Orphaned giant otter cub, Buddy.

By the time we arrived at Karanambu, it was close to 9:00 p.m.   I couldn’t thank Ryol enough.  Between navigating the roads, cutting up the tree, and dealing with three nervous occupants, he’d done a magnificent job for all of us.

Diane and I carried Buddy to his pen.   He’d been awfully quiet for the last hour.  We hoped that he’d simply tired himself out.  But until we let him out of the carrier, we couldn’t be sure.  At least he’d soon have access to fresh water, dry towels, and a pile of fresh fish.

Buddy’s home for the next few days would be a rectangular brick-walled pen with a shallow pool, a drying platform made of bricks and covered with towels, a “sprainting” area, or otter latrine, in one corner, and in the other corner a den made of a metal drum turned on its side.   His was one of three such pens, arranged side by side, all under one large thatched roof.

Buddy’s otter pen at Karanambu – the bricks are spread around to keep Buddy from using the central part of his pen as a latrine.

Diane and I agreed it would be best to keep Buddy locked in the pen for several days, until he developed a stronger bond with her.  That way, we could be certain of medicating him for his fly strike.  We both had the feeling that he might take one look at the Rupununi River and take off—never to be seen again.  The least we could do was send him off healthy.

When Diane first started rehabilitating orphans, there were no otter pens.   In fact, when I first encouraged her to build them, which must have been about ten years ago, she hated the idea.  She preferred to keep the orphans with her in the ranch house.  If there were a lot of  visitors around, or if she had to go off and do something on the ranch, she’d lock the otters [!] in her bathroom, even when  they’d outgrown the need for round-the-clock care.  But they frequently escaped, creating  exciting but often dangerous situations.  Having an essentially wild animal underfoot at the dinner table didn’t always go over well with guests, or with the ranch staff.  People had been bitten.  Fights had broken out between older and younger otters, and one such interaction had proved fatal.  On another occasion, an orphan injured himself by jumping off a brick wall.

The otter pens were nothing fancy, but they served their purpose.  They were built by a group of volunteers from Canada with donated funds.  The pens allowed Diane to separate individuals if necessary, and to introduce a new arrival safely to a resident otter.  They worked well as secure sleeping places for the orphans not only at night but also during the heat of the day (there were no caiman alligators or fisherman at the pens).  And for new arrivals like Buddy, they’d proved to be escape-proof—as long as everyone remembered to latch the gate.

Unfortunately, weather and time have taken their toll on the otter pens.  The roof desperately needs new thatch–as does every other roof at Karanambu.  If we ever get the fund raising rolling (please consider a donation!), roof repairs will be a top priority.  In the meantime, at least there’s plastic.

In this photo, Ryol and his sons are repairing a gaping hole just above Buddy’s head by stretching a piece of plastic over his pen.

We set Buddy’s carrier on the floor in the middle of the pen and spread out a few fresh otter towels (laundered but still full of smells), keeping our flashlights directed at the walls so as not to blind the otter.   I opened the door of the carrier, expecting him to dart right out.  Nothing happened.   Then Diane tossed a piece of fish onto the cement floor in front of the crate–and whoosh, out came Buddy.  He devoured that fish, and two more.   Next he turned to investigate his pen.  We heard him let himself into the pool and blow a few bubbles.  Then he was back out, rolling around on the towels.

Buddy immediately recognized both the pool and his drying off spot.

In the dim light, I could see the scrape on his nose from fighting the carrier, but the damage was minimal.  Overall, he was in surprisingly good shape.  We left him looking as though he’d fall asleep at any minute.

Indeed, Buddy was still sleeping when Diane and I checked on him the next morning.  He woke up quickly, though, as soon as he heard us rustling about outside his cage.  Seconds later, he was asking for fish: “Reah, reah, ree—aah!”

Diane normally lets the otters out of their pens to eat their meals, in the interests of keeping the pens relatively clean and less fishy-smelling.   But this wasn’t an option with Buddy, since we weren’t sure we’d be able to get him back in.

Ryol’s three sons and two daughters had appeared by this point—everyone was curious to catch a glimpse of the new otter.   Diane went inside the pen with Buddy to feed him while the rest of us watched from the outside.  Once again, he devoured his fish, took a brief dip in his pool, and rolled around in his towels.

Aside from his scraped nose, photographed here for the record, Buddy was no worse for wear after his long car ride.

His next move was to use the middle of the pen floor as his latrine.  Diane gently scolded him that he should have gone in the corner, like every other proper otter.  She cleaned up the mess and placed a small amount of his scat in the appropriate place, explaining that this would help him figure out where he was supposed to go next time.   At this point, I had every reason to believe that Buddy would soon learn Diane’s rules.