I actually have been composing a long-ass post about other stuff that I’ll be posting soon, but seeing as today was the last day of my internship, I couldn’t let this milestone pass without honoring it. It has been an amazing, intense, and unforgettable experience, and I can’t thank the awesome people at PAWS enough for everything. They are an incredible team of smart, funny, caring people who give blood, sweat, and tears to help wildlife in trouble.
It’ll be weird not being there. There are certainly things I won’t miss, most of them having to do with poo. But there are plenty of things I will miss too (aside, of course, from the fabulous staff and volunteers). I’ll miss (in no particular order)…
… feeding angry squirrels. “I hate you I hate you I hate you… Say is that a syringe? Nomnomnomnomnom… I hate you I hate you I hate you… Mmm… Another syringe! Nomnomnomnom….”
… baby opossums. Ok, really, all opossums, with their grabby little hands and feet and their “vicious” gape with all those teeth that they don’t quite know what to do with. “Look, I’m scary! Hey, why are you picking me up? Can’t you see how scary I am? Oh crap. She didn’t fall for it! Now what? My jaw hurts.”
… filling up the kiddie pools for the raccoons, as they brave the stream from the hose to “wash their hands”, all the while watching you with rapt curiousity.
… feeding the little hummingbird in her little tent as she buzzes around indignantly at lightning speed as if to say “dude, you’re in my space”.
… going into any of the aviaries to feed the birds. Hand-feeding mealworms to the juvenile Barn swallows as they hover in front of your nose.
… doing the meds list or tubings or helping out in the exam room and getting to work so closely with a huge variety of species, from Black-headed grosbeaks, to Great blue herons, to Glaucous-winged gulls, to Common murres, to Northern flickers.
… gulls. Cute, fluffy, spotty-headed peepers as youngsters, beautiful, adaptable flying machines as adults. Love ’em.
I’m sure there are things I’ve forgotten, but these are what come to mind. It truly has been a “wild” experience! One I’ll never forget.
Tomorrow, I burn the sneakers.
So after my tired post of last week, I seem to have found something of a second wind. Which is odd considering that I’ve been working longer days and been much busier. We’ve gone to winter hours which means we’re open from 8 am to 5 pm rather than from 8 am to 8 pm. What this means for me is that rather than working 7-5.30, I get to sleep in a half hour and work from 7.30-6. But what this also means is that the staff has been dramatically cut, and instead of the usual two rehabbers and one or two seasonals above me (experience and chain-of-command wise) it’s been one lone rehabber, a number of volunteers, and myself. And for some reason, we’ve had an influx of difficult animals, and some bad luck with some of the ones who are already there. So instead of leaving at 6 pm, Carey (the rehabber) has had to stay until about 8 for the past two days and I have stayed to help her.
What makes this new situation both scary and cool is that it’s forcing me to take on responsibilities I never had to when there was a buffer of people with more experience than myself. It’s making me realize how much I have learned, and how many skills I’ve acquired without even realizing it. For example, one skill I have found really hard to master so far has been administering fluids subcutaneously (under the skin) on birds (it’s easier on mammals). But tonight we had a European starling that needed fluids and there was no one to take over for me so I had to fly by the seat of my pants. And I did it. I found the right spot, slid the needle in and got all the fluids in. Never mind that I had to call Carey to help with the pigeon and the Cedar waxwing, both more difficult cases. The starling couldn’t have gone more perfectly, and it was the first time that I felt confident doing that particular task. (I like to think it was because he knew I lived in his homeland. ;))
I’m also getting to experience a lot of things that I couldn’t when it was busier and when there was more staff. I got to watch the vet and vet tech anesthetize and suture a Band-tailed pigeon with some serious lacerations. I also got to help out with some animals that are usually staff only. For example, I now get to feed the Anna’s hummingbird – just a matter of making nectar and hanging up syringes for him, but I get to watch him for a few minutes while I do that, which is pretty darned cool. Today I helped administer fluids to a harbor seal (I squeezed the bag), brought food to the deer pen (although I’ve yet to see the deer), and even got to handle the baby cottontails. I just moved them from their aquarium to a carrier, but it was the first time since I’ve been here that I was even allowed to see the bunnies (a very high-stress species), so it was still pretty cool.
So while the past couple of days have been longer, they have been anything but boring, and I feel like I’m hitting my second wind over here. I’m starting to get sad that this internship is coming to an end so soon. For as tiring as it can be, it can also be a thrill ride. Plus… baby bunnies. Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
It’s not just physically draining, although this is some of the most physically arduous work I’ve ever done; other facets of this experience can and do get to me, making me just plumb tired of it all some days. Here are some things I’m tired of:
I’m tired of having to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn.
I’m tired of spending all day cleaning poo.
I’m tired of worrying about zoonotic diseases.
I’m tired of coming home feeling not just dirty, but toxic.
I’m tired of worrying about what has touched my clothing.
I’m tired of working 10 hours with only a half hour break.
I’m tired of worrying if I’m hurting an animal more than I’m helping it.
I’m tired of worrying about making a mistake and killing something.
I’m tired of worrying about why an animal’s not improving.
I’m tired of coming in and wondering if an animal that was there yesterday but is gone today has been released or euthanized.
There’s lots of good stuff too, and I know that this post just seems to focus on the negative. Most of the people who work there are great (both staff and volunteers). I love knowing I’m helping the animals and being able to work with them so closely. Watching seven baby opossums crawl all over each other to get to their dish food, or getting to hold a Common Murre or a Cooper’s Hawk while someone feeds/treats it makes you forget the poo for a while. And releases make it all worthwhile. But some days, the other stuff drags me down a bit, and I long for the simplicity of bookselling, where there are no lives at stake and the most dangerous thing I might face is a customer with halitosis. So does this mean I’m not cut out for rehab (at least on a professional level)? I’m not making any decisions right now, but maybe so. I may be too much of a worrier (Hi, mom! ;)) to do this kind of work on a daily basis. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop exploring ways to work with animals, either on a volunteer or paid basis. It just means there might be other areas that I would enjoy more, or that aren’t as draining on me psychically. (And looking forward to exploring those possiblities.) But I’m really glad I’m having this experience, even if it ends up teaching me that this is not the road for me to take. If I hadn’t taken this detour, I’d never find out.
The rhythm at PAWS wildlife center is shifting with the change in seasons. Every day that I come in, it seems there are less mouths to feed as baby birds get released and squirrels get weaned and move up to the small mammal caging up on the hill. Soon, the raccoons will be going in small batches which means (HURRAH!) less raccoon silo cleaning (possibly my least favorite activity). But less animals means less volunteers and less interns, so while things are not as hectic as they were just a few weeks ago, there’s still plenty of work to do. And while there are less animals to handle, less people qualified to do a lot of the procedures means that you get more hands-on time taking care of the animals that are still there.
And unfortunately for a number of the animals, some of them won’t be leaving anytime soon. An outbreak of avian pox in a couple of the aviaries has led the the euthanizing of several birds and a quarantine on the rest of the affected cages. While the whole situation has been sad, the most heartbreaking consequence of this was that four of the five Stellar’s jays that had been here since they were nestlings had to be euthanized on the eve of what was supposed to be their release; the one jay that showed no symptoms was returned to the aviary for an extended period of quarantine. Jays are intelligent and social birds, and this poor bird went from having four conspecific playmates to being stuck, alone, in an aviary, interacting only with the strange humans who stop by occasionally to drop off food, or with his own reflection in one of the mirrors hung around the cage.
At least he has a chance of release this fall, if he remains pox-free. Several animals are going to be staying with us for the long haul. A pair of Swainson’s thrushes will be our guests for the winter, because some idiot decided to clip the feathers of one of the thrushes (either before or after a cat attack). The feathers had to be plucked to stimulate regrowth, which means that he won’t be able to make the migration down to South America (which is happening NOW) with the rest of his species. We had gotten another Swainson’s thrush in that was in need of medical care and it was decided to keep him over the winter too, in order to ensure that the first thrush had company. Assuming they survive the winter, they’ll be released in the spring when their pals return.
A trio of black bear cubs will also be guests at Chez PAWS for the winter. I’m not sure how we got the little girl (who was here first) but the two boys who came from the Oregon coast (and are thus of a non-hibernating sub-species) were, like the plucked thrush, also victims to human stupidity. Some asswipe decided it would be fun to feed the momma bear that was coming into his yard, but when she killed one of his chickens, he felt justified in shooting her, thus orphaning her cubs. 👿 Sometimes, people just plain suck. Anyway, the trio, who are already getting big and rowdy, will be spending their first winter ripping apart their runs and keeping life interesting for the remaining staff. As an intern, I’m not allowed anywhere near them, but there’s a CCTV camera above their caging, which means I get to see some of their antics. At this adolescent stage, it’s clear they’re going to be a handful.
And even though orphan season is more or less over, we still get our share of sick and injured animals. The staff has been kept especially busy with a group of Common Murres (which I’ve just discovered is the exact same species as what we in Europe call Guillemots [scientific name, Uria aalge or zeekoet in Dutch]) that got brought to us after being washed up on shore. A number of them didn’t make it, but the ones that did require seemingly constant attention, between tubing them and bringing them back and forth between pools and drying pens to try to restore the waterproofing to their feathers (a problem with sea birds). And now that the squirrels are mostly weaned, we suddenly find ourselves caring for seven teeny-tiny orphaned opossums. They are just starting to open their eyes and are possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Because they get tube fed (to approximate how they nurse in the pouch) and not a lot of the volunteers are trained to tube feed, I suspect I’ll be spending a lot of time with those little guys in the next few weeks.
Mammals seemed to have the upper hand this week at the Wildlife center, at least in terms of keeping us busy. Of course we’ve still got gobs of birdies, and they keep coming in, but we’re into what has been termed “the second wave” of squirrel season, which means we’ve stopped counting how many baby squirrels we’ve got in, both Eastern Grays and Douglas Squirrels. The day now seems to be dominated by squirrel feeding, and no matter what else is happening, you have to check the board every half hour to see if any groups are up. Add to this the fact that lots of volunteers are away and some of the interns have left, and needless to say, a lot of other tasks (laundry, dishes, etc.) are getting backed up. But Oh. My. God. They’re cute. And soft. And wriggly.
Feeding them is like a moment of Zen. It can’t be rushed. No matter how many squirrels there are and how many other tasks are waiting to be completed, you still have to take your time. Going too fast can lead to the babies aspirating the formula, which almost inevitably leads to aspiration pneumonia. Luckily, some of the babies now have their eyes open (eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!), and the feeding gets easier because they know the routine and are HUNGRY. An added bonus is that once they hit that stage they don’t need to be stimulated anymore. But for every squirrel that opens its eyes, we seem to get ten new closed-eyes babies in. Because they’re invasive, there’s a limit on how many of the Grays we’ll take in, and we’re not even halfway there. There’s no limit on the native Dougies, so it’s bound to get crazier. Squirrel season has yet to reach its peak.
Luckily, there is no second wave of raccoon season. We’ve got 40 juvenile raccoons, and I hear that having them in the nursery was like letting the lunatics run the asylum. Now they’re in the raccoon silos, socializing with each other, and (we hope) learning to hate (and thus avoid) humans. They’re still cute as a button, but you learn to look past the Cute Overload facade of them pretty quickly. This week we had to vaccinate a bunch of them for various diseases. To vaccinate them, you need to catch them. And before you can catch them you need to put on rubber boots, rubber overalls and thick, leather falconry gloves over latex gloves. And you need to strap on a set of cajones, because, holy crap, those critters are terrifying. At this stage, they’re the size of a large cat, but seem to be ten times as strong, and it takes two people to hold them down while a third does the vaccinations. All the while, from the moment you catch them they’re squirming, snarling, growling, screeching, and trying to bite you. I half expected one of them to spit pea soup, do a 180 with its head and calmly say “Come in, Father”. Grabbing them off of the fencing that makes up the walls of the silo is daunting enough, but doable. You have to herd them down to a reachable height with a broom first, going slowly enough to make sure they don’t fall in the process, but quickly enough that they don’t just dodge the broom. When you do get ahold of them, they almost inevitably pee on you while you try to hold them far enough away from your body that they can’t sink their teeth into you as you wrestle them to the ground. After the first couple got caught this way, however, the remaining raccoons got wise to our ways and they all huddled in the plastic barrel that’s strapped horizontally to the fencing as a place to hide. That’s when things got interesting. Sure, grabbing them off the wall is challenging, but aside from the peeing/snarling/snapping, they’ve at least got their back towards you and once they’ve been swept within arm’s reach, it’s just a question of being fast and having a firm grip. Once they’re in the barrel, however, it’s a whole ‘nother ball game. Suddenly, you’re dealing with a group of snarling, growling, cornered beasts waiting to lunge at your face the moment you reach towards them. I’ve never faced down the barrel of a gun, but I hear it can loosen the bowels faster than a jar full of Metamucil. I’m sure this isn’t comparable, but I’ve never wished for intestinal fortitude quite as much as I did facing down that barrel of raccoons. There are some folks at PAWS who are perfectly happy to reach in there and grab one, but they all have longer arms (and apparently bigger balls) than I do. I never got up the nerve. My eventual plan of attack was to scare them out of there by making lots of noise with the broom and to keep plucking them off the wall. It worked, and soon enough they were all vaccinated, and I was free to go change my underwear.
But both my saddest and happiest moments this week involved a much less frightening species: the Virginia Opossum. They can look pretty fearsome, threatening you with their “alligator” gape, and sure, they can and do bite, but they’re fairly slow and lumbering, and mostly will just try to move out of your way. You can handle the babies and juveniles without gloves. You just grab ’em under their tummy and pick them up. The babies that come in, mostly orphans, are pretty low maintenance. Unless they’re injured, it’s usually simply a question of getting them to the stage where they’re self-sufficient enough to be released. There seems to be a pretty good success rate dealing with the youngsters. Not so much with adults. Opossums are nocturnal and reclusive. If you see an adult in daytime, chances are it’s in trouble. So it was with one of the opossums brought in this week. She was an old girl, had reached the end of her opossum days. She was blind in one eye, and so emaciated that her pelvic bones were visible through her pouch. She could barely stand and kept almost falling off the exam table. It was hard to watch and it was the first time I’ve cried at PAWS. It was decided to euthanize her. Sad, but at least she was spared the lingering death by starvation she would have faced in the wild. We provided her with a release of sorts.
A much happier release came later in the week, when we took one of our juveniles opossoms out to a designated location and let him go. As an orphan, he’d been tube fed formula, dish fed formula, given kibble, fish, quail, fruit and veggies, and was now ready to head out into the wild world and forage for food on his own. After the night shift, one of the seasonals (basically assistant rehabbers) and I drove him out to the park the naturalist had chosen, walked a ways into the woods, found a nice level spot with lots of undergrowth, and put down the box. It was my first release, so I got to reach in, grab the fat little fellow under his fat little tummy, and place him on the grass. He waddled off a few feet towards the brush, and “hid” under a leaf. We watched him for a moment and then left him to get on with his little opossum life. I couldn’t help but worry about what might await him out there in the big wide world – cars, dogs, cats, natural predators, poison, and cruel humans – but he was where he belonged. And I finally got to see what all our hard work at PAWS amounts to. Releasing wildlife back into the wild is our ultimate goal. It’s an amazing feeling seeing it come to fruition like that. Here’s hoping he has a full, successful life out there. Good night and good luck, little opossum dude!
I’ve been meaning to come back here and try to describe a typical day working at PAWS, but I’ve had trouble figuring out where to start. The work is incredibly varied and repetitive at the same time. There are some tasks that seem to happen all day every day; dishes and laundry are both bottomless pits that are never done, each requiring more steps than you would imagine. For example, each and every item of laundry has to be shaken out over the garbage can to dislodge any food/dirt/feces, and to make sure that no small bird or mammal is clinging to it before being put into the industrial washer. This all has to be done wearing goggles, latex gloves and a surgical mask, to protect us from any zoonotic diseases or parasites. And folding the laundry is not a quick task either; we have to make sure that there are no holes, loops, or loose threads on the sheets and towels and if there are they need to be cut off to prevent potential injury to our patients. The importance of this step was brought home to me recently when a baby squirrel was found one morning with a loose thread that had wrapped around his arm causing the bone to break and the whole appendage to swell. The vets wanted to give him a chance, but unfortunately, the arm turned necrotic and the squirrel had to be euthanized. A sad ending that has led to increased vigilance in the laundry room.
Feedings are another around-the-clock activity. Dish feedings, syringe feedings, tube feedings. Soaking chows, thawing fish/krill/carnivore log, mixing formulas, chopping veggies/fruit, injecting thawed fish with B12, pulling up syringe food (fish slurry and a sort of strained mixture for birds called – don’t ask me why – “fons“). Each species has its own specialized dietary requirements, and each patient its own feeding needs/schedule. Almost everyone gets dish food, except for sick/emaciated animals that get tube fed until they can handle self-feeding. The mammals in the wards get fed formula every few hours. The small mammals on “the hill” (basically, those old enough to self feed) get fed in the mornings. The birds in the aviaries and the raptor mews get fed in the mornings and replenished through the day. The raccoons only get fed in the evenings. And for each age group of each different species a different complex diet has to be prepared fresh daily. It’s not a question of simply pouring out some bird seed. Corvids (crows and jays), for example, get a mix of soaked dog chow and soaked omnivore chow, mixed with sunflower seeds, chopped fruit, and protein. Songbirds get soaked dog chow with birdseed and chopped fruit. The mallards get waterfowl maintenance with cracked corn, shredded greens, and mealworms. The gulls get chow with lots and lots of fish, into which we have to inject vitamins. Herons get fish floating in water. Woodpeckers get canned cat food with live mealworms mixed in, smeared onto the wall. And that’s just a small sampling of the different tastes we have to cater to every day. (And that’s not even counting the baby bird nursery which has its own very busy cadre of volunteers feeding some very hungry mouths literally all day from sunup to sundown.) We even have to feed the mealworms.
Then there’s cleaning cages/pens/pools; weighing patients; administering meds; setting up new cages/pens/pools; cleaning and changing the trifectant in all the foot baths; collecting all the garbage and bringing it to the dumpster; disinfecting doorknobs and light switches; replenishing sheets and towels in the surgery, exam room, nursery, ward, small mammal room (aka pop-top room), raccoon city, and baby bird nursery; scrubing all the sinks in the building; spraying and scrubbing all the items on the outdoor cleaning pad (you have no idea how hard it is to get mealworms out of astroturf); sweeping and mopping all the floors, and an ongoing list of seemingly endless daily tasks that need doing. And that’s not including the extra tasks that the rehabbers set us depending on the needs of the moment. Today, we (myself and two other interns) had to “flame” one of the aviaries. Literally go in there with a propane tank and a flame-thrower and go over every inch of the place because the juvenile Robins that had just been moved out of there were being treated for gapeworm. I can truly say, there’s never a dull moment, although sometimes you wish there were. At the end of the day, I come home, leave my shoes outside, strip naked, throwing every scrap of clothes in the washing machine, hop in the shower and scrub every inch of my body, and collapse onto the couch to finally give my aching feet a break and set my brain to “0”.
Anyway, I know that’s a lot of text to take in all at once, but I hope it paints a picture of the ordered chaos of a busy wildlife rehab center. And for those of you who are thinking “Yeah, yeah, but where are the cute animals?” check out this story that a local station did about us on the news recently. (And for extra cuteness, click on both of the video links.)
So I’m back online (whoohoo! Comcast comes through!) after my first week of the internship. Lots of new experiences. This has been a week of firsts for me.
First time catching and holding wild birds – American crows, Steller’s jays, Northern Flickers (Dutchies, behave!), and a Glaucous Gull. The crows are the best. Easy to catch, easy to hold, and they use your finger as a perch while getting their meds/tube feeding. The Gull was just frightening. That is a big-ass bird, with a very sharp beak, and it’ll go for your eyes any chance it gets. The Jays and Flickers are not dangerous, but very very flappy, which brings me to another first.
First time letting a bird get away from me and having to get on my hands and knees to net it from under a bank of cages. It will not by my last time, I’m sure.
First time washing bright yellow baby squirrel poop off my hands.
First time taking a pair of kitchen shears to a pair of fully-feathered quail looking for meaty bits.
First time having half a “false ceiling” full of raccoon kits come crashing down on me. (No raccoons or interns were harmed in any way in the making of this mishap.)
First time sifting for mealworms.
First time smearing a mix of catfood and live mealworms onto a wooden wall for Flickers and Red-breasted Sapsuckers to eat.
First time slitting open thawed smelt to stick pills inside, and then injecting them with vitamins.
First time mixing formula for deer fawn.
First time seeing a Turkey buzzard. (Unfortunately, he had just been euthanized after suffering an electrocution injury.)
First time learning how (and where) to empty “the dead bucket”. (Which is exactly what it sounds like.)
First time making a mealworm run.
I’m sure there are a bunch more that aren’t springing to mind at the moment, but these were all quite memorable. Never again will I be able to say that I don’t know what it’s like to ride northbound on Rt. 99 with two containers of mealworms in my lap.
(Note: Taking pictures of any of the animals in our care is strictly verboden, so any pictures I link to here are borrowed from other people’s websites purely for illustrative purposes.)