The Rhino with Glue-On Shoes Page 11

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Christian Walzer has been a professor at the Research Institute of Wildlife Ecology, University of Veterinary Medicine, in Austria, since 2005. He earned his veterinary degree from the University of Veterinary Medicine, Vienna, in 1990. Since that time, he has worked in rural practice and served as the zoological codirector, head veterinarian, and staff researcher at Zoo Salzburg in Austria. Dr. Walzer is recognized internationally for his expertise in working with wildlife, especially wild equids and carnivores, gained from combined years of work and study in Europe, Asia, and Africa. He has participated in numerous challenging field projects, including the transporting of Przewalski’s horses from Europe to Mongolia, the study of the impact of human intrusion on the khulan (wild ass) in the Gobi Desert, and the placement of satellite-monitoring collars on wild camels. He is currently conducting various research projects in Mongolia, including landscape-level research for the conservation of the Asiatic wild ass, funded by the Austrian Science Foundation.

  The Bikers, the Students,

  and the Crocodile

  by Juergen Schumacher, DVM

  Becoming a crocodile veterinarian was not on my priority list when I attended veterinary school in Germany. I’d always wanted to become a zoo vet, but working with reptiles, particularly snakes and crocodiles, wasn’t what I’d ever envisioned. Though I’d grown up with many animals, including dogs, hamsters, birds, fish, and a tortoise, my mother might have given me away for adoption had I come home with a snake!

  But everything changed when reptiles first became my patients. They are fascinating creatures, and as I began to appreciate their place in the animal kingdom, I acquired my own reptiles, especially tortoises. To this day, they are my passion.

  I’m lucky that my wife shares my fascination with reptiles and has allowed me to keep quite a few of them. However, there is one major problem associated with my reptile keeping: many species, especially the tortoise, are very long lived. Sometime in the future I will have to make the necessary arrangements to put them in my will.

  The veterinary hospital where I worked during the mid-1990s provided medical care to exotic animals kept as pets, including birds, reptiles, and small mammals, as well as wildlife patients. We also provided care for several zoological parks. One of these institutions, the St. Augustine Alligator Farm Zoological Park in St. Augustine, Florida, had a two-thousand-pound male saltwater crocodile named Gomek in its collection. He was approximately 17.5 feet in length, with a V-shaped head the size of my dinner table. Dark scales covered most of his body and huge, peglike teeth lined his jaws.

  Considering his enormous size (saltwater crocodiles are the world’s largest reptile), Gomek was surprisingly docile. He performed daily for tourists from all over the world during his scheduled feeding sessions. It was an amazing spectacle, actually, to watch an animal of his size gently take food items from the end of a long hook held by a zookeeper—not at all what you’d expect after watching some of the nature shows about wild crocodiles.

  On my regular visits to the zoo, I’d often pass by the crocodile exhibit. Gomek appeared to be in good health, so there was little work for me to do. Sometimes we’d review his husbandry—routine feeding, cleaning, and housing protocols—with the zookeepers and curator. The crocodile was fed a variety of food items; he especially liked nutria, a member of the rodent family. He lived by himself in a large enclosure with a spacious pool where visitors could observe him through an underwater viewing area.

  On one such visit, the curator asked me to take a closer look at what appeared to be a skin infection on Gomek’s tail. From a safe distance, I could see patchy white areas along the edges, or margins, of several scales near the base of his tail. The lesions looked superficial, but we agreed to keep a close eye on the condition. I suspected some type of bacterial or fungal infection and hoped it would resolve on its own, but it didn’t. Though the skin problem didn’t seem to bother the crocodile, the number of affected scales increased over the next few months. We decided to treat him empirically (based on observation) with antibiotics rather than put him—and us—through the stress of an exam.

  Selecting an effective antibiotic for a reptile is often a challenge because little information is available on which drug is most effective and how frequently it should be given. Also, different reptile species vary tremendously in weight, ranging from a few grams (e.g., a gecko) to one ton (e.g., a saltwater crocodile). Thus the amount of antibiotic and the route of delivery vary depending on the patient.

  Our initial thought was to hide the antibiotic in the crocodile’s food. But we knew this form of administration might not be very effective in this species. A large cold-blooded reptile has a lower body temperature and thus a lower metabolic rate than a similarly sized warm-blooded mammal. These physiologic differences mean that reptiles metabolize drugs more slowly and/or less completely. Most antibiotics given orally to crocodiles are not well absorbed and may not reach therapeutic levels. The head reptile keeper felt comfortable giving the crocodile intramuscular injections using a syringe attached to an eight-foot pole, though. This route of antibiotic therapy is often effective in treating bacterial skin diseases in reptiles. So we planned to try it for a month.

  After about four weeks of treatment, I called the zoo as usual the day before my regularly scheduled visit and spoke with the head reptile keeper. We discussed the crocodile’s skin condition, which hadn’t improved despite the antibiotics. The good news was that Gomek was active and certainly hadn’t lost his appetite. The major shortcoming of our treatment regimen was that we’d tried treating the problem without a definite diagnosis. So I suggested to the head keeper that we anesthetize the crocodile sometime soon to collect appropriate diagnostic samples. We needed to determine whether the lesions were bacterial and/or fungal in origin. From there, we could initiate more specific therapy. Despite the potential risks of anesthesia, he agreed. We planned to have me look at the animal again and then arrange for a full workup in the near future.

  Anesthesia in large reptiles poses a number of challenges, however. Crocodiles and alligators command the same respect as lions and tigers when it comes to working with them in close quarters—all are potentially dangerous carnivores. Despite the differences in metabolic rate between reptiles and mammals, some anesthetics work reasonably well in both classes of animal. Other anesthetic drugs may have very little effect, while some, if not dosed precisely, can inadvertently kill the patient.

  Once anesthetized, reptiles also behave differently from mammals. Their heart and breathing rates during anesthesia tend to be extremely low, making it hard to judge anesthetic depth. Gomek, for example, might breathe only once every few minutes during anesthesia, and his heart rate might decrease below two beats per minute. If we did decide to anesthetize him, we’d need to be extremely careful for his safety—and mine.

  The next morning, I left the hospital with a group of senior veterinary students who were looking forward to a field trip that would get them out of the clinic. They also seemed enthusiastic about the prospect of a nice lunch at the beach after we finished work at the zoo. We arrived early and completed most of our scheduled rounds by late morning, including rechecks of other patients that were being treated for a variety of conditions. Then it was time to check the crocodile.

  I gathered the students and we headed down the walkway to Gomek’s enclosure. At that time my plan was just to have another look at him and talk to the staff about when and how to anesthetize the crocodile for further diagnostics. On my way to the enclosure, I noticed a large number of leatherclad bikers on the zoo grounds. I was informed by the zoo staff that there was an annual biker meeting in a town nearby and that many had received free passes to the zoo. As a result, there seemed to be more bikers than animals on the grounds.

  When we approached the crocodile’s enclosure, I was surprised to see that the pool had been drained and that the huge reptile was resting motionless at the bottom. Not immediately realizi
ng what was going on, I looked at the head keeper questioningly. He explained that he’d drained it overnight so that he and I could simply climb down to the bottom of the pool. There I could examine the crocodile and collect my diagnostic samples.

  I tried to erase from my memory all the images I’d seen on various documentaries that demonstrated what crocodiles are capable of doing to their prey. Fortunately, the Crocodile Hunter show hadn’t started on television yet; otherwise, my plan of action might have been very different. Sensing that I was a little nervous about the situation, the head keeper quickly told me that the procedure would be perfectly safe. Meanwhile the students were listening and watching in disbelief that I was even considering climbing down into a pool to examine this giant animal. I must have been thinking, in the back of my mind, that the risks of anesthetizing this tremendously popular crocodile outweighed the benefits—and I also trusted the keeper.

  I decided to do the examination; I also decided that if I felt unsafe at any point, I would abort the procedure. I left the students outside the enclosure and instructed them just to watch (hoping they wouldn’t have an exciting story to tell their friends and family about a stupid veterinarian they once knew …). I collected my instruments, including forceps, scissors, scalpel blade, biopsy needle, and sample collection tubes, and followed on the heels of the unconcerned keeper. When we arrived at the bottom of the pool, about ten feet below ground level and only a few feet away from Gomek, the crocodile appeared even larger than he did through the viewing window.

  Though I hadn’t paid too much attention to the bikers, I noticed now that a large group was watching the three of us—me, the crocodile, and the keeper—through the underwater viewing window. From their curious expressions, I knew they must have been wondering what was going on: What in the world was I intending to do with this crocodile?

  I quickly returned my attention to the animal, which still hadn’t moved and appeared to be oblivious to our presence. As a precaution, I considered my escape strategy while I was still relatively calm and collected, which is always a good idea, since the human brain has a tendency not to work very well in moments of panic. I would be at the base of the crocodile’s tail while I took my samples. His head was in the corner; if he spun around to get me, I figured he would hit the viewing glass first. This would, I hoped, buy me the split second I’d need to jump away from him and climb back out of the enclosure. In retrospect, it wasn’t a very intelligent plan. One whip of his large, powerful tail probably would have broken several of my bones and sent me flying out of the enclosure.

  Using the forceps and blade, I was able to remove several full-thickness biopsy specimens of the diseased scales for later examination under a microscope (histopathology). I also scraped the surface of Gomek’s skin for bacterial and fungal cultures. My patient barely moved during the procedure. But I began to feel nervous toward the end. After looking into the crocodile’s dark yellow eyes, I realized that I really do not like being part of the food chain.

  Finishing my sample collection, I quickly climbed out of the enclosure and began to place the tissue samples and swabs in vials. The keeper followed up after me. Looking over my shoulder, down the side of the pool, and into the crocodile’s emotionless eyes, then back at my samples, I suddenly realized what I’d just done, and my hands began to shake. Somehow, I managed to place my samples into the tubes without dropping them.

  As we left the enclosure, the students looked at me wide-eyed, without saying a word. The group of bikers who had watched the whole procedure through the glass quickly approached us. They were all dressed in jeans, boots, and leather jackets; most of the guys had full beards. They looked at us silently for several seconds, studying our faces. It was obvious that they had plenty of questions but couldn’t decide who would actually do the talking. Finally, one of them asked, “Is he dead?”

  I shook my head. “He is alive and fine.”

  The bikers stared at me in disbelief. “What did you give him?” the same guy asked. “He’s asleep, right?”

  “No, I didn’t give the crocodile anything. He is absolutely awake.”

  The group looked at each other, obviously thinking the same thing. The spokesman glared at me, shook his head, and said, “You are stupid, boy. You are really stupid.” The rest of the group nodded in support, then walked away, undoubtedly agreeing that all veterinarians with foreign accents are stupid.

  As I packed up my equipment, I realized that my students also were staring at me. They must have been wondering why I was still alive, if this was how I worked with dangerous animals. A bit embarrassed, and not entirely sure how to explain the whole episode to them, I calmly told them that what they had just witnessed was not something they should try if they wanted to reach regular retirement age. I also added that it wasn’t something I planned to do ever again without proper restraint of the animal.

  We had one more group of animals to examine before we were done for the day, a bale of tortoises. When we arrived at their enclosure, these harmless reptiles were obviously happy to greet this large group of visitors. The whole group walked up to us, looking for food, investigating our shoes and bags, and presenting their necks so we could scratch them. We all relaxed during our visit with these friendly animals (particularly me!), and I’m sure the tortoises enjoyed the attention.

  In retrospect, though, the crocodile had proved to be an equally cooperative patient. And his skin lesions did eventually heal. We grew several organisms from the samples, including a bacteria that was resistant to our earlier choice of antibiotics. We changed his medicine to one that would target this specific bacteria and, based on recent studies in other reptiles, would work orally. Gomek readily took the antibiotics in his food. Within a few weeks, the lesions began to resolve.

  My decision to climb into a dry pool to examine a fully awake giant crocodile occurred at the beginning of my career. It remains a vivid memory; even years later, I often tell this story to friends and colleagues. Now, after working with a variety of potentially dangerous animals over the years, I would not go into the pool under similar circumstances. This case taught me to assess each animal and situation differently. At the time, I didn’t have the experience or maturity to say no to the procedure, though I never felt completely safe. Eventually, I learned to think about my well-being—and sometimes not to listen to other people. I still plan to put my tortoises in my will.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Juergen Schumacher was born in Germany and graduated from the College of Veterinary Medicine, University of Berlin, in 1988. The following year, he moved to the United States for his graduate studies at the College of Veterinary Medicine, University of Florida, where he completed residencies in both anesthesiology and zoological medicine. In 1997, he joined the faculty at the College of Veterinary Medicine, University of Tennessee, and is currently an associate professor and service chief of the Avian and Zoological Medicine Service. He teaches zoo-animal medicine and has published dozens of scientific articles and book chapters on various topics in zoological medicine. Dr. Schumacher is board certified by the American College of Zoological Medicine and holds German board certification in reptile medicine and surgery. His clinical and research interests are anesthesia and analgesia of zoo animals as well as reptile medicine and surgery. Though he enjoys working with all species, tortoises are by far his favorite.

  Tracking a Snared Elephant

  by Sharon Deem, DVM, PhD

  Veterinarians face the same questions every day: What is wrong with this animal? How will I solve its problem? Should I treat it, and if so, when? How can I prevent the problem from happening again? This is true of our job whether we take care of dogs and cats or hermit crabs and elephants. Our patients don’t tell us what they need or where they hurt, and we can’t tell them that we’re there to help. Often, just getting started is half the battle. In my experience, a dart gun loaded with anesthetic is the only way to convince an injured wild elephant, for example, that it needs to see a d
octor.

  When I took the call from the woman in a nearby town, I knew we were in for a challenge. She described a free-ranging bull forest elephant with a snare wrapped around his lower left leg. At the time, in 2005, my husband, my son, and I were living in Libreville, in the central African country of Gabon. I was working as a research veterinarian for the Smithsonian’s National Zoo. My husband, Steve, was a field biologist for the Wildlife Conservation Society. Our two-year-old son, Charlie, was busy growing up in one of the most beautiful countries on earth, learning English and French with youthful enthusiasm and ease.

  Together, Steve and I had studied the behavior and movements of healthy forest elephants, anesthetizing several of them for the placement of GPS tracking collars—work that was part of a larger ecological study led by Steve to gather much-needed data on forest elephant home ranges and habitat use. We had not, however, treated an injured free-ranging elephant within the forest. This was a whole new ball game.

  The woman asked, “Would it be possible to remove the snare before the elephant becomes aggressive to people—or before someone in the village kills him because he is an easy target?”

  The African forest elephant, Loxodonta africana cyclotis,lives only in the rain forest of central and west Africa. Threatened by poaching for ivory and meat and by habitat fragmentation due to logging and mining, this subspecies of elephant faces an uncertain future. Here in the dense jungle of Gabon, snare hunting is an all-too-frequent method of capturing a number of wildlife species. The indiscriminate snare often results in a slow, painful, and horrific death.