Camel Wrestling For Fun And Profit

Okay, I'm kind of joking about the "Profit" part.

Thinking on my time at the zoo, we had this camel case. Their big bull camel (here we're talking Dromedaries) had bitten one of his offspring in the hump. Now, you wouldn't think it to look at them, nor would you think it when you consider that they're herbivores, but male camels have long, sharp canine teeth. These are a set of four big fangs used, one assumes, primarily for fighting with other camels - although every so often someone turns their back on an irritable bull and gets bitten fatally in the head, because I am assured that if a camel can get his mouth around your skull, he's more than capable of crushing it like a melon, and that the long daggers of his teeth can punch right through a human skull, particularly over the thinner temporal bone.

Hmm. THAT'S a vivid image, isn't it?

It seems a bit counter-intuitive, actually. Camels have a pacing gait - they use the two legs on one side of the body in tandem, rather than going left-right-left-right the way (say) horses generally do. This gives them an elegant, leisurely sway and a rather stately air, which is compounded by their long, gracefully-curved necks and the lofty height of their heads, from which they gaze down upon you through luxuriant lashes with their large, liquid dark eyes. This doesn't reconcile so easily with the idea of fatal head-biting. Nor does it seem to fit with the mental image of such an aloof, high-headed animal suddenly reaching down to bite a baby's hump completely through, but there you are.

Apparently the bull camel at the zoo felt that his young son was being a sufficient pain in the hump - er, rump - that he decided to indicate his displeasure in as unequivocal a way as possible, with the result that the calf had four deep punctures, two on either side of the midline of his little baby hump. Not surprisingly, this is the kind of injury where infection would be a real danger, with the potential for much resultant and disastrous sloughing, or possibly even the risk of death. So, this meant that every afternoon for nearly my entire tenure at the zoo, we assembled a crew of medical staff and went over to the camel house for a little camel wrestling.

The calf - and here I know you'll be surprised - was really not all THAT into being separated from his mother and treated every day. Hence a certain amount of trickery was involved.

First, four of us arrive at the camel house, armed with antibiotics and scrub and flush and dressings. The keeper meets us there. Before anything else can be done, the bull has to be separated from the group. The bull does not like this idea and lays his ears back and tightens his large, velvety lips with every evidence of annoyance. He paces purposefully forward, glaring down at us from an impressive height and making low, menacing rumbling noises in his chest. If you have never stood near a camel making this noise, let me tell you: It's a bit creepy. It apparently resonates at a frequency capable of penetrating your tissues and setting up a vibrato in your viscera. This is not at all painful, but it somehow ignites an intense desire to be elsewhere. Suddenly you are restless, twitchy, anxious to be gone. Once you realize what's happening, of course, you have control of it... but it takes you unawares at first, dumping adrenaline into your bloodstream, driving your heart and lungs, making the hair stir on the back of your neck.

Once the bull has been lured away and gated off (to his great displeasure), the cow and calf are coaxed into the barn. The cow is lured strait through and out the other side, and the calf is unceremoniously detained, with the help of our little camel press-gang. The keeper closes the barn door, trapping the cow outside, and our little gang nabs the calf, looping arms around his elegant neck, haltering his head, blocking his hurried backward shuffle, and (as quickly as possible) blindfolding him. This has the multiple purpose of protecting his large, expressive eyes from injury during restraint, making him less capable of escape, and of decreasing his stress as much as we are able to do and still treat him.

There follows quite a lot of scuffling and various breathless grunting and swearing as the camel calf - who cannot weigh above an hundred and fifty pounds - starts tossing the rest of us around, surging forward for freedom, swinging his head at us like a sledgehammer, kicking and stomping and bawling for his mother (who is bellowing herself, accompanied from the other side of the barn by the incessant gargling rumbles of the bull). I, as the smallest member of our crew, have the job of flushing out the wounds and then packing them with antibiotic ointment whilst the rest of the gang do their damnedest to make sure I don't get trampled to death in the process. Five adults it takes to compel this 150# calf to take his medicine, and we are barely enough. Five adults barely fit in a cluster around this little calf, not more than a few months old, but he is nearly equal to us even so.

I go as fast as I can and still get the job done. The holes in the calf's hump are so deep I can sink my index finger to the last knuckle and still not quite reach the end of the punctures. Two of them nearly meet in the middle, a centimeter from being a through-and-through puncture of the entire width of the hump. The first day was the hardest, both for this reason and because we had to clip the hair away from the wounds, so we spent much longer that day. But even after the punctures start to granulate in and grow shallower with the passing days, it's quite a chore to simultaneously brace my weight against the heaving sides of the calf and at the same time clean and pack the wounds, squinting against the dust we are raising, jostled and bumped on either side by vet and techs and keeper as they strain to keep the calf from running us all over as I treat the left side, and then as I hurry around to treat the right.

At the end of all that, Dr. K injects a wad of antibiotics into the calf and we all peel off like the gantries falling away from a launching rocket: the keeper mans the barn door, and we unhalter and un-blindfold the calf, releasing him as the keeper opens the door and we all melt as fast as possible back into the building. Camels are in general relatively calm - apart from when the bulls are rutting - but the last thing we want to do is hang around to see how forgiving (or not) the cow is.

The very last order of buisness is to open up the opposite side of the barn so that the pass-through is unobstructed and the bull camel is free. The bull, the moment he is released, wastes no time in striding through the barn to inspect his herd, gargling and rumbling, ropey green saliva trailing from his mouth as he grinds his lower jaw from side to side in agitation.

I felt bad for the camel calf, being trapped and wrestled every afternoon, although I did feel good about the fact that his hump neither became infected nor sloughed. I'm sure it wasn't fun for him, and of course he had no way to know that we were doing it to save his life and prevent permanent disfigurement. I will say my sympathies were squarely on him, most of the time - although I admit they were a bit strained from time to time, as (for instance) when he sidestepped and mashed me against the barn wall hard enough to drive all the breath out of me, or when one of his flailing knees caught me in the thigh.

Okay, so I guess I'm kind of joking about the "Fun" part, too - but I wasn't kidding around about the "Wrestling" part. The WWF ain't got nothing on us.

Snow Leopard Tuesdays

When I was a junior in vet school, we had to choose the rotations that we would take as a senior. There were some minimum core requirements - a certain amount of surgery, anesthesia, neuter/dentistry, etc - but there were electives, too. Based on how you ranked them, and how many people applied for the available slots, the electives were assigned. There were some other programs as well, externships and preceptorships that you could apply to and request be worked into your schedule. Since a year of school at my U was about 9 months of coursework, there was also a three-month hiatus scheduled in, which you could take at any of three times: you could elect to have the summer off after junior year, and start rotations in the fall, or to take off the fall semester or the spring semester. The graduation ceremony was in May for all of us, but some of us would have finished our rotations three months prior to that, and so conceivably some of us might have had jobs (if all liscensure was in place) prior to going through commencement.

One of the ones I applied for was a preceptorship at the Zoo. I didn't get it; based on how I'd ranked my choices, how other people had ranked THEIR choices, and when my required rotations were scheduled, it didn't fit. But as it happened, another preceptor had had a conflict of some kind, so the two weeks before the fall semester (when I had elected to resume my rotations) were left without coverage. I was on the alternates list, so they called me. Would I like to use the two weeks I had left to do a mini-preceptorship? Why YES, thanks, I'd LOVE that.

As it turns out, the first day of those two weeks was a holiday, so I started on a Tuesday. I found my way to the secluded, mysterious back side of the zoo, the place most people never even think about: the place where orphan babies are reared, where sick animals are treated, where deceased animals are necropsied so as to learn as much as possible about the animals in life and in death, with an eye to improving management for both wild and captive animals, and preventing other deaths.

The vets and techs were expecting me, and made me welcome. I stashed my backpack and, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, waited for what came next. Which, as it turned out, wasn't quite what I was expecting.

"One of the keepers called this morning and said she'd seen blood in the snow leopard enclosure," announced Dr. C, the head vet. "You and Dr. K can go over and get the cat while we get ready over here."

Well, all righty, then. I guess we just jump right in to the fast lane here at the zoo.

Dr. K assembled a group of items: a dart gun (taken out of lockup and carefully inspected), two large plastic tackle boxes full of drugs, syringes and other medical flotsam, a stethoscope, and a large blue tarp, folded into a neat 2x2 foot square. We took these items out to the electric carts that the vets use to travel around the zoo. These are similar to golf carts, except that they have a little flat bed behind the tiny two-seater cab. We loaded the tarp and tackle boxes on the bed, Dr. K secured the dart gun, and we set off.

The zoo gates were not yet open. We had the place to ourselves as Dr. K zoomed along the asphalt paths criss-crossing the zoo. Dr. K is an intrepid driver, and in the absence of human traffic he zipped along at a pretty good clip, ignoring whatever dips and creases there were in the road. We were quickly at the snow leopard enclosures, where we toted our supplies into the building and spoke to the keeper. She had seen blood for a few days, but no evident injuries, on visual inspection. Initially she had not been sure which cat it was, but by rotating cats in order she had determined it was one of the males, and she pointed him out.

The way the zoo was at that time - and I've not been to that particular zoological garden for 15 years or more, so I can't say how it is now - there was a display habitat, where the cats would be during the day, and a second, indoor enclosure, which was more utilitarian in appearance, but provided area for privacy, rest, play and feeding, and where appropriate, breeding and birthing. The display habitats for the leopards were rather gorgeous; depending on the type of cat, it might be glass-fronted on one display side and/or barred on the other, with grilled skylights recessed into the ceilings to provide natural light. There were murals on the walls to depict the animals' natural habitat, along with rocky ledges and/or cleverly-made and realistically-painted concrete trees for perching and basking, whatever vegetation was appropriate to the habitat, and little waterfalls and streams both for aesthetic appeal and for the practical realities of providing drinking water. They were connected to the indoor enclosures by (literally) cat-walks, overhead walkways that were completely enclosed with metal grilles. There were doors on either end - cleverly concealed in the display habitat - which could be opened or closed to control the movement of the cats between enclosures.

The keeper let the injured cat out of the indoor enclosure and into the cat-walk. She closed the doors, trapping him in the cat-walk. The leopard walked to the end of his cat walk, where normally the door would be open for him, and stopped. He looked around at us. For an instant his eye met mine, direct as a spear to the heart.

Dr. K loaded the dart gun, took careful aim, and fired. The cat jumped and hissed, flattening his ears in annoyance. The keeper opened a door so that he would leave the cat walk and go into a habitat area, where we could go in and retrieve him once he fell asleep. Dr. K loaded a syringe with an anesthetic cocktail while we waited, explaining that it would be given IV to keep the cat asleep while we transported him to the hospital.

When the cat was out cold, Dr. K and I went into the enclosure.

"Here," Dr. K said, handing me the syringe. "Give him this. I'll hold off the vein."

My heart took a big hop and started doing a quick-time march. Better not miss.

Dr. K held off a vein in the back leg of the cat. I did an alcohol wipe-down and, lo and behold, a vein the size of my pinkie finger popped right up. Well, can't miss THAT. I pushed the drug and capped the syringe. Dr. K was already in motion, spreading the tarp on the floor and grabbing the leopard's back legs. We moved the cat to the center of the tarp and picked up the corners, carrying it quickly out to the cart. The keeper hurried behind us with the tackle boxes, setting them behind the cab.

"I'll drive. You monitor the cat," said Dr. K. I hopped backwards onto the cart, letting my legs dangle over the side and helping Dr. K drag the cat half into my lap, still draped in the tarp. I jammed the stethoscope into my ears as he folded himself back into the cab, and by the time he'd switched it on I'd found the cat's heart, a slow and reassuringly powerful thump in my ears. Dr. K maneuvered the cart through a tight turn and out onto the path. And then he put his foot down and we rocketed off at top speed.

I'd thought Dr. K was driving pretty fast before, but now I gained some new perspective. Naturally you can't risk the cat waking up in the middle of the zoo - which had opened by now, although on a weekday morning there weren't many people around. Still, you can't have a drugged leopard wandering around loose no matter HOW few people are there, so speed is of the essence. Dr. K clearly enjoyed speed for its own sake, and now that he had some incentive to push it a little, he wasn't going to stint.

So there I am, perched on the flat bed of the cart with my feet dangling and 150# of somnolent snow leopard draped across my lap. As one hand is holding the stethoscope and the other is hanging onto the leopard with a death-grip (because it wouldn't do to have it go flying off my lap in some high-speed turn), I have no means of hanging on. We are not slowing down for bumps. Every time we hit one - and for some reason there seem to be approximately six times as many now as there were on the way over - the tackle boxes hop into the air, the cat hops into the air, I hop into the air. The tackle boxes crash down and slither around, rattling happily. I am having a hard time keeping my 'scope on the leopard's heart. After about two minutes I remind myself that respiratory arrest precedes cardiac arrest, so if the cat is still breathing, the heart is still beating. I can feel the rise and fall of its furred chest under my hands, so I drop the bell of the stethoscope and use both hands to hold onto the cat.

As we come streaking into the bay area behind the hospital, all hands are on deck. Dr. C is there and so are the techs, C and D. They descend upon me in a group, gathering up the tarp corners and shuffling fast into the building. The cat is weighed and then shuttled with all haste to the OR, where he is intubated and connected to the gas anesthetic.

Big sigh. Now we can relax a little; the cat is safely anaesthetised, he is on oxygen, he has a heart monitor on him.

The vets begin their physical exam. The source of the blood is quickly found: the cat has an abrasion on one pad, deep enough to ooze blood every time he steps on it. While that is being treated, C is scraping tartar off the cat's teeth and D is setting up the endoscope; as long as the cat is out, you do everything you can. Dr. K sets up a syringe and tells me to pull blood samples off the jugular (he does have a gift for making my heart jump into my throat) and watches without comment as I manage to do a jugular stick without fumbling or shaking. Despite the thick hair on the leopard's neck, the jugular is luckily quite large and palpable; I'm grateful this isn't a marmoset we're working on. Dr. K gives the bloods to the clin path tech and he and Dr. C start the endoscope.

While everyone is circling around, doing all that can be done, I am suddenly in a tiny one-person oasis of stillness. I have a moment to look - really LOOK - at this glorious animal. He is long and slender, but somehow he seems dense and substantial and real in a way that is hard to describe; it is somehow both arcane and immediate, as if the weight of his leopardness is a thousand times greater than the weight of bone and muscle, as if it gives him a gravity that draws my orbit toward his. I pick up his heavy paw, feeling the dense, robust bones of his muscled forearm, the thick tendons, the meaty bulk of the upper arm. At the same time I am thinking of the lightness and grace with which this animal moves, marvelling at the combination of these opposites into one creature. But as it happens, the snow leopard is a creature of opposites. Rare, but easily bred in captivity. Shy, but direct of gaze. Lithe but amazingly powerful. Fragile in numbers, but tough enough to survive in one of the harshest environments on earth.

On his shoulder, I find a tiny mat, a hairball not much bigger than a pea. I pull it out of his coat, smoothing down the dense fur, shaded and subtle even in the strong light of the OR. I move out of someone's way, to the end of the table. There his tail trails off, relaxed, drooping lazily toward the floor, nearly as long as his body. I lift the end of it gently. I've never had a tiger by the tail, but I've had a leopard. A sleeping leopard, but still: not an experience to be forgotten.

Around me, time suddenly snaps back into place. Dr. C and Dr. K are talking about moving the cat back to his house. They crank the anesthetic gas all the way up for a few minutes, getting him deep, and the we reverse our earlier frantic activity. The leopard goes back onto the tarp, and we shuffle him fast out to the cart. I hop into the bed and gather him up, and Dr. K is behind the wheel and firing it up at the same time. We have less time now than before; the injected meds have worn off and the gas anesthetic will only hold him for a few minutes. By now, there are more people in the park as well, and Dr, K can drive only so fast. I have one arm around the leopard's belly, the other around his chest, my hand buried in fur and feeling for breath. His big head rests heavy on my thigh, buffered against the bouncing of the cart as we fly back the way we came.

At the leopard house, the keeper is waiting anxiously, pacing and watching for us. She has been radioed we are on our way, and she has the door to the building open by the time we have the tarp slung between us. On a bench outside the display there are two people; one asks us anxiously if that animal is dead.

"No," says Dr. K, laconically.
"Only sleeping," I add, panting, as we do our shuffling quick-step back into the building.

We settled the cat into his enclosure, waiting until he was lifting his head and rolling onto his sternum. Dr. K left instructions with the keeper, who nodded repeatedly without interrupting, intent on his words. We went back out into the sunny August morning, the Zoo awake around us, bustling now; the cat awake behind us, drowsing in his private domain.

I was only there for two weeks, but every Tuesday turned out to be a snow leopard day; unlike some of the keepers, the snow leopard keeper trusted the vets to do right by her charges, and didn't hesitate to call them in if something was amiss. Aware, perhaps, of their rarity, she was a vigilant defender of their well-being, guarding them and their genetics against a hoped-for day when wild populations might be re-established in some of their lost range; and more personally, fiercely protecting their best interests whilst in her care.

You can't blame her for that ferocity of feeling on their behalf. I defy anyone to be around such an animal without feeling awe.

I still have that little mat of snow leopard hair.