A First Rescue
By Frank Pyne
'So what are you doing Friday?'
That question, asked by Doug Evans and Mindy Stinner on a Thursday a few weeks back, was how our first rescue began. Doug and Mindy are the proprietors of The Conservator's Center Incorporated, a non-profit rescue and conservation breeding facility located just north of Mebane, North Carolina. We'd been volunteering at CCI for about a year and a half when we were asked that question, doing such disparate tasks as construction, food preparation, yard work, cage cleaning, helping raise baby servals ("servlets", as we call them for fun), and giving scheduled, weekend tours to visitors.
We looked at each other, suspecting that our answer of "Oh, nothing much…going out to eat and then seeing what action-packed small-screen adventures await us on our DVR." was going to be dramatically revised. How correct we were. It turns out that earlier that day, a call had come in asking if we would be able to take in a animal from a facility in Missouri which had to close down and place all of their animals in other homes. CCI is a home of last resort for many animals - in addition to being a breeding facility for a few, select endangered species - housing the largest collection of big cats in the state, as well as providing a home for binturongs, caracals, servals, New Guinea singing dogs, and many others. As luck would have it, we have an older tigress (Samantha) who was quite interested in having a male tiger for companionship (as she explained to us on a regular basis), and a nice, big cage that could hold the male until he could be vasectomized and introduced to Samantha.
The two of us had been very interested in helping out with a rescue, and seeing just what all was involved, so we quickly agreed to adjust our schedules on Friday (Kim is a university professor and I am a programmer so we're fortunate to have such flexibility) and come out to CCI late that afternoon.
The plan was, we'd arrive in the latter part of the day, meet up with Doug, and a friend with a big-rig would arrive soon after. We'd all load the transport cage into the back of the truck, climb into the nice, roomy cab, and off we'd go to Missouri at about 6:00pm. But naturally your friend and ours, Mr. Murphy, had shown up first and was waving his Law judiciously about by the time we had arrived. The gentleman with the big-rig? He would be unable to go due to a sudden and unavoidable conflict. The option of waiting until next weekend? Gone, as the owners of the facility in Missouri were at both their financial and wits end, indicating that after this weekend, any animals left were to be euthanized. Sense of impending doom? Alive and well.
Fortunately, Doug and Mindy had recently purchased a large van, into which we could fit one of our transport cages, just not the one we had intended to be using. The one which would fit was, of course, in need of some minor repairs to the door, and when we arrived Doug was busy with his welding equipment doing just that. Mindy welcomed us to the madhouse and let us know that we'd be taking the van, and asked if we could remove the middle and back rows of seats - thus allowing us to fit the transport cage in the back. When they'd bought the van, the previous owner had told them that the seats 'came right out' so doing this sort of thing should be no problem. Apparently 'come right out' means ‘getting down under the van and unbolting the seats from below’. Fortunately, the bolts were stripped, all but impossible to get to, and apparently put on with an impact wrench, because any less of a challenge and we just wouldn't have gotten the sense of satisfaction one gets when it takes over three hours to remove three seats from a van. As a nice aside, the final bolt was completely stripped, on tight enough it may as well have been welded, and hiding about a foot from the gas-tank. To get this one off, Doug had to actually get under the van with a cutting tool and do battle with it. By this time it was just after dark, and the two of us were able to stand together and muse upon how romantic it is beneath the stars, bathed in the warm glow of sparks showering out from behind the gas-cover as Doug removed that last, recalcitrant bolt.
So instead of 6:00pm, it was closer to 11:00pm when the three of us loaded the transport cage into the van. The English poet Richard Lovelace once wrote "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage". He was wrong about that; iron bars DO make a cage, and an astonishingly heavy one at that. You see, this particular transport cage, in order to fit into the van, had no wheels, and CCI has nothing in terms of lifting equipment save for, well, us. After 20 minutes and the invention of several new curses, we managed to muscle the cage into the van, I made the decision to name my hernia 'Doug', and off down the open road we went.
The drive took about fourteen hours, with our only stops being for gas, caffeine, and whatever gastronomic delights we could find at the gas stations - we wanted to get to our destination as quickly as possible to meet up with a crew from yet another facility who had some equipment they had kindly agreed to share with us (i.e., a forklift with which to raise the soon-to-be-500-pounds-heavier transport cage).
When we arrived, we were uncertain as to what to expect - we'd heard varying accounts of the state of the facility and the emotional state of the owners. It turned out to be a modest-sized facility, with smallish enclosures for the animals, but certainly wasn't falling down with animals running loose. The owners were on-site and quite willing to help in whatever way they could, even though they were clearly upset and saddened by the loss of their animals.
After introductions were made, we were shown around the enclosures and met the tiger who was to come back with us: Tonka. Tonka was (and is) an average sized male tiger, seemingly in reasonably good health, and fairly non-aggressive. We were informed that he used to be walked on a leash and taken to different types of events, and oh by the way, when he was younger and at a different facility, he had killed someone. This did wonders for our comfort level, but regardless of whether or not he had killed a person in the past, we treated him as we do any large animal with the capacity to kill you - with care and respect.
We opted not to tranquilize him before loading him into the transport cage - he had no medical records, and there is always the danger that when you knock down an animal, they'll react badly and not come back up. It just took some gentle coaxing, a bit bribery with food that he really had no interest in, and soon enough he was in the crate and being loaded into the back of the van. Earlier in the day, just after we had arrived, several of the folks had asked us how we were going to take Tonka back to North Carolina with us. We'd pointed at the van and proceeded to bask in the warmth of their envy; while they had to make do with some roomy, air-conditioned, brand new 18-wheeler, the three of US got to contort ourselves into a late-eighties cousin to The Mystery Machine - and playing clown-car is so much more exciting when the fourth clown might kill you if you get too close.
To be fair though, there was enough room that we were all situated safely for the ride back. Tonka settled right down as though being transported were the most natural thing in the world to him, so tired but in good spirits, we began our fourteen-plus hour trip back home. We had no idea the horrors that lay in wait for us.
To properly explain what follows, it's necessary to elaborate a bit on Tonka's diet up until we rescued him. Upon touring the facility in Missouri, we noticed that there were chunks of beef lying in the cages - obviously dinner for the carnivores. But, oddly, they were all partially covered with an almost iridescent blue-green dye. We later learned that this is used to mark meat that has become unsellable for human consumption due to various forms of contamination. Tonka had been fed this grade of meat for some time, and when we were loading him into the transport cage he had a little 'accident' that was rather loose, and pretty much the same blue-green as the dye on the meat. The cage was quickly hosed out and we really didn't think too much more about it - until we got about fifteen minutes down the road.
Now, it may not be exactly what you're thinking - we didn't find ourselves stuck in a van with a tiger suffering from Montezuma's Revenge; we found ourselves stuck in a van with the most flatulent feline that has ever walked the Earth. This tiger was so full of gas that it was, literally, coming out of both ends - and the stench was such that it we were actually concerned that Tonka might be possessed.
The first incident of Tonka's hindquarter serenade resulted in exclamations of amazement, rolling down the windows, and checking to make sure the back of the van hadn't been redecorated in day-glow blue. The van was, happily, unscathed and so we continued down the road, Kim driving, Frank in the passenger seat, and Doug in the back with the tiger. We had perhaps fifteen minutes of peace until the next malodorous incident, but this time there was a twist; Doug was talking to Tonka, who was simply peering back at Doug serenely, when out of nowhere Tonka belched loudly. The first incident had been nothing compared to the almost palpable stench that wafted heavily over Doug and into the front of the van. Doug has been working with animals for decades, and he maintains that this was far and away the most ghastly odor he had smelled before or since. I turned around to check on the man and the tiger, only to behold Doug coughing and shaking his head, tears rolling down his cheeks from reddening eyes. It's important to point out here that this is not artistic license…the smell really was so bad that Doug's eyes had begun to water.
And such was the experience of the next fifteen hours: fifteen or twenty minutes of untainted air followed by a thunderous emission from our stripy friend (who, really, should have had but two stripes running down the center of his back ), gagging and window-rolling, followed by another period of calm. It really is saying something when one starts looking out the window of a moving van whilst traveling through mountains and calculating the odds of surviving a fall down the side of a mountain versus surviving another ten hours in a rolling gas-chamber.
By the time we arrived back in North Carolina, we were exhausted but relieved that the journey was over. By this time, Doug was driving, I was in the passenger seat, and Kim was in the back with Tonka. As the van sat in the driveway and various keepers and volunteers approached, we briefly related the story of our trip, and then decided to begin the drive through the compound to Tonka's new enclosure. The crafty tiger, however, decided that one final aromatic assault was in order – and as soon as the smell hit, Doug and I dove out the doors. Note that Kim was not in that list - one other nice feature of the van is that the back doors don't really open so well from the inside. Kim was displeased by this. I came back and opened the door and attempted to mollify her be telling her that he figured she was being heroic and breathing in the gas to protect the rest of us, like throwing yourself on a grenade. Kim explained to him that he was in error, and I suggested that she really shouldn't beat on him in front of the animals.
After everyone recomposed themselves, we drove Tonka the last few hundred yards to his new home, and with the help of several volunteers muscled the transport cage into the shift, and set Tonka free into a large, grass-filled enclosure with platforms, fire-hose hammocks, and nice den in which to hide. Tonka was nervous at first, unsure about the new lions and tigers who had enclosures nearby, but as the days passed, and with the care and attention of the staff and volunteers he relaxed and is now able to enjoy his new home - and his new diet, which seems to have assuaged his gassy predilections.
As of this writing we have not introduced him to the older, female tiger with whom we hope he will spend his golden years - we'll be getting him a vasectomy first, then allowing a bit of time to pass to make sure no chance of an "oops" tiger-baby can occur.
So there we have it, Kim and Frank's first rescue - a very rewarding, wearying, exciting, fetid, and completely worthwhile experience. We wouldn't have traded it for the world.