Saving Otters

Once in the transport crate, Buddy immediately started trying to get out.  He jammed his nose between the plastic frame and the metal rim of the door, and pushed, creating a space almost large enough for his head.  Thank goodness for those bungee cords.  Even so, it looked as though he’d soon be successful.  Without thinking about how much the thing weighed, I grabbed the crate and carried it as fast as I could to the Land Rover.  If Buddy escaped into the back of the car, at least he couldn’t run straight for the river.  (The next day, I had a very sore lower back.)

Now I was really anxious to get going.  I ran back to Diane and tugged at her arm, pulling her away from her goodbyes and apologizing that I felt we simply had to get on the road.  It was already after 11 o’clock and getting hotter by the minute–and  the drive to Karanambu would take at least seven hours, if not longer.  It had rained overnight, so there was no way we’d try the shortcut on the way back.

Transporting Buddy the otter from Iwokrama to Karanambu in the old red Land Rover

As we climbed into the Land Rover, I urged Diane to sit next to me on the middle seat so that we could both tend to Buddy in the back as needed.  I felt we should leave him alone for now; most animals settle down once they feel the rocking motion of a vehicle.  Diane disagreed.  She insisted on being next to the crate so that she could speak to him soothingly.   This meant sitting on a hard, narrow seat with very little room for her long legs.

I argued with her, reminding her that she’d broken her hip badly in a car accident last year.  The last thing she needed to do was sit in an uncomfortable position for a long bumpy ride.  I also felt that the sound of her voice would only upset Buddy more.  But I was overruled.  Before I could stop her, Diane had climbed into the back next to her new beloved beast.   She took a book out of her bag—the signed copy of The Rhino with Glue-on Shoes I’d just given her—and decided to read the otter a few stories!

Diane McTurk with Buddy the otter in his transport crate–about to read RHINO

While Diane spoke softly to Buddy, I covered his crate with a towel to give him some shade and arranged things so that he could catch a little breeze from the open windows.   We had a long drive ahead, and the main risk to his health was overheating, or hyperthermia.  Fortunately, the weather appeared to be cooperating.  It was partly cloudy, and would stay that way for most of our drive through the rain forest.

As I’d feared, Buddy reacted to the sound of Diane’s voice by scratching even harder at the door and crying, “Raa Raa Reeahh,” which translates to “I want”—to get out of here, or to eat some fish.  Diane responded with, “Oh my poor beloved beast.  You must be famished.  We barely fed you any breakfast.”   She turned to me.   “Can’t we feed him just a tiny piece of fish?  He’s asking for it.”

“Nope,” I said.  “No way.”    I had to hold my ground on this one.  Since I was along for the ride as a vet, there had to be a few rules.  Feeding the otter would only create a mess (otters almost always poop after they eat), and might even make him carsick.  Though Buddy was in good body condition, the last thing he needed was to slide around in a fishy crate.  Instead, I squirted some water into the crate, and he readily drank it.   I repeated the offering, this time with the tip of a soda bottle.  To our amazement, Buddy went right for it, figuring out how to wrap his lips around the plastic nozzle.

Buddy, a juvenile male giant otter–before his transport from Iwokrama to Karanambu

Diane continued talking to Buddy.  There’s something about the sound of her voice that otters find irresistible—unfortunately, in this case, as it draws them to her.  The more she spoke, the more upset Buddy became.  Soon he was screaming loudly and biting at the wire mesh.  Now he was at risk of damaging his teeth, as well as overheating from becoming so frantic.  I repositioned the towel, tried to distract the otter with more water, and asked Diane, rather firmly, if she could please just not say a word, at least not for a while.   She nodded reluctantly.

As I turned back to the front to refill my water bottle, repeating that I thought we’d all be better off if she’d sit in the middle seat with me, Diane exclaimed, “Oh, no!  He’s out!”

Buddy had pushed his nose against the top of the crate with such force that the upper hinge of the crate door popped out of its hole.  Seeing a glimmer of light, he pushed harder, creating a hole big enough for his head.  I lunged toward the crate and jammed door back in place, holding the top part in place with my thumbs.  Buddy was not about to give up.  He went for the bottom hinge, popped it free, and had his whole head out the bottom half of the door before I body-blocked him back inside.  At that point, all I could do was crouch in front of the crate door and hold it in place with both knees and hands.  Somehow we needed to get the hinges back in their holes.

By then Ryol had stopped the car.  He looked back at us and asked if he could help. Diane and I replied, in perfect unison, “Oh no, everything’s fine!”

Actually, it helped a great deal not to be flying over all those bumps in the road while we got ourselves readjusted.  Diane grabbed the water bottle and managed to distract Buddy long enough for me to tilt the metal frame of the door and slide the hinges back in place.  Phew.  I asked Ryol how much longer.  The sooner we got to Karanambu the better.  He frowned and said, “About four hours, maybe five.”

The main road (Lethem–Georgetown), near the turn-off to Karanambu

We continued on, but the otter had figured out what to do, and seconds later he was back at it.  From that point on, our seating arrangements took on a new configuration.   I sat in the back on top of the crate, so that my weight would keep pressure on the doorframe.  Whenever I felt Buddy moving about, I bent down and held the hinges in place with my thumbs.  It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable, and I was determined to ride it out.  Diane moved into the middle seat and, with some difficulty, remained silent.

Finally, Buddy settled down.

Much as we would have liked to make it back to the ranch before dark, that just wasn’t possible.  The road was bumpy, and Ryol could drive only so fast.  By the time the sun had set, we’d just turned off the main road toward Karanambu.  With about an hour left to go, we hit our first major roadblock of the day—a downed tree.  Ryol dutifully got out of the car, grabbed his machete, and began to cut down a massive tangle of wood and brush.  He left the Land Rover running of course, since the starter was still broken.  Within minutes I could barely breathe.  The fumes were awful in the back where I sat with Buddy.

Together, Diane and I moved the otter’s crate out onto the road at a little distance from the car—and there I sat, in the pitch dark, on top of a plastic dog crate containing a giant otter.  Before long, I noticed that his breathing was slow and steady.  Free of the bumps and rattles, he’d fallen sound asleep.

Silently, I asked myself a familiar question:  What in the world am I doing here?  The answer came quickly, as it always does:  when the animals need our help, it’s our responsibility to do what we can.  There’s no reason we can’t live in balance with nature and its creatures.  We just have to try.  I hoped we’d met our last obstacle of the day.

[To be continued. . . .]