Wildlife Rescue Series!

The volunteer oil spill response team for the Wildlife Rescue Association of BC (WRA) had an email from J, head of animal care, yesterday to put us on red alert.

There was a land-based crude oil spill Tuesday on Inlet Drive between Burnaby and Port Moody, and the oil is running into Burrard Inlet. As of yesterday afternoon, one oiled Canada Goose had been brought into the wildlife hospital, and several more had been spotted. Emergency containment procedures have been put in place at the spill site, both by the companies involved in the spill and by Burrard Clean, but it was a big spill, and it hit the shoreline, which means animals are automatically in the line of fire.

Focus Wildlife, a California-based company that headed up the animal rescue efforts at Wabamun Lake in 2005, has been brought in to coordinate animal rescue and rehabilitation, and as always, WRA and its volunteers will play a key role in that operation.
If you’ve read my book Flight or Fight, you’ll know a lot about how an oil spill can impact animals in the wild, and how it contaminate whole ecosystems and future generations of animals for years to come. I wrote about a canola oil spill, which you’d intuitively think was less harmful than a crude spill. Crude is highly toxic, true, and can cause burns and other external injuries to the animals it affects. But cooking oil is hardly innocent; believe it or not, it is even harder to wash off a bird (and the wash process is so stressful to a wild animal that it can be deadly), and has been known to linger in an affected ecosystem for as long as forty years.

Click here to read a news story about this latest spill. Meanwhile, I’m headed to the wildlife hospital this morning for my regular Thursday morning shift, and to get the latest news on the spill, which I’ll pass along to you.

Until then …

Do not try this at home.

Or anywhere else.

I moved 24 mallard ducklings from their inside brooders to their outdoor day pens yesterday morning. And if you’re wondering whether there’s some high-tech duckling-transport implement I used to do this, let me just say no, there isn’t. A cardboard kennel, a couple of towels, and my two trembling hands.

They’re small. These ones weren’t the teeny peepers, the three-inch-long, barely out of the egg babies. These were a hardy six inches long! Yeah, still small. They were grouped together in three brooders under heat lamps for the night, despite the warm weather. Their small size coupled with their speedy growth means it can be hard for them to keep fed, hydrated and warm enough without a mother’s down to snuggle under.

Ducklings are famous for the speed with which they imprint, or bond, with their parents(s), learning behaviour patterns and survival techniques very shortly after hatching. This poses a problem for ducklings who’ve been orphaned. On whom do they imprint?

If there are less than six ducklings in a brooder, we add a small mirror and a stuffy to their environment. Eventually, they will imprint on one another. That is, if we’re careful not to spend too much time with them, and especially handling them. If you’ve seen the movie Fly Away Home, you’ll know they can imprint on humans, too. But with the exception of the Canada Goose in Fly Away Home, and a few rare others, a bird that has imprinted on a human being can no longer live in the wild. It is literally a dead duck. Dead duck walking. Or flying.

That said, I’d still recommend seeing Fly Away Home. But I digress.

My point is, this speedy imprinting skill is the reason we have to handle the ducklings as little as possible. So I did my best to enjoy the miraculous sensation of holding a wild baby animal–okay, 24 of them–uh, on the fly.
When you stand above the brooder and open up the cover, the ducklings peep and huddle together in one corner. When you reach your hands in to scoop the first one up, they scatter, running madly off in all directions and peeping fit to beat the proverbial band. One or two of the larger ones may even try to bite you. It’s the fight or flight instinct up close and personal.

I usually decide which duckling I’m going to scoop each time I reach in; otherwise, it’s a scattershot effort that usually leaves me empty handed. The longer it takes me to get them all into the box, the longer they’re under stress, and the more profound the negative impacts. A small bird can die of a heart attack under extreme stress, and make no mistake, attempted capture, or over-long handling, by a perceived predator as relatively large as a human being  (no matter that human’s intentions) is extreme stress.

In most cases, when we handle a patient at the wildlife hospital, we wrap it in a towel making sure to cover its head. This technique serves a few purposes: it keeps its wings tucked, preventing possible strain or injury; it keeps its feet tucked, giving it something to perch on and the perception of stability; it keeps the oils in our skin away from its feathers; and it covers its head and eyes, reducing its stress level.

But with the ducklings, there are so many of them grouped together, and they move so fast in such a relatively large space, that using towels becomes prohibitive, and as I said before, time is of the essence with these tiny babies.

So I reach in, and my hands close over the body of one of the smaller ones as he tries to camouflage himself against a small group of three ducklings cowering in the corner of the brooder. I bite back the urge to offer whispers of reassurance, and hope that my benign intentions convey themselves energetically; my whispers will be perceived as a menacing hiss, my voice a threatening growl to a cornered wild animal.

I’ve got him. And oh, he feels wonderful. It is like holding the essence of life itself in your hands. He is so alive. Just recently born. Brand new to the earth. And every movement and sound, every beat of his heart, every last bit of fluff on the edges of the down at the tips of his feathers feels alive. I’d like to hold him forever.

My grandma used to tell my sister and me the story of a young boy she knew, one of her playmates as a child, who joined her in visiting the farm of a friend. One of the chickens’ eggs had just hatched, and the boy asked if he could hold one of the chicks. Granted permission, he picked one up, eyes going wide at the sensation, and wrapped his hands around the little animal. It was clear, my grandma said, that he loved it immediately.

But he loved it too much. He held it tightly to him, cuddling it, and before anyone realized what was happening, it died in his hands.

That story always horrified me. It still does. And obviously the impact of it stayed with my grandma for 80 or more years. But I understand that boy. I understand that feeling of loving something so instantly and so much that you could easily squeeze the life out of it. We do it with one another! We do it with our children. We do it, all the time, with animals. Witness the numbers of tigers and elephants kept as pets in North America. We are all, to one degree or another, wild animals. We need to love and be loved, yes, and we need to be free.
When we first receive our initial training as volunteers with the wildlife centre, we are told very bluntly that if we want to cuddle animals, we should volunteer with the SPCA. Dogs and cats, who are domesticated, will (for the most part) welcome the touching and the petting and the cuddling, and will very often return the affection. But to work with wild animals, you need to feel the same power of that affection but operate against your own instincts — to talk and reassure, to pet, to hold, to cuddle. You need to learn - and quickly - how to see the situation from the animal’s perspective. The animal is wild, born to a life outdoors and with a set of instincts designed to keep it as far from humans as possible in order to survive. You do your job; you send it benign, healing energy; you wish it well; you move along.

The duckling in my hands is running like a cartoon animal, legs and tiny buds of wings zooming and getting him nowhere. I’ve got him. I can feel his heart beating in the palm of my hand, tiny winglets brushing my fingers, neck extending as he peeps, trying to alert a long-dead parent that he is in danger. I place one hand under his also cartoon-like big webbed feet and keep my hold over the top of his body firm. He is strong, considering his size. And the energy in him feels like a super-bouncer (remember those?) or a coiled spring. If he were to escape my hands now, he’d fall five feet to the concrete floor. I hold on for dear life.
I take a moment - just a moment - to savour the sensation of his indescribable softness, and the life energy in my hands - and then I pop him into the kennel. After a few more indignant peeps, he settles down in the shadows against the soft towel, and awaits the arrival of his brothers and sisters.

Twenty-four times, I do this. And then seven baby gulls (who of course went into their own pen, nowhere near the ducklings!). Three separate pens of ducklings set out on the grass, partly in sun, partly in shade, outfitted with water towers and small swimming pools, and dishes of dry food and worms. In other words, heaven.

It took me the better part of my morning shift to accomplish the transfers, and to keep my charges supplied with water (they all drank their pools and drained their water towers four times in three hours). They looked happy — busy with their feeding and bathing and preening and foraging, fluffing themselves in the sunlight, or finding respite from the day’s heat in the cool shade. Call it projection or anthropomorphism if you like; they looked happy. And so did I.

Mmph.

7:02 a.m., Thursday, July 12. Have to be at the wildlife center in 58 minutes. Barely awake, too warm already. Another scorcher. Too hot to snooze any more. Trying something new. Early-morning blogging.

I had dinner with Nadine last night, at Stella’s on Commercial Drive. There was a free concert, four or five bands, in Grandview Park right next to the restaurant, and we sat at the open window, sampling tapas, guzzling water, people-watching, and melting in our seats.

And talking. We talked about everything, and at some point the subject of our blogs came up. After a few moments of polite technical talk, we both admitted we were struggling with our blogs. We didn’t know quite who we were writing for, or even why we were writing. We’d had ideas, originally, but things seemed to have changed, and we were, well, just a bit lost. Frankly, it was a relief to admit it, and an even bigger relief to hear someone else admit it, too.

Then she told me about the journals. An artist’s journals, a set of books she represents (she’s working as a sales rep for a literary press right now). Short, unemotional entries providing the details of her day-to-day process. “Today, I bought a 5 x 5 canvas and stretched it over a frame, then painted it blue.”

I could see the canvas … and the possibilities.

I hope one day in the not too distant future, you (whoever you are) will write and tell me you want to know more about this, or would like to know what I think of that. Meanwhile, I’m going to start each day (can I do it?) with a record of what I’m doing and a plan for the day. It feels manageable, and interesting - to me, at least. You? Let me know.

It’s 7:19 and I’m supposed to be at the wildlife center in 41 minutes. Dress, breakfast, saddle up, bike down. It’ll be a million degrees in the center today. Better take water.

This afternoon my plan is to organize all the pieces I’m bringing with me to the Canadian Book Camp at the VPL tomorrow. I’ve got a full costume, my presentation in a fairy tale folder I made myself, large sheets of foolscap for our three-minute biographies (written with the non-dominant hand!), candles and matches, river rocks for the touchstone ceremony. Must remember to call Gordon - he blew me away with an offer to drum live for the workshop. It’s going to be an afternoon to remember.

At 4:30 I have to be at 8 Rinks for my first physio appointment. Achilles tendonitis, right leg. Mild. I’m hoping with ultrasound and the right exercises I can get back to running soon. And dancing.

Then tonight I’ll rehearse tomorrow’s presentation, make sure I have everything I need, make a list for tomorrow.

Did I mention writing? No. I’m not writing much these days, other than making notes and sketching out presentations, creating curricula for the books, creating worksheets and handouts and give-aways.

I wonder if I’ll ever get to the point where I’m writing - really writing, working on a book, I mean - every day. There are writers who do. Do I want to be one of them? Is it a matter of discipline? Timing in one’s career? Personality? These are the things I’m interested in. I’ve always been fascinated to know the myriad ways various writers actually spend their days. You read their “self-help” books, how to write, how to create, blah blah blah. And I think yes, but what do you do first thing in the morning? How do you get out of bed and out from under the weight of all the ideas pressing down on you first thing in the morning? THEN what do you do? Do you write first thing? Do you stop to exercise? Does someone else make your meals? How many pages do you write in a day? Or words? Or do you try to finish a chapter? Or a narrative chunk? What about the rest of life - bills, doctor’s appointments, groceries? Really, truly, how do you spend your day?

It’s 7:27. I’m going to be late. Up, dress, smoothie, cereal, pack my panniers (bring water!), and I’m off.

Talk with you tomorrow. I’ll let you know how today goes.

It started with an urgent phone call early this morning: “It’s just flopping around on my doorstep and acting all strange! It won’t fly!”

“What is, sir?” M worked to remain calm and patient. People who call in to the wildlife centre are often doubly distressed — once on the animal’s behalf and doubly because they want to help and aren’t sure how.

When the caller’s answer came, M knew she had an emergency on her hands …

“A bat!”

Contrary to pop culture lore, most bats are peaceful, non-aggressive creatures who mind their own business, having complex lives and social networks of their own to keep them occupied. But like any animal (humans included), bats can be carriers of disease, and unusual behaviour is often a sign that something is wrong. And a bat who’s flopping on a doorstep instead of flying (or, since this was daylight, sleeping) is definitely exhibiting unusual behaviour.

“Don’t touch it, sir!” M responded quickly to the caller.

“Don’t worry! I’m not getting anywhere near it!” M commended the caller on taking the appropriate safety precautions, and asked him to observe from a safe distance until she could get there. Then, gloves, net and carrier in hand, she hopped into her car and sped away.

Bats are known to be potential carriers of rabies, a highly contagious disease that produces horrific symptoms and suffering in both animals and humans. With animals, rabies is almost always fatal. With humans, if it’s caught in time, there is an antidote. But it’s a big “IF.” If you get bitten by a rabid bat, and don’t get the antidote in time, rabies will kill you.
For professional wildlife rehabilitators who want to work with bats, preventative measures are required before the rehabber can handle the animals. “I had three shots before I could start working with bats,” M tells me once she’s back at the centre with the bat.

I ask both her and L whether the shots produce any kind of symptomatic response. “You can get really sick,” L answers, “because it affects your immune system. I got some kind of horrible flu after my shots because my defenses were down. Oh, and the shots hurt like hell. My shoulder was sore for days!”
If a rehabber gets bitten or scratched or even sneezed on by a bat during rehabilitative care, and that bat turns out to be rabid, there are more shots: five if you’ve had the three pre-shots; OR if you’re a volunteer, or member of the public, seven shots.

I kept a closed door between myself and the bat exam going on in the medical room.

It was a silver haired bat, a good fifteen or twenty centimetres across by my observation as I watched it fly around the exam room above M’s and L’s heads. It looked big compared to others we’ve had in care, but weighed in at only 9 grams. Satisfied that it could in fact fly properly, L caught the bat in a net and scooped it out in a soft towel for further examination.

“He’s very ‘bitey’,” she said, turning him over carefully with gloved hands. “Very aggressive, and he’s chattering away, very vocal, which is unusual. That’s also part of the aggression. These are all signs he could be rabid.”

There’s nothing more to be done now. M places him in quarantine, a luxury we have right now while there are few animals in care, and takes him a dish of mealworms and calcium powder. The next 48 hours are critical. If he’s healthy, he’ll live. If he’s rabid, he’ll die. If he dies, his body will be sent to the Ministry for a necropsy, which will confirm or deny the suspected rabies diagnosis. And then M and L will be very glad of their three shots and sore shoulders, which could just save their lives.

For an amazing trilogy of novels about bats, filled with incredible lore and natural history on top of being great adventure stories, check out Kenneth Oppel’s Silverwing series!

It’s raccoon season. We’re inundated with them. Spring has sprung and the sap is running … literally and figuratively. What I’m trying to say is, it’s mating time.

As male raccoons compete for territory and mates, the strong, healthy juveniles take on the elderly and the sick in vicious battles that can end in severe injury and even death. Of those that survive long enough to be found and brought into the wildlife centre, very few can be rehabilitated and released back into the wild.

Sometimes, their injuries are simply too severe. They arrive with torn limbs, missing teeth, or even having lost an eye. Sometimes they’re starving from having been exiled from food-rich territory for so long.

Nature can be cruel, for sure. But in this case, she’s not entirely to blame.  Territories just aren’t large enough any more to support the same populations of raccoons. Why? Because of human encroachment on their habitats. Golf courses, condo developments, roadways. We’re turning what’s left of their territories into pressure cookers, and it’s the wildlife hospitals that are seeing the results.

Gosh … I do hope I have a happier story for next week’s Thursday morning shift. Your happy raccoon rescue stories welcome in response!

It’s Sunday night and I’m pretending it’s Thursday. It’s been that kind of week. The coming week promises to be no saner. We launch Crow Medicine in Vancouver this Friday, and until the RSVPs, food, drinks, music, book sales and posters are finalized and my speech is planned and I know what I’m wearing, I probably won’t relax too much. Oh, the glamour.

Thursday was my first shift back at the Wildlife Rescue Centre (WRA) in a very long time. Speaking of glamour, I’d managed to forget just how much fecal matter is an integral part of every shift. Honestly though, it felt great to put on old shoes, baggy jeans and a sweatshirt and get really dirty.

Two new volunteers have joined the Thursday morning crew since I’ve been away, and they did most of the work while I bumbled around refamiliarizing myself with the routines. M was on holidays in California, but G was there, gamely managing the outside pens on her own, as usual. She’s still in pain with severe arthritis, but she’s been back at the Centre for a few weeks now. Faced with a choice between being in pain or being isolated at home, she chose the pain … and the animals.

In the exam room, D was giving a bufflehead a final once-over and his last dose of medication before putting him under observation in preparation for release. Part way through our rounds in the care room, R discovered that one of the rock pigeons, alive on first inspection that morning, had died quietly in its cage. Not ten minutes later, I found the pigeon in the adjoining cage dead as well. It had survived a house fire the previous night and been brought to the Centre by an especially compassionate fireman. We finished rounds in a sober mood.

Then D called us to the exam room to watch the banding of a juvenile red-tailed hawk. What an animal. Full sized despite its juvenile designation; what gave away its age was the mottled feathering on its breast and wings, and the fact that its tail isn’t red yet. D placed it in a wing wrap to protect its wing feathers during the procedure, and covered its head to help calm it. Using a small metal device edged with several sizes of semi-circular cutouts, D measured the circumference of one of its legs and chose the appropriately sized band.

The bands for the red-tails are specially designed to lock; clever, determined and well equipped with a sharply hooked beak, a red-tail can easily pry open a standard band. Using the appropriate banding tool, D closed and locked the band over red-tail’s right leg. He would be released later in the afternoon. Our mood lifted. The release was a reminder of why we were there, of why it was all worth it — the arthritis pain, the mess and smells, the deaths.

Once the animals were fed and cleaned and medicated as necessary, I drifted over to the house to help G sort and count Canadian Tire money. I always think it would amaze most people to know what it costs to operate a small, volunteer-based wildlife rehab centre for a year. It’s also amazing to see some of the resourceful ways in which the organization comes up with the cash (or equivalent) to do so. Absolutely everything comes from donations from the public — money, yes, but also everything from fish to blankets to bird seed to Canadian Tire dollars. The wish list is usually a mile long, and often includes things like computers and incubators, but somehow we always seem to have everything we need … or manage with all that we have.
I met J in the garden as we were getting ready to leave, and looked up to see a raven fly over us, soaring open-winged on the slightest of breezes, huge, silent.

A blessing.