The Hippo with Toothache (2 page)

As zoo vets, we are often asked to share our true stories, our most memorable cases. We lecture, visit schools, attend fund-raisers, lead behind-the-scenes tours, write for newsletters, and give interviews to the media. We usually begin by explaining that virtually anything is possible in our profession: intensive care for a turtle with a crushed shell, ultrasound to confirm pregnancy in a dolphin, cataract removal in an eagle.

The title “zoo vet” is expandable to “zoo and wildlife vet,” “wild animal vet,” and “aquatic vet.” Each refers to the same basic profession, the practice of zoological medicine, defined as medical care for wild animals as opposed to domestic ones. These veterinarians work for zoos, aquaria, universities, wildlife rehabilitation centers, national parks, and protected wilderness areas. They also contribute their expertise on behalf of conservation and endangered species.

So what's it like to be a zoo vet? people often ask. How close do you get to your patients? Have you ever been injured by one of them? Do you become attached to the animals, and if so, isn't it hard when they die?

Some questions touch on the ethics of keeping or confining wild animals: Don't you wish all of your patients could live freely? Conversely, is anything truly “wild” anymore?

We hope the stories in this book, written by twenty-nine of today's top zoo vets, will answer many of these questions—and others the reader may not even have thought of. Our contributing authors bring unique perspectives to each case, depending on their training, the settings in which they work, and the motivation that inspired them to become vets in the first place. Their exotic and interesting patients range all over the animal kingdom, including a rhino with chronic foot problems, an orphaned whale calf, a kangaroo with a broken neck, a herd of escaped bison, and an anorexic eel.

Though every case is different in this compilation, certain patterns emerge. The big challenge for any zoo vet is to distinguish the normal from the abnormal. In the process, we tackle the same set of problems: when, where, and how to get our hands on the animal, and what—if anything—to do for it. Since our patients don't walk into the clinic on the end of a leash, even a simple physical exam requires some type of restraint or anesthesia. To avoid the associated risk, zoo vets usually observe first and act second.

Wild animals are also exceptionally good at hiding clinical signs of injury or illness, aside from the obvious broken limb or squirting diarrhea. Their doctors look for subtle changes in attitude, activity, or appetite. In response, the patient learns to accept the watchful gaze of any human who carries a stethoscope, wears binoculars, or smells faintly of disinfectant.

Once the diagnosis is made and treatment begins, vets rely even more on their nontechnical skills. Like Dr. Dolittle, they know the most reliable information comes from the animal itself, and they'll frequently check in on their patients. Compassion, empathy, and a bit of intuition go a long way toward helping wild animals heal.

We offer these stories not only to illustrate the complexity of modern zoological medicine but also to give the general reader a rare opportunity to experience the special bonds that develop between zoo vets and their wild animal patients.

Lucy H. Spelman, DVM, and Ted Y. Mashima, DVM

Pediatricians who work with infants and vets who work with wild animals share a major challenge: their patients can't speak. Each must rely on someone else to tell them what's wrong. The physician asks the child's parent several all-important questions: When did this start? What are the symptoms? Is the patient better or worse today? Domestic animal vets ask the same questions of the pet owner or farmer. But zoo vets must seek out this information from a variety of keepers, animal caretakers, curators, managers, and scientists, and it may often be sketchy or incomplete.

After gathering bits and pieces of history, our next step is to observe the animal. Unfortunately, most of our patients either run away or threaten resistance when they see the vet coming. Hooved animals, birds, and reptiles will flee if they can; tigers, bears, Komodo dragons, and other predators may show aggression. We can easily pick up tiny animals like frogs and jellyfish, but handling them has been shown to cause them stress. So our first exam is a visual one, performed from a safe distance, often with a good set of binoculars.

It's at this point that we develop an initial bond with the patient. The wild animal begins to tolerate our presence. In cases where the injury or illness is mild, that may be the extent of our interaction. But if we need more information, the relationship intensifies. In order to treat untamed animals, zoo vets must find ways to connect with their patients—without being bitten, scratched, kicked, or poisoned.

Some wild animals can be conditioned to the presence, and even the touch, of a doctor. In exchange for a food treat, zoo rhinos will stand quietly in a stall for ultrasound examination. Free-living mountain gorillas will allow vets to approach within a few feet to observe a wound. But with most wild animal patients, the only way to gather the necessary health data is to capture and anesthetize them for a complete exam.

Now our connection to the animal becomes much more tangible. A hands-on exam offers an invaluable opportunity to examine an individual thoroughly. It may even serve as our first introduction to a species. In the backs of our minds, we're curious about, even in awe of, our patients. So we work in teams of vets and technicians in order to learn as much as possible in a short amount of time. While we focus on the health problem at hand, we also document the normal anatomy and take samples to establish baseline physiological data.

If the animal is chronically ill, requiring repeat exams, the relationship between doctor and patient becomes more dynamic. Tolerance develops into familiarity, mutual respect, even companionship. This is particularly true with highly intelligent and long-lived species like great apes, elephants,
dolphins, whales, tortoises, parrots, and raptors. And always there is the bond of responsibility: each veterinarian takes a professional oath to help animals in need.

Emotions can also fuel and shape these bonds. We feel anxiety about the best course of treatment, relief when the patient recovers, sadness if it dies. For difficult and unusual cases, we rack our brains, pore through textbooks and journals, and call our colleagues for advice. After four hours of surgery on a polar bear or a nightlong vigil with a kangaroo in intensive care, we worry about the outcome. We put all of our veterinary skills on the line.

If the patient recovers, we're happy for the animal, professionally satisfied, and personally relieved. More often than not, however, the animal feels the exact opposite about us. Every zoo vet has a story about a former patient that thanks its doctor by hissing or spitting, throwing excrement, or roaring and charging.

Inevitably, there are cases where we fail. The diagnosis may elude us, the injury may be too severe, or advanced medical therapy may not be practical or possible for a wild animal. In such situations, our job is to alleviate suffering, which sometimes includes euthanasia. Our relationship with the animal helps us make such decisions with compassion, empathy, and concern for the animal's quality of life.

In the stories that follow, doctor and patient form especially close connections. Each bond is unique, and some are closer and more emotional than others. The patients include an eel, a chimpanzee, a fawn, a bear cub, and a whale calf.

Lucy H. Spelman, DVM

“CHIMPS ARE A
disgusting, violent society,” advised my colleague as I contemplated the group of thirteen in front of me. This was early in my career, and as the new veterinarian at the North Carolina Zoo in 1997, I didn't know much about chimpanzee behavior. I stood watching the peaceable group in silent disagreement. A two-year-old wobbled by with a towel on her head. Two juveniles were donning socks for fun, while others poked at bits of food with sticks or bulldozed piles of straw around in circles with their lanky arms. I was marveling at my good fortune. I had a great job—and my first task of the day was to meet the chimp keepers and learn about these amusing animals in their care.

Punctuating that thought, a low howl began in the room, growing rapidly into a crescendo of hoots and screams. The
keeper beside me said softly, “Just hold still.” I searched the group for the source of the noise. Hondo, the dominant male, was looking directly at me, bobbing up and down menacingly, while the rest of the group darted frantically about whooping the equivalent of a chimp-language emergency signal. Suddenly, Hondo bounded from the back of the enclosure, launched himself onto the mesh between us, and spat what felt like an ocean of water in my face. I didn't hold still. I reeled involuntarily backward, stumbled on a pile of hoses, and ended up propped against a wall—soaked, horrified, embarrassed, and not entirely sure that I couldn't catch Ebola virus from captive chimp spit.

It had never occurred to me that zoo animals would resent their vets. We are hardwired to love animals. We spend our whole lives plotting this career, scooping up clinic poop as kids, getting good grades even in the classes we hate, and volunteering our way through life long beyond the time when our childhood friends are having kids and buying houses. All to get to this glorious station: Zoo Vet. Then we find out that most animals can smell a vet coming before the truck rattles into the driveway, and will prepare their most unwelcoming demeanor. If they have limbs capable of hurling something, they will find something to hurl. If they can emit a nasty smell, they will be at their smelliest when you get there. And those with teeth and loud voices? Well, despite the thickest steel bars between you, being four feet from a lion that has just received a dart and is standing full height and roaring at you can truly necessitate a wardrobe change.

Hondo was no exception, and he greeted me the same way every time I paid the chimps a visit during those first few
years. The way to cure him, the keepers said, was to ignore the assault. Just the way we tell our kids to deal with bullies. So year after year, every time a chimp had a runny nose or a cut on its finger, I would approach the enclosure calmly and try to examine the patient with composure while the keeper rewarded it with fruit juice or yogurt through the mesh. Out of the corner of my eye, I would see Hondo filling his mouth at the water spigot. Then, inevitably, the warning hoots of the troop would begin, the patient would dart fearfully away, and Hondo would appear, like a flying King Kong, to give me a dousing. I'd quietly stand up, dripping spit from my eyelashes, issue suggestions for treatment of the patient, and retreat without even the solace of a threatening glare at him.

Reportedly, a previous vet used to wear bright yellow rain gear to protect himself when entering the chimp building. Hondo was delighted to see this costume change on his behalf, and ramped up the ferocity of his attack. He wasn't like Joey, the sneaky sea lion who would bite you when you weren't paying attention. You could stare Joey into submission, the way a border collie does with sheep. Making eye contact with Hondo only accelerated the strike. There was nothing I could do, and I began to regard him as the enemy.

The vets weren't his only target, though. Hondo also had a habit of throwing rocks at visitors from his grassy knoll in the center of the chimp enclosure. The zoo had to build an entirely new exhibit to protect the public from Hondo's expressions of hospitality.

The new habitat that emerged amounted to an expansive chimpanzee resort, furnished with a thirty-foot-high climbing tree, hammocks, plenty of natural vegetation, logs for
climbing, and even a fake African termite mound. Zoo visitors enjoyed a clear, close view of the animals, protected by fifteen-foot walls of thick rock-proof, spit-proof glass. You could walk right up to the chimps, who stood on the same level, crouch in front of them, look them in the eye, and even “touch” them by pressing your hand against the glass where they offered theirs. From the way the chimps flocked to the glass to view people up close, they were equally impressed. And on opening day, with a large group of VIPs attending the ribbon-cutting ceremony, Hondo celebrated by lobbing a square-foot slab of rock up and over the new glass wall at the crowd.

But as time went on, the new exhibit seemed to temper Hondo's animosity. On one visit, I bent down to indulge Jonathan, a homely youngster with car-door ears, who was pressing his face against the glass as if to kiss me. I saw Hondo tanking up at the spigot in the background, and started to steel myself for the deluge before I realized I was safe. Instead of submissively averting my gaze, I looked him in the eye. Hondo ambled up and sat in front of me, and we regarded each other coolly. He'd swallowed his mouthful of water—maybe experience had taught him that the glass, if not the vet, spits back. He just sat and watched me intently for a minute, then began alternately touching his bottom lip and then his chest, as if to say “Me” or “Feed me.” I mimicked him, and he repeated the sequence back to me. I asked the keepers what this behavior meant, but no one knew. He just did that sometimes.