January/February
2004
Stories
of Rescue and Rehab
By Kymberlie Adams Matthews
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My family has always rescued animals. It has been one
of the most rewarding things we could do together, and also one of the
most difficult. Many people do not realize what it takes to do rescue
work or what rescuers have to go through. It is expensive, not to mention
hard work and long hours without pay. It is also heartbreaking. You
may spend long hours nursing a sick bird, an old dog or a kitten only
to have him or her die in your arms.
Your schedule is erratic, often having to feed or medicate animals
every two hours, 24 hours a day. Your friends and relatives may think
you are “loopy” and don’t like to come over for a
visit because you have too many animals in the house.
So why do we do it? The animals. The look in the eyes of an abused,
scared, hurt or neglected animal, who is finally starting to trust you
is profound. One learns very quickly that these incredibly intelligent,
sensitive creatures have more depth of feeling and emotion than the
human community ever dares give them credit for.
That being said, let me share with you a few of my family’s rescue
stories.
Patches
One day while stopped at a red light, my mother and I heard an unusually
high-pitched distressed sound. Our ears followed the noise to the sidewalk
and next to her mother’s dead body, lay a furless embryonic squirrel.
Watching her squirm on the hot pavement and sensing the distress was
enough to put us swiftly into action.
In the face of oncoming traffic and trampling pedestrians, I instinctively
scooped her up. She was terrified, hungry and wanted no one but her
mother. I wondered if she knew enough to realize what had happened to
her, that her life had in an instant forever changed.
Our first job was to get her warm and rehydrated. We fixed her a box
with cloth baby diapers and blankets and placed it partially on a heating
pad set to “low.” She took to the bottle immediately, and
made the leap to solid foods in no time. Over the next few weeks we
began calling her Patches due to the sporadic way her fur was growing
in.
In general, squirrels are a chaotic jumble of fun and trouble, but
they are also one of the easiest and most responsive of all the wild
creatures
when small. Patches was no exception. The bond that formed between
us was incredibly strong. I kept her close to me, feeding her every
two
hours. I would soothe her with humming and the feel of my heartbeat.
When she was a little older, I let her climb on me, becoming somewhat
of her personal tree. She would usually get up under my neck and tangle
herself in my hair. Although it tends to be a rescuer’s no-no,
I have always found it difficult not to become attached.
Eventually it was time for Patches to go outside to the aviary (a large
protected structure used to help animals adjust to being outside). Like
ritual, I would make my daily visits with three meals a day, treats
and cuddles. Free to come and go, she chose to remain in the aviary
for several weeks.
Then one evening it happened. I went out to feed her dinner and she
was gone. Instinctively, I began to call her name. Then with a mix of
sadness, frustration, and an odd sense of happiness that she had grown
up, I began to cry. I knew I had once again given my heart to a wild
little baby and that I would feel it break a hundred times more.
Ducklings
One cold day, we received a call that a mother duck had been hit by
a car and subsequently died leaving her six orphaned day-old ducklings
at the local reservoir.
When we arrived at the reservoir, we immediately spotted the ducklings.
They were frantically swimming from one adult duck to another in search
of their mom, constantly peeping. Having no mother to round them up,
they were anxiously trying to figure out where they belonged. We knew
we had a difficult job ahead of us. There was no way we could easily
catch the ducklings, as they were not near the shoreline. Dad, an avid
kayaker, agreed to help us out, and used his kayak to herd the ducklings
one by one closer to the shore.
My sisters and I waded waist deep into the cold water and used nets
to secure the ducklings. It was not easy trying to catch them. We fell
face first in the water more than a few times in a vain attempt to reach
them. To make matters worse (and a bit more embarrassing), a number
of spectators gathered to watch the drama unfold. One of them actually
took pity and decided not just to watch but also to become involved!
She waded into the water with us.
In no time, a reporter and cameraman from the local television station
were filming us! The cops soon arrived, and the people-watchers mob
grew. My sisters and I were all in our early teens. Although we loved
animals, this was an embarrassment like no other.
Eventually all of the ducklings were safely caught and were soon snuggled
together in a warm kennel cab in our house. Gradually over the next
few weeks our embarrassment was forgotten. Our babies grew adult feathers
and were transferred to our outdoor aviary. One warm, sunny day we watched
as six healthy full-grown young ducks were released back into the reservoir.
Tristen
Many years ago, when I was just a little girl, someone brought a helpless
baby crow to my parents. My mom nursed the baby until she was ready
for release, but she refused to fly away. To sum it up, “Tristen” lived
with our family for 20 years.
My parents built an outdoor aviary for Tristen to fly in and out of
as she pleased and when Tristen wanted to come into the house, she would
simply use the cat/dog entrance at the backdoor. The other animals were
petrified of Tristen. She stood her guard with them by ruffling and
puffing out her feathers as she pranced around squawking and hooting.
To our surprise, Tristen also learned to say a few ‘words.’
We think she simply picked them up from listening to us talk. Tristen’s
favorite word was “Help.” My mother swears that she learned
it from my sisters and I, as we often used it to get our mom’s
attention. Well, Tristen learned the trick too. When she wanted her
favorite treats—broccoli and corn chips—she would bounce
on the floor with her wings in the air and squawk “HELP”!
One peaceful summer day, a police car was passing by our house when
two officers heard what sounded like a woman screaming for help. They
jumped out of their car and raced to the house with guns drawn. Imagine
my mom’s surprise as she walked out the door to give Tristen her
treats and found two policemen staring at the bird as she screamed,
“Help. Help. Help.”
Mew
Someone was demanding my attention. I looked around just in time to
see a skinny tabby kitten placing herself in front of my feet as if
to block my way. With an alarming startle, I easily made out that the
kitten was blind in both eyes. His eyes were bulging from their sockets
and pus and blood were leaking out of them. His right ear had a large
growth the size of a walnut with coagulated blood. It was obvious that
the cat was in pain and he was asking for help. He showed very little
resistance when scooped up and put into a box. In the car on the way
to the animal hospital, the cat was very quiet enjoying the warmth of
a heated place, a luxury that he probably had never known before.
Our veterinarian confirmed what I already knew: the cat needed to have
the growth removed from the ear and operations on both eyes, which
we
scheduled for the next day. I took him home, disinfected and cleaned
him up a bit. He was infested with fleas so I tried bathing him. However,
the fleas took opportunity and rushed to the poor baby’s head.
It was a disgusting and intense battle to pick them all off, but he
gave me no opposition. I confined him to a cage so as not to expose
the other cats. I did not know if some transmittable disease affected
him. He settled himself in the cage, sleeping deeply and waking up
only
to empty his dish. Obviously, he had not had sufficient food for a
long time.
The following day I took him back to the vet. The growth was removed
and his eyes cleaned out and actually sewed shut.
My mom named him “Mew,” because as soon as he was feeling
better, the only noise he ever made sounded exactly like the word.
Today
Mew weighs in at 22 pounds, walks around as if he saw clearly, happy
to belong somewhere, to have a home.
Two Orphans
One Saturday I attended an auction to support our local library. To
my surprise and dismay two rats were up for bid. By chance, before
bidding
started, I happened to overhear the man selling the rats comment that
if he couldn’t get rid of them he would turn them loose on the
way home.
Naturally, I bid on the rats. And after complaining for 45 minutes
about how live animals should not be used and refusing to pay their
$2 price,
I finally got to take a good look at them. I’m sad to say, their
condition didn’t surprise me.
The smallest appeared to be about three weeks old. He was totally limp,
cold, and in truth, I don’t think he was conscious. The other
was a young adult showing major signs of illness—swollen eyes
and glands under the chin, gasping for breath, blue feet and tail—and
was screeching and turning around the box in panic. It was not a pretty
picture.
I rushed the two of them home, gave them what felt like only a few moments
of probably the only loving they ever had. They died quietly and painlessly
with soft words and gentle touches.
Yes, this is what rescue is about—every bit as much as finding
wonderful homes for needy animals.
Mistle
It was Christmas Eve and my sisters and I were on our way home from
some last-minute shopping. As we turned a corner in the parking lot,
to what did our wondrous eyes appear…a terrible, pitiful sight.
A horribly neglected cat was trying to walk in the bitter cold. She
appeared awkward, walking with great difficulty, and was in every way
the definition of miserable. I immediately stopped the truck; we got
out, and slowly walked up to this creature. This cat looked us in the
eyes and whimpered a meow. Of course we heard “Help me,” and
crouched down and began talking softly to the cat. She came right to
my arms. Apparently, she had somehow gotten wet, and like everything
else in upstate New York, her fur was frozen solid. Underneath the
layer
of ice, we could see she was terribly matted and neglected.
When I picked her up she just clung to me. I threw open my winter coat
and cradled her gently as we walked back to the truck. I held her there
while we drove home. We took her into the bathroom, laid her on
a blanket and examined her more closely. We took out a hair dryer, put
the setting on warm/low, and began to thaw her out. Half of her
body was stiff with mats and she smelled of rotten garbage. After an
initial exam and wash-up, we gave her a plate of food and some fresh
water.
After she had a chance to eat, we wrapped her in a clean blanket and
joined the rest of the family for our usual Christmas Eve festivities.
Holding her close to me I sat by the fire and watched as the tree was
trimmed.
That night her name became mistle(toe) and her stocking was hung on
our mantle. This past Christmas Eve, Mistle(toe) celebrated her 10th “founding-day.”
Toby
It was around 10 p.m. when we got back to the city, after an endless
day of banners, megaphones, and protesting. It was November 28th, better
known to us die-hards as Fur Free Friday, and I was driving under the
influence of exhaustion. We were a bit away from an intersection when
my eyes registered movement ahead. At first it appeared to be a white
plastic shopping bag floating in the wind. But, as I drove closer, it
began to take the image of a dog.
Instinctively—and definitely carelessly—I stopped the van
in the middle of four lanes of hectic traffic. Wearing all black (of
course), I jumped out and ran after the dog. I called him, trying to
sway him into safety. Car horns blared, vehicles missing both of us
by miracle inches. Finally, the dog fell still. I made my move, dodging
yet another semi, and dove on top of him. I was ready for anything;
yelping, growling, even biting. This dog was not going anywhere. I slipped
my belt off and turned it into a makeshift leash. I guided him quickly
back and into the waiting van. I drove to the sound of sirens approaching.
I took a deep breath and glanced down at my captive. I saw the face
of love and I certainly wasn’t tired anymore.
Toby was one of my favorite rescues and I fell in love with him instantly.
He may have been used for breeding because he was an intact male American
Eskimo and had clearly been abused (under-nourished, hip injury, matted
coat, poor skin, curled toenails, burn mark in the collar area from
a chain). At home, I tried to assess his condition. I took him to my
vet who diagnosed him as a 12 year-old, completely deaf and almost blind
fellow. Knowing there was not a great demand for dogs of his caliber,
Toby was here to stay.
Until his last few months, except for normal aging and mild Alzheimer’s,
Toby was happy, healthy, and funny. He loved his walks (he had the
cutest
prance), and his meal and treat times. His favorite spot was on the
living room rug. Because of his deafness, his sleep was never interrupted
by a running vacuum cleaner, doorbell, music or any other noise. It
was always just a matter of maneuvering around his sprawled-out body.
In his last few months, Toby developed severe arthritis and was diagnosed
with lung cancer. His health began to worsen, and he declined rapidly
after New Year’s. He began relying on the walls and my touch as
his guides to get around; his arthritis was obviously painful. His lung
cancer began causing a constant cough making it difficult for him to
breathe. Soon his doctors and I knew he could not go on. He
was in distress and simply not the Toby we knew any longer.
The day came. I cooked him all of his favorite foods, soy bacon, tofu
scramble, banana-berry muffins and greenies. I took it as a sign that
it was definitely time when he didn’t touch the food. The vet
arrived at the house a little after noon. I held Toby in my arms and
I stroked and talked with him, told him how much I loved him, while
she administered the final shot. It was the gentlest crossing I have
ever seen.
Although he was only with me for a little over a year, he was a testament
to the value and joy of rescuing the older, unwanted dogs.
Kymberlie Adams Matthews is a long-time animal activist and vegan. She
is the Correspondent for Friends of Animals in New York City (www.friendsofanimals.org).
The views expressed are her own.
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