laying eggs on blazing star

Photo by J. Harrington

Some monarch butterfly supporters have a longer list of monarch pests, including the tussock moth caterpillar. Fortunately for our ecosystems, the basic recommendation is to live and let live. If necessary, plant more milkweed of a variety of types. They also suggest that

Exterminating all milkweed pests can have unintended consequences to your local ecosystem. If you want to boost the survival rate of your garden monarchs without tampering with mother nature, try raising a few indoors.

We've seen, but not read carefully, some reports that monarchs raised indoors don't migrate naturally. Our inclination is to do what we can to improve the available habitat and let Mother Nature take it from there. This is pretty much consistent with the following conclusion from an Ohio State University blog:

I support monarch recovery.  However, we should embrace all native insects with equal affection; I mean this figuratively since tussock moth caterpillars have defensive hairs.  The tussock moths should enjoy the same natural born rights to milkweeds as monarchs.  The bottom line:  liberty, equality, and fraternity for all insects that you may find sharing milkweeds with monarchs.

Milkweed

By Bradford Tice

I tell myself softly, this is how love begins—

the air alive with something inconceivable,

seeds of every imaginable possibility

floating across the wet grasses, under

the thin arms of ferns. It drifts like snow

or old ash, settling on the dust of the roadways

as you and I descend into thickets, flanked

by the fragrance of honeysuckle and white

primrose.

I recall how my grandmother imagined

these wanderers were living beings,

some tiny phylum yet to be classified as life.

She would say they reminded her of maidens

decked in white dresses, waltzing through air.

Even after I showed her the pods from which

they sprang, blossoming like tiny spiders,

she refused to believe.

Now, standing beside you in the crowded

autumn haze, I watch them flock, emerge from

brittle stalks, bursting upon the world as

young lovers do—trysting in the tall grasses,

resting fingers lightly in tousled hair.

Listen, and you can hear them whisper

in the rushes, gazing out at us, wondering—

what lives are these? 

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