The Hippo with Toothache (16 page)

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 leather-clad 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 realizing 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.

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.

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 doctor.

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.

Steve and I discussed the situation. We were willing to give it a try. Our major concern was that we lacked an essential tool: a team of trackers. Our philosophy had always been that if you can't find your elephant after you have anesthetized it,
you shouldn't anesthetize it in the first place! The Pygmy people of central Africa have exceptional tracking skills. During our earlier elephant work, we'd been assisted by a team of BaAka Pygmies, but there was no way to reassemble them quickly enough for this patient. Fortunately, we found two Gabonese guards working for the World Wildlife Fund who agreed to help with tracking. Without them, I doubt we would even have tried to dart the elephant.

We flew to the coastal town of Gamba, set up our gear at the building that would serve as our home and laboratory, and met with local people to hear what they knew about the lame elephant's condition and current whereabouts. In late afternoon, the team started its search; several hours after sunset, we caught our first glimpse of the injured elephant, limping across the savanna about thirty feet from where we stood. Using our flashlights, we could see he was a beautiful adult bull elephant in the prime of life (we estimated him to be in his midtwenties), standing approximately eight feet at the shoulders with short, straight tusks. More important, we could see a band of constricted skin and muscle around his lower left front leg.

I knew instantly that we didn't have much time before the animal would develop a bone infection, osteomyelitis, or irreversible tissue damage to the foot from lack of blood flow. At that point, treatment would be futile. As soon as possible, I had to get in a position where I could safely dart this elephant.

We spent our second day searching for him. As night fell, he reappeared, walking out from the forest into the savanna. He was almost within range, in a clear area, and my dart gun
was loaded. All I had to do was get a bit closer. I felt incredibly lucky. Just twenty-four hours after the search began, we'd soon have our patient on the “operating ground,” anesthetized for snare removal and wound treatment. Or so I thought.

Unfortunately, the elephant saw us and limped away as quickly as his painful leg would allow. The remaining daylight was fading fast. Though I knew my position now was less than ideal, I fired—and missed. At that point, I had no choice but to accept the fact that evening conditions were not safe for either people or elephants. I elected not to shoot again. It was a blow to our team. No one spoke as we walked back to the truck; I wondered if the others were thinking,
How could she miss a target the size of an elephant?