The Rhino with Glue-On Shoes (11 page)

La Recapture
(The Recapture)

by Florence Ollivet-Courtois, DVM

I
've never been successful anesthetizing a bison. Are you sure?” Over the phone, the owner of the herd sounded both demanding and doubtful. He too was a veterinarian. “The smallest animal weighs at least seven hundred kilograms and most weigh well above one thousand kilograms.” He gave me this information as if I'd never even seen a bison.

A few days earlier, I'd heard on the news that the French Army planned to shoot and kill an entire herd of escaped bison if something wasn't done soon. For the past three weeks, the animals had been wandering around the French countryside near the farm where they lived in the village of Joinville. TV crews had filmed them: the large, shaggy brown animals with huge horns appeared to be enjoying their freedom, trampling crops, eating what they liked, and charging through small villages. It was the end of May 2004; maybe they decided the grass looked better on the other side of the fence. The authorities had tried to capture them with dogs and horses but succeeded only in running the herd around even more. Now they planned to use bullets.

I vowed not to let that happen. I felt confident that a full-scale bison recapture was achievable, especially with the help of my husband, Marc, a fire-and-rescue official who also knows how to handle scared or injured animals.

“I've used Immobilon numerous times to anesthetize rhinos, elephants, and bison, including big, excited animals,” I replied. “I've got enough of this drug for twenty animals, more than half your herd. We can do this.”

A highly potent narcotic, Immobilon is a controlled drug, and there are strict laws about its use. We have to pay for a special license to use this anesthetic on animals and are required to keep a detailed log that accounts for every drop. Only a few companies sell this drug, or a similar one; it must be imported into France from the UK; and we can only buy so much at once. But although I didn't have enough of this anesthetic for the entire herd of thirty-plus animals, I knew that bison always travel together. If we moved some, the others would follow.

With his reluctant acquiescence, I directed the owner of the bison herd to prepare for our arrival. He would need several tractor-trailers equipped with some type of lift in order to raise the anesthetized animals off the ground and transport them.

I learned that the situation had indeed become critical. As the big animals smashed down fences, they inadvertently set hundreds of cows free as well. Farmers struggled to keep up with repairs and round up their cows. They were angry. A ranger with a rifle had managed to reduce the herd by one, shooting a bison that charged a village crowd. But when the officials proposed shooting all of the animals, the general public and animal-welfare groups reacted with outrage. In any case, this option was not only unacceptable, it was also impractical. The bison would certainly disperse at the sound of gunshots.

Finally, acting on the advice of the rangers' office and the director of the Paris Zoo, where I used to work, the veterinarian who owned the bison herd called me. He had run out of choices.

The following afternoon, Marc and I flew to eastern France. Our equipment included an unusual assortment of gear, and we were relieved when the French airport authorities cleared us through security. Most people traveling with rifles, drugs, ropes, and heavy leather straps would not get very far at Paris Charles de Gaulle International Airport!

After an hour's flight, we were met by a local government official and driven by truck to the section of countryside where the escaped bison had been grazing for the past week. Using a pair of powerful binoculars high on a hill, I watched the herd moving about peacefully in the middle of a field dotted with spring flowers—and noticeably empty of cows. Several bison drank water from a tank. Others rested lying down. The fugitives looked completely calm.

About two dozen frustrated farmers had gathered for the capture event. They regarded me warily. The veterinarian who owned the herd stood silent in the middle of the crowd. The bison had pushed through or trampled every fence in their path, forcing the farmers to round up their cattle and lock them in barns. I could see that managing the people during this event would be half the challenge, so I began with a detailed briefing to explain a number of precautions.

“The anesthetic we use for the bison, Immobilon, is designed for large-animal anesthesia and is very dangerous to humans. It has two great advantages: potency and reversibility. A tiny amount fells a bison in less than ten minutes. Its full effect will last only an hour, but the animal will remain heavily sedated unless the drug is reversed. We carry an antidote that completely antagonizes the narcotic and can return the animal to its feet in minutes.”

I went on to explain the disadvantage: while this anesthetic is safe for hoofed animals like bison, giraffes, rhinos, and gazelles, just two drops on the skin or splattered in the eye or mouth will kill a person in less than five minutes. It is quickly absorbed and shuts down the respiratory system.

Because of this danger, I asked that everyone give us plenty of room to maneuver. Though the antidote does work on people, I emphasized that our goal was to avoid any situation in which we'd have to use it. No one should touch the darts or the animals when they first fell down under the effects of the anesthetic. Marc and I would remove the dart and pick up any that missed their targets. Helpers should avoid getting any blood from the animals on their hands. (Theoretically, the drug poses no risk to humans once it's in the bison's bloodstream, but I did not want to put this theory to the test.)

Next I explained the risks to the animal. Anesthesia in bison is risky because they tend to vomit. Moving the animals can accentuate this tendency, since their normal reflexes are disabled by the anesthetic. The material in the rumen, the fermentation-vat portion of the stomach, includes a mixture of plant fiber, fluid, and gas. If the bison vomits under anesthesia, this material practically explodes out of the animal's mouth. It's usually impossible to clear it away from the area over the back of the tongue fast enough to prevent it from ending up in the wrong place—the opening to the airway.

I emphasized that the way to minimize this possibility was to keep the animal's head above its belly at all times. Everyone needed to follow this rule. Marc would place a sling around the bison's body and use a tractor with a pitchfork-style front-end loader to raise the animal off the ground. After looping the sling around the metal tines, Marc would ask for help in holding the bison's head up while its body was lifted into the trailer. This could take two additional people, given the size of the animals.

The farmers appeared to be listening, though several smiled or raised their eyebrows. After all, they'd been trying to capture the bison for weeks, without success. How could a woman from the city do better in one day? It also occurred to me that they might not mind if a bison or two died after all the damage the animals had caused. But I did mind.

I closed the briefing with a question: “Does anyone know if it's possible to drive a truck past the herd without disturbing them?” The farmers answered yes, no problem. We could proceed as planned.

Marc and I climbed into the truck, each armed with a loaded dart rifle and a second dart at the ready. We both wore dark green coveralls and latex rubber gloves. I had my stethoscope in my pocket as well as the reversal drug already drawn up in a capped syringe, just in case. Each animal would receive the same dosage of Immobilon, 1.5 milliliters. Despite the stress of the situation, I felt a rush of adrenaline. I loved working with Marc, and was determined to save these roving bison.

In case one of the bison charged the truck, a ranger with a bullet rifle accompanied us as a precaution. We drove toward the herd. The animals seemed oblivious. I fired the first dart from about forty meters, into the rear end of a large female to the right of the truck. Marc got his dart off a minute later, into the shoulder of a male on the left.

Thanks to their tough hides, both bison reacted as if stung by a bee rather than a dart. They barely moved, and the herd stayed together. We reloaded and darted again. Ten minutes from the start, we had darts in four animals. They began to react, staggering and then slumping to the ground. The other bison continued to rest or eat, seemingly unperturbed.

With the herd still so calm, I decided we should dart another group before moving the first animals to the trailers. Once we began to work on the anesthetized bison, the others would figure out that something scary was happening. Marc and I loaded our darts again, and drove back past the group of bison. Within another ten minutes, we'd anesthetized four more bison. Of the thirty-five escapees, we already had eight under control. I glanced over at the group of farmers. Their expressions had changed dramatically. They looked astonished.

We approached the eight sleeping bison one by one, removing the darts and checking their breathing. As expected, the rest of the herd ran off, but they didn't go far. Most remained in the thick bush on the edge of the clearing. Marc and the farmers repositioned several of the anesthetized animals, rolling them into a sternal position with their legs under them and their heads propped up on a block of wood or on the farmer's knees. This helped them breathe more easily and reduced the risk of vomiting.

In an ideal setting, we would have taken the time to monitor blood oxygen levels, and maybe even secure an airway by passing a tube down the windpipe. But with limited resources and so many animals to dart, our plan was to get them down and up again as soon as possible. The longer bison remain under anesthesia, the more likely they'll bring up food material.

I gave each bison a physical exam and collected blood samples while Marc readied them for the move. He tied their front and rear legs together with ropes in preparation for hooking them up to a sling.

In his enthusiasm, the veterinarian-owner forgot my earlier advice. I turned to see him running the tractor's controls, lifting a female bison by a rope looped around the pitchfork loader and tied to a single forelimb, as if she were a dead cow. My heart sank. When he put her down on the flatbed trailer, she vomited copious amounts of watery, fibrous green material. I knew instantly we couldn't save her.

The female died from suffocation seconds later. I'm afraid I lost my temper, shouting,
“Faites chier! C'est pas la peine de se casser le cul à vous expliquer si vous foutez tout en l'air!”
Translation (minus the curse): “I took great pains to take the time to explain what to do and you still screwed up!”

Marc kept his calm. He showed the veterinarian how to place the sling so it would support the bison's entire body, rather than raise just one limb. He placed the main straps first: one under the animal's belly, one behind the front legs, and the other just in front of the rear legs. Then he looped two smaller straps around the neck and tail, linking these to the main sling. After checking all the connections, Marc hooked the two main straps onto the tractor's pitchfork and directed the farmer to raise it slowly. Gradually the bison's body rose about three feet off the ground, just high enough to be moved onto the trailer. All the while, two people held on to the bison's head to keep it elevated above its belly.

Within an hour after we'd fired our first darts, seven bison were lying in a row in the trailer. We gave the antidote to each one, and they recovered to a standing position minutes later. Several farmers hauled the dead bison away, with strict instructions to incinerate the body. The narcotic anesthetic would still be in the animal's system. The meat could not be safely consumed by anyone—human or animal.

We reloaded and continued darting, though now our work was more difficult. We had to approach the remaining animals slowly, and the darts upset the herd this time. Several darted animals ran off, three of them falling asleep in the woods. We found ourselves struggling through brambles to reach them. We had to manhandle several bison into the clear before we could use the tractor's pitchfork and trailer. But thanks to the large group of farmers on hand, we managed to move them all safely.

By midday, we'd anesthetized eighteen bison. Marc and I had concentrated on darting the dominant animals, as well as the largest and most dangerous ones. We planned to move the group of eighteen to the owner's barn, several kilometers away. Bison behave just like cows—or giraffes, for that matter: they are highly social. We predicted that the other sixteen herd members would long for their companions and follow on their own. The farmers questioned this plan, while the owner wanted us to continue with the anesthesia. Either he'd forgotten or did not want to believe that I only had enough of the special drug for half the herd.

The recaptured bison called for their companions all night. By the next day, the remaining herd had found their way back to the bison barn. Just a few hours later, one of the females even gave birth to a healthy calf. The veterinarian-owner never directly thanked us, but he did show his appreciation by naming the calf “Essonne,” after the French state where Marc and I live.