One Young Fool in Dorset (21 page)

All too often we had orphaned baby hedgehogs found
by members of the public after their mother had been struck by a
car. These little things, or hoglets as they are called, were
helpless and would have died without our care. Most were so tiny
that a whole litter of four or five could easily fit in one hand.
They were adorable with their little pink hands and feet and their
soft beige spines.

Each baby needed to be fed a special milk formula,
and there was no room for mistakes. The formula had to be
dissolved, but never whisked, or it would add too much air to their
tiny tummies.

I was taught to warm the feed to room temperature
and then deliver it by placing the baby on a towel on my lap. It
was tempting to put the hoglet on its back, but we were taught to
keep them the right way up, on their feet, to prevent them from
inhaling the feed and drowning.

Then, very gently, we pressed the plunger of the
syringe so the feed squeezed out drop by drop. Some hoglets took
ages to get the idea and meals were a long process. Others attacked
the syringe with gusto, guzzling the feed as though desperate. We
had to keep it slow and steady, even with the greedy, excited
ones.

After a meal, the tiniest hoglets needed to be
toiletted, and as they had no mother to help, it was our job. We
dipped a cotton bud in almond oil and gently stimulated the area
under the tail to encourage them.

A
hoglet

Baby hedgehogs are very cute and I discovered their
favourite place to be was up my sleeves. If I put my hands in their
box, they’d make a beeline for my sleeves. If I let them, and there
was enough space, they would snuggle down in there and fall asleep.
Extracting them, however, was much more challenging. They refused
to leave and suddenly became all spiky and difficult to handle.

Of course the baby hedgehogs grew fast and it wasn’t
long before they no longer fitted up my sleeve. However, if I kept
my arm still for long enough, the hedgehogs would content
themselves by thrusting just their heads up my sleeve, leaving the
rest of themselves hanging out. Then they’d sigh, settle down and
fall asleep.

Hedgehogs may be wild creatures, but our baby
hedgehogs still had to be introduced slowly to their natural
surroundings. Having been raised and weaned indoors, they hadn’t
yet encountered grass and soil. It was our job to introduce
them.

I would gently place them on the grass and watch.
Bug-eyed with surprise, at first the babies stood stock still. Then
they tried walking but the grass made it difficult and they clearly
didn’t like it. I could almost hear them thinking,
How do I get
off this horrible stuff?
Then they’d pelt towards my feet and
clamber up, gripping my laces with their tiny claws.

Once established on their shoe island in the middle
of the sea of grass, they became a little braver. First one, then
another would sniff the blades of grass, and even taste them. Then
they would test it again with their feet, always making sure at
least one foot was on my shoe in case of emergencies. This
continued for a while but after a few visits, the babies became
more confident and romped outside as happily as in.

Many baby birds were brought to our sanctuary by
rescuers and we had a success rate of about 50%. Some had fallen
out of their nests and needed constant feeding. Others were rescued
from the jaws of a cat or dog and brought to us. It was always sad
when we lost a little bird, but a triumph when we succeeded, when
the baby thrived and was eventually set free.

Unfortunately, many well-meaning rescuers don’t know
that a baby bird with all his feathers is usually a fledgeling, and
isn’t necessarily needing help. He hasn’t fallen out of the nest at
all. He’s ready to take the big step into the outside world. It’s a
dangerous time but he needs a couple of days on the ground. If the
would-be rescuer leaves the little thing alone and watches, he’ll
probably see the fledgeling’s mother appearing to feed him and
teach him how to survive.

Sometimes we cared for deer that had been knocked
down by cars. They were difficult patients because they often died
of shock, even when their injuries weren’t extensive.

The Special Care unit was where pregnant rescue cats
and dogs came to give birth to their litters. One of our jobs was
to fuss and play with the pups and kittens, to socialise them, and
make them familiar with human handling. Being paid to play with
puppies and kittens? I couldn’t believe my luck!

In addition, there were two long-term residents of
the Special Care unit. Sandy and Gordon had already been at the
sanctuary for years before I joined, and stayed after I left.

20 Gordon the Gannet

Dorset Mackerel with Gooseberries

S
andy was a large, affectionate golden
retriever and was beloved by us all. In turn, he loved everybody
and was happiest leaning against somebody’s leg as they stroked his
head and played with his soft ears. Only Pepper, the vicious Jack
Russell with the deformed leg, had been in the sanctuary
longer.

Anyone meeting or looking at him would never guess
there was anything wrong with him, but poor Sandy was an epileptic.
Several times a day, he would freeze, and his soft brown eyes would
glaze over, the signal that another fit was imminent. Then his body
would go stiff and he’d fall to the ground on his side. Now he had
lost control. He foamed at the mouth and his body jerked as he
paddled with all four limbs. It was heartbreaking to see, and there
was nothing we could do to help him. The fits generally lasted
between 30 and 90 seconds but seemed to go on for ever. When the
seizure subsided, Sandy was left confused and disoriented, and in
need of much petting and reassurance.

The fits were so frequent, it was considered most
unlikely that Sandy would ever find a new home. So he was kept in
the Special Care unit where we could keep an eye on and give him as
much attention as he needed.

The other permanent patient was very different.
Gordon, the gannet, (otherwise known as
Thatbloodygreatbadtemperedseabird) was a big character at the
sanctuary. Apart from an emu I met briefly many years later, Gordon
was probably the most foul-tempered bird I have ever encountered.
He had been found on a beach, exhausted, being tormented by a
couple of dogs. A lady happened to be walking along the waterline
and saw what was going on.

“Hey! Clear off!” she shouted at the dogs. “Leave
that bird alone!”

The dogs ran off and she looked down at the bird. He
didn’t look injured, but he couldn’t fly and she was determined not
to desert him.

“Okay, bird,” she said, approaching Gordon. “I’m
going to pick you up, put you in my car and take you to the vet for
a check over.”

Gordon glared at her.

Before she could even reach down, Gordon’s
razor-sharp beak slashed her hand.

“Okay, bird,” she said, mopping her bleeding hand
with a handkerchief, “let’s do this another way.”

Gordon glared at her.

The lady unzipped her jacket and threw it over
Gordon. Gordon squawked, but she managed to wrap him up and secure
his wicked beak. She carried him to her car and took him straight
to the local vet.

Luckily, there was no queue, and she and Gordon were
admitted right away.

“Ah, so you’ve brought me some sort of seabird, have
you?” asked the vet, staring at the webbed feet protruding from the
jacket. “Just pop him on the table.”

“He’s got a very…”

Too late. As the vet tugged off the jacket, Gordon’s
beak was free. He whipped it round and took a chunk out of the
vet’s hand.

“...sharp beak,” finished the lady.

The vet called his nurse.

“Brenda, could you restrain this lady’s gannet
please, while I attend to my cut hand and the gannet owner’s cut
hand?”

He disinfected and bandaged both their wounds, then
addressed himself to Gordon. Gordon’s beak was now taped shut but
that didn’t stop him glaring balefully at all three of them.

“Oh, he’s a gannet is he?” asked the lady. “And he’s
not mine, I just found him on the beach being barked at and
tormented by a couple of dogs.”

“Did he try to fly?”

“No, not that I saw.”

The vet unfurled Gordon’s wings, one after the
other, and examined each closely.

Gordon’s eyes narrowed in threat.

“Well, I can’t see anything wrong with his wings. Or
the rest of him. I’d say he’s a young bird and he got caught in
that storm last night. I think he’s exhausted. A good rest and feed
and he’ll be as right as rain.”

“I can’t look after him,” said the lady. “I know
nothing about gannets and I have to go to work. Can I leave him
here?”

Gordon’s eyes became evil slits.

“I’m afraid we can’t take him either,” said the vet.
“I suggest you drop him off at the animal sanctuary. Tell them he
needs a rest and a feed, and I’m sure they’ll look after him then
set him free in a few days when he’s got his strength back
again.”

The lady very kindly did exactly that. She delivered
Gordon to the animal sanctuary, and relayed what the vet had
said.

“Be careful,” she warned. “His beak is lightning
fast. He’s already drawn blood twice!” She pointed to her bandaged
hand. “He got me and he got the vet, too.”

Gordon blinked malevolently.

“Well, I must be off. I’ll leave you to it,” she
said, and left.

The Special Care unit manager, Simon, found a vacant
pen with an empty pond which he reckoned would do nicely for
Gordon’s short stay.

“This’ll do, Tony,” he said to his long-haired
assistant. “I’ll pop out and buy some fish for him, and we’ll fill
his pond up tomorrow. He should be good to release in a few
days.”

Never work with children or animals; they’ll always
surprise you.

A gannet in
the wild

Tony the Hippy was very careful and managed to
release Gordon’s beak without mishap. He left Gordon glaring round
his temporary pen and waited for Simon to return. Simon arrived
back from the fishmonger with a selection of fish for Gordon.

“How’s Gordon been?” he asked.

“Cool, man, groovy.”

Tony quickly chopped up the fish.

“I’ll try him with this,” said Simon and entered the
pen.

He dumped the fish onto the ground, watching
Gordon’s reaction. Gordon peered at the mound of fish.

“I think he’s interested,” Simon said to Tony.

But Gordon wasn’t interested. Next morning the mound
of fish was exactly as they’d left it, except it was crawling with
flies and beginning to smell.

The worldwide web hadn’t yet been invented. In those
days, if one wanted to research a subject, one had to go to the
library, or buy a book about it, or ask an expert.

There wasn’t a library close to hand, or a bookshop.
They didn’t know any gannet experts, so they did the next best
thing, they phoned the vet.

“Could you tell us what gannets eat, please?”

“Hmm… Seawater fish, of course. I’m guessing
mackerel and local species. Hasn’t he eaten anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh,” said the vet suddenly. “I’ve just remembered
something from my student days. I believe you need to keep the fish
whole, don’t cut them up. Did you chop them up?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Right, keep them whole in future, heads, tails,
everything. Then grab the tail and waggle it like mad so that the
bird thinks its alive. They’re not attracted to dead fish.”

“Oh! Right! We’ll try that then.”

“Take care, his beak is really sharp.”

“Don’t worry, he hasn’t tried anything with us
yet.”

Simon was hopeful and shot out to buy some fresh,
whole, local, fish. He returned with a bag full, their tails poking
out of the top.

“Let’s see if this’ll tempt him,” said Simon. “Do
you want to try, or shall I?”