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As we passed number two, a loony-tunes black Lab who'd been dropped off to have his chompers cleaned started howling. That set off the basset hound with gastric torsion, and the stray shepherd cross. Also Pip, my own Jack Russell terrier, who hangs out with the boarding dogs and can't say no to a good barkathon. The clamor disturbed the animal in the sleeping bag, and it started a panicky stir. "Shut-tup, you guys!" I hollered at the dogs. I showed James into an exam room and shut the door behind us. A stray dog was napping on a window seat, snug [85] in a pile of pillows. I started to unwrap the folds of polyester-filled bag. Dog, cat, raccoon, or whatever, this was going to be an awful mess. That much I knew already. But I was totally unprepared to be staring into the glazed-over eyeballs of a Gymnogyps californianus-a bird that, to my knowledge, hadn't been seen in Colorado in two hundred years. "What the hell is it, Frannie?" he asked. "It's a California condor," I told him. "I've never seen one in the flesh. That's because their flesh isn't supposed to be around here." And it was weird-looking flesh at that. My newest patient had a bald head about the size of a large mango, with a longish hooked beak partially cloaked in pink wattles. There was a patch of stiff black feathers on its forehead, and where its neck met its shoulders was a wild ruff of thin black feathers that continued down the whole of its body, making this poor creature look like a weary old man wearing half of a gorilla suit. "He sure is pretty," said Blake. I laughed. "Pretty rare, anyway. There are only about a hundred and sixty of these left in the world, and of those, sixty are wild and the rest are in captive-breeding facilities. Or so they say." It was the sad truth. Once ranging freely, by 1987 all but a dozen of these birds had been poached, poisoned, and shot nearly out of existence. With dedication and hard work, they'd been brought back to their current number in captivity. Page 32 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html I could tell from the orange tag on its good wing that this [86] bird was from the Vermillion Cliffs colony in northern Arizona, some three hundred miles away. That's actually a short hop for a condor. They can coast for hours without once batting their wings and can make speeds of fifty-five miles per hour. Of course, this particular marvel might never fly again. The hunter's bullet had shattered its wing, maybe beyond repair. As if it understood, the condor cracked its beak and hissed at me. "Okay, buddy," I crooned to the bird. "Let's cross our fingers, James," I told the trooper. "It's lost a lot of blood. All I can do is my best. Might not be good enough." James H. Blake sighed. "I'm going to take those two bad boys down to the barracks," he said, "and see what I can slap them with." "Go for it. I'm hoping fifteen to life." He smiled. "You're such a softie. I'll check back with you, Frannie." "I am a softie," I said. "I'll be here." But I'd already almost forgotten Trooper Blake. I scrubbed my hands with antiseptic and went to work. Work was the only thing that had been saving me lately. It sure as heck beat rational thought. 24 MY FATIGUE had been replaced by an edgy kind of energy. And dread. Operating on this rare bird was an awful responsibility, and I was going to have to do it unassisted. The dogs in ward two were still in full throat, so I flipped on the radio and found a good music station. Good for my nerves, and good for the bird's nerves, too. I recognized a cut from the latest Moby album. Good deal-I liked his stuff a lot. I shone a light into the condor's eyes and hoped for a reflex. There was none. Its condition was deteriorating by the minute. "Come on, big boy. Don't give up on me. You've got a real big heart. Let's show it." I strapped a gas mask over the condor's beak, then cranked up the isofluorine mixture to five to knock him down fast. [88] The gas hissed through the tube. Only after the bird was out cold did I dare to entirely open the wraps and lay him out fully on the examination table. I gently extended the shattered wing, and as I thought it would, it flapped open at a hideous and unnatural angle. I pushed the feathers away from the injured site and saw that the fractured bone had broken through the delicate, almost transparent skin. Worse, the wound was starting to turn green. This big boy was a mess, all right. I hoped I could keep it alive. But I also worried that if it lived but couldn't fly, it'd be doomed to a life in a cage. Macy Gray was singing as I rummaged around in the cabinet over the sink for Page 33 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html materials I would need. I liked Macy a lot, too. The problem with pinning broken bird bones is that they're hollow and metal pins can't hold them together. I'd done a lot of work on hurt birds and had come up with my own MASH unit-type surgical procedure, and frankly, it worked beautifully most of the time. I stretched out the wing bones, then began to tease a small number-five endotracheal tube into the break. It takes laser-like focus and a steady hand to do this just right. I held my breath and carefully threaded the tube through the broken bone, then back up to the proximal point of the fracture, where it held securely, and I could breathe again. There's not much soft tissue in a bird's wing, but I cut away the damaged flesh, flushed out the wound with antiseptic solution, then closed the skin with a simple interrupted pattern of stitches. I was satisfied. The surgery was pretty clean. Brava, dottoressa! [89] I folded the condor's wing and stabilized the fracture by securing the wing up against its body with a figure eight, splintlike wrapping that works like a Chinese finger trap. If the bird tried to flap its wing, the bandage would only tighten more firmly. Then I carried the thirty-pound condor into the storage room that my part-time assistant, Janna, and I use for medical supplies. There was no bowwow chorus back there, but there was a large cage in the corner-a perfect Motel 6 for this fellow, who had certainly been hatched and raised in captivity. I put the condor gently inside, covered the cage with a blanket, and turned off the light. "Good night, big guy. Sleep well, you prince of Colorado." Finally, I went back into the operating room to clean up. For the two hours that I'd been working on the condor, I'd been fighting off a feeling that I couldn't identify. Now that the surgery was over, I was overtaken by exhaustion, and also sadness. It was the kids. Working on the condor had reminded me how much I missed each and every one of them. I pictured their faces. Counted their fingers and toes. I threw the dead tuna on eight-grain into the trash, and stuffed the bloodied sleeping bag in after it. I swabbed down the stainless-steel table, washed out the sink, and went to bed. 25 "FRANNIE, IF YOU'RE THERE, pick up," said a whispery voice. "C'mon, c'mon." I had been falling asleep, but suddenly I was awake. I reached out-and for at least the fourth time that month-knocked over an ashtray from the original Hotel Boulderado, circa 1909. Somebody was trying to tell me to stop smoking. Max? I thought to myself. "Max, oh, Max," I said, grabbing the phone. It was her voice on the answering machine. "I was just thinking about you. Must be mental telepathy, kiddo. This Page 34 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html is great. How are you?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |
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