World Wild Vet

by Evan Antin

  It was a fittingly beautiful environment in which to catch one of the most colorful lizards I’ve ever seen. The Fijian crested is so bright it almost seems unreal. A typical specimen is vibrant emerald green with white and black stripes. His legs are blue, his toes green, his eyes bright amber, and his mouth and nostrils marked by tiny yellow streaks. Altogether, those features add up to a creature that looks more like it just walked out of Alice in Wonderland than one that has evolved in nature.

  With most of the research happening at night, Joey and I spent the days catching up and hiking to the edges of the island. Monuriki’s peaks are pretty high, considering how small the total expanse of land is, but you can still reach its tallest peak from the beach in less than two hours. Back at camp, we ate canned food and sat in the little lagoon near where we’d pitched our tents. The water was warm and crystal clear—a big, spectacular bathtub courtesy of Mother Nature. I travel to a lot of places where the process of making my way there and the accommodations are things I have to endure for the privilege of getting close to the animals. This was the opposite: we may have been sleeping on the ground and eating out of cans, but it was the most gorgeous, isolated tropical beachfront camping a traveler could ever desire.

  Each night around eight, after a big dinner, we’d set out to go trekking—rested and ready to spend the next six to eight hours straight looking for iguanas.

  At night we could see all the stars, which provided just enough natural light to help us scout. Joey was familiar with locations where he’d seen individuals in the past, and he’d also fitted some of the iguanas with radio telemetry trackers. These systems are often used in wildlife research; each device puts out its own unique radio wave frequency—almost like its own radio station. Joey and I carried an antenna designed to pick up these signals and tell us if we were getting close. It’s kind of like a seeking game where if the signal gets stronger you’re “getting warmer” and if it gets weaker you’re “getting colder.” When it gets loud you’re downright hot, and chances are if you shine a flashlight up into the trees you’re standing under, the iguanas’ fluorescent coloring will glow back at you. You can’t miss them once you get close enough to spot that reflection.

  Of course, if you want to measure and tag the iguanas, you’ve got to climb up into the canopy and catch them. When it comes to most arboreal lizards, if they’re that far up, you might as well not waste your time. They’ll have way too much of a head start. But these iguanas live a chill island life. They have very few predators, and they are remarkably deep sleepers—like Ambien deep. We were climbing these trees, edging onto branches, reaching out for these guys, and it wasn’t until we were within a foot or two of them—grabbing distance—that they’d wake up and go from sound asleep to bright-eyed and confused. The key is to get your hands on them right before that happens so they don’t have time to flee. These are wild lizards, and they can be aggressive, biting and turning your forearms into bloody scratching posts.

  To reduce the stress on the iguanas, whenever possible we’d place a little cloth mask around their faces that covered their eyes. Limiting their sensory input worked like a dream to calm them down, and that’s when we’d weigh them. Joey had rigged up a hanging scale with a little leather harness, and he’d slip each iguana’s front legs over the strap and then lift them up to get an accurate weight. You’d think that process might piss the little buggers off, but no. Without exception they just hung there in the harness, legs loose, bellies pooched out, occasionally giving us a little side-eye if the mask slipped, but otherwise content.

  Each time we caught an iguana we’d weigh and measure it, clip a tail scale for a DNA sample, get a cloacal culture to test for bacterial colonies, and microchip it if it wasn’t already tagged. In some cases, we placed radio transmitters, so that Joey could track the individual and its habits. More of the iguanas had already been tagged by Joey than not, so when we encountered one already in his database we’d just record a few quick measurements and let it go. We took turns filming, both of us happy to have an experienced cameraman on hand. We’d both had to learn every trick about making your own videos through years of trial and error, so having an accomplice was a nice change of pace and took a lot of the pressure off.

  Joey had been doing this for months, so his tree-climbing skills were at almost spider-monkey level. He’d scramble up and down as if it were nothing. As for me, I love to climb, but I’m a little big for it and definitely not as practiced as the reptile whisperer I was working with. I spotted one specimen in a tree with a few dead branches and decided to chance it. Just as I grasped the iguana, the branch I was standing on gave way, dropping me, the iguana, and a ton of leaf litter and wood dust to the sand. I wasn’t too surprised that I’d fallen, but I was not expecting to look up and find Joey actively filming, narrating my crash landing. He zoomed in on my hands and nodded his approval as he announced for the camera, “Evan!… And he’s still got the iguana.”

  Even after the fall, this colorful little lizard was relaxed. She had managed to wrap the long toes of her front feet around my thumb, but if she was experiencing any fear, any tension at all, any concern whatsoever about the dive we’d just taken, she was hiding it like a pro.

  Working with these sleepy little iguanas, I felt like I’d gone down a rabbit hole and landed in a herper’s wonderland, replete with days on the beach, nights spent climbing trees (which I enjoy even when there are no reptiles involved), and interactions with these crazy-colorful lizards. The experience had so little in common with my experiences trying to catch wild arboreal lizards anywhere else in the world that it felt more like playing a video game than like research.

  The only downside of this whole trip was that it was predicated on the fact that these iguanas are critically endangered. If “desperately endangered” were a category, they’d be in that one. Estimates put the remaining population of Monuriki’s iguanas at only one to two hundred individuals. There are a few reasons for the decrease in their numbers, but three of them can be attributed to other species I love: goats, rats, and cats. More and more, forest that was once iguana territory has been made inhospitable to them by grazing goats. Rats steal their eggs; female iguanas mostly live in trees, but they nest on the ground. And on many of the islands where these guys used to be safe, one of nature’s most efficient and deadly predators has been introduced: the cat. Honestly, the sedentary, trusting Fijian crested iguana is a poster child for easy prey.

  Monuriki is an exceptionally safe place for the iguanas, not just by nature but also by design. In a 2011 initiative, Fijian federal nature authorities partnered with the U.S. Geological Survey and the San Diego Zoo to clear the island of goats and rats and then introduced a group of the “neon dragons” to repopulate.

  For now, at least, the only predation iguanas on Monuriki have to contend with is occasional bird swoops, and thanks to Joey’s research, the iguana’s patterns and habits are better understood than ever. Understanding a creature—things like what it eats, how it travels, when and where it sleeps, and how it reproduces—helps conservationists do everything in our power to protect it.

  After a few days of getting rugged on Monuriki, Joey and I headed back to Mana and the luxuries of beds, running water, and freshly prepared food. I had learned more than a man should be able to know about the diet (mostly leaves), breeding (mating happens in the spring, followed by a nine-month incubation period), habits (sound sleeping!), and conservation of the critically endangered Fijian crested iguana. As we hugged good-bye at the airport, Joey and I were almost twenty years older than when we first met, but it felt like both our careers were just starting to take off.

  Magical Island

  Roughly two thousand miles east of Fiji, the volcanic island of Tahiti rises up out of the Pacific. This figure-eight-shaped island is home to gorgeous black sand beaches, even prettier black pearls, and a diverse collection of tropical wildlife both in and out of the water. My objective was the nearby island of Mo’orea,
which lives up to its nickname “Magical Island” with blue skies, clear water, a series of eight mountain peaks surrounding the island, and warm, friendly people who welcome tourists with open arms.

  I arrived on Mo’orea hoping to get up close and personal with humpback whales, but on my way to dinner the first night, I found five tiny kittens by the side of the road. These poor munchkins still had their umbilical cords attached and their eyes closed. It was clear that they’d been abandoned, and that there was zero chance they were going to make it if left on their own. Unfortunately, this is something that happens all over the world—domesticated animals wind up without anyone to take care of them.

  I figured it was a “finders keepers” situation, and even though I knew there was no way I could pack five kittens in my carry-on back to the States, I wanted them to have a fighting chance. I took on the labor-intensive job of feeding them and stimulating them to pee and poop (“piddling” them) for the short term. Mo’orea doesn’t have any major animal hospitals or rescue organizations, any place I could just drop the kittens into someone else’s care, so I did the best I could to keep them alive until I could find them a home. Two days later, I took “my” kittens on their first boat ride, a ferry trip to French Polynesia’s main island, Tahiti, and Papeete, its small capital city.

  I’d found Dr. Olivier Betremieux on Instagram and told him about the kittens, and he had welcomed all of us to his veterinary office. Walking through the door and shaking his hand, I immediately thought that Olivier reminded me a little bit of somebody. He was a pretty big guy, young, fit, needing a shave, and totally dedicated to the animals in his care. We seemed to be wearing matching uniforms, too: faded jeans and worn T-shirts.

  Dr. B’s dog Hannah came straight over to check out the kittens. This sweetheart mixed breed was wearing a doggie backpack that said GIRL POWER, and she stood with her front legs on the exam table to give her new charges a sniff. She was super gentle, as if she’d been taking care of orphaned kittens all her life. I introduced the five: Brownie (who got his name because he kept pooping on me), Cheese, Napoleon, Sharky, and Bandit. The vet seemed a tiny bit surprised these three-day-old kittens already had names, but I suspect that being a fellow animal person, he understood that there was no way I could have carried them around for any length of time without naming them. I had already bonded with these babies, and I was hoping the good doctor could help them find homes.

  Broken Bone

  Dr. B agreed to shelter the kittens until homes could be found for them, and while I was there he asked if I’d take a look at a dog in his care. The stray looked like a scruffy, long-haired Jack Russell terrier. He had the sweetest face, with floppy brown ears and big brown eyes. It didn’t take an expert to see that this poor puppy was in pain. It was etched in his expression, but he didn’t let out a sound.

  The stray’s leg was totally busted—a compound fracture had left bone and blood exposed. Around the wound the affected tissue was septic and necrotic, badly infected and dying. Dr. B had rescued the dog off the street, even though he knew—just like I did after my first look at this wound—that an amputation was the only chance this poor guy had of recovering from the infection, which had already reached his leg bones.

  If I’d encountered a patient that needed to have a limb amputated on one of my very first trips after vet school, I’m not sure I would have felt equal to the task. I would have done it, but I would have been scared. Back then, I could clean out wounds, extract teeth, and stitch up lacerations. I’d done a few abdominal surgeries. I knew the mechanics of lots of major surgeries, but I had limited experience with them. One of the things I’ve learned since then is that if you meet someone who walks out of veterinary school thinking he or she is already an awesome vet, you should call them Dr. Narcissist or Dr. Crazy. A more realistic attitude—just like in any other career where you hold lives in your hands—is one that’s scared, hopeful, humble, and eager to learn. It takes experience and practice to get good at anything. Although vet school is an amazing start, any vet needs years of eyes-on and hands-on work in the field to even begin to reach their potential.

  By the time I got to Tahiti, I’d been a veterinarian for five years—not an eternity, but long enough to have learned a lot. In that time I’d been working on animals every day, gaining the experience that makes it possible to handle complex surgeries with confidence. I’d performed amputations not only on dogs and cats but also on lizards and wildlife, including a coyote and an opossum. My hands were steady, and I was ready to help. Dr. B didn’t have another veterinarian nearby who was available to assist, and besides wanting to help out any way I could, I was glad I could do something to aid the man who was taking in Brownie and Napoleon and the rest of “my” kittens.

  Dr. Betremieux is one of the good guys, doing everything he can to serve the animals in his community, including this dog who’d come to him with big needs and no money.

  We worked together to administer anesthesia, monitoring the dog’s heart rate, oxygenation, blood pressure, and respirations, and then we moved on to removing his mangled and infected left front leg. For almost an hour, we worked on opposite sides of the operating table, making sure everything in our power was done to clear out the infection, perform a clean procedure, and give this dog a fighting chance.

  When the surgery was over, we decided it was past time the stray with the shattered leg had a name. Olivier jokingly suggested “Evan.” Even though it had a nice ring to it, in the end we agreed to name him Papi (short for Papeete, the city he lived in).

  Post-surgery and wrapped in a blanket on his cot, Papi looked tiny. He’d been through two traumatic experiences: his injury and his surgery. There was no way I could explain to him that while the first of those had threatened his life, the second had likely saved it.

  This story has a happy ending for pretty much everybody. Dr. Betremieux and his nurse fostered the kittens until they were old enough to be adopted—and all the kittens found homes. Papi made a full recovery from his surgery, figured out how to walk with three legs in no time, and, with a little help from social media, found a loving owner.

  And as for me, I was glad to have been able to help with the dog and kittens—but I’d actually come to Tahiti see something a bit bigger.

  A Big One for the Bucket List

  My number one objective during my trip to French Polynesia was to achieve a lifelong goal: swimming with whales. Among whales, humpbacks are one of the species it’s realistic to hope to get near in the water. Now that I was a veterinarian with a growing social media audience, I was finding it a little easier to get connected with wildlife experts. On this trip, I scored the invite of a lifetime: I was invited to go out on a research mission aboard a small boat with Dr. Michael Poole, a marine mammal researcher. Dr. Poole has been studying whales and dolphins for over forty years, and he basically knows everything mankind has gleaned about humpbacks and their movements and habits in the South Pacific. I had so many questions for him, but before I could begin a round of Ask the Expert or even start scouting for whales I had to find a way to close my mouth and take my eyes off the stunning scenery. This is a place that’s really so beautiful it’s hard to look away. The water is a crystal blue in the depths and bright aqua in the shallows. The shoreline is made of forested, jagged peaks that jut high around you. There are so many and they’re so steep, they look like something out of a fairy tale.

  Dr. Poole had made it clear when he’d invited me to join the expedition that there would probably be plenty of time to enjoy the scenery. The most important words in whale studies, he’d said, are patience and fortitude. I hate to admit it, but even though I’ve got plenty of fortitude, patience is not my biggest strength. For the first hour we floated in the ocean, still in sight of the shore, looking out at the open water. About forty minutes in, the part of me that desperately wanted to swim with whales started thinking, No whales today. This isn’t going to happen. Not quite Woe is me, but I’d been dying to do this, and
the possibility that it might not happen was killing me just a little bit. Since we had a cameraman filming the entire outing, I was trying hard to manage my expectations. As if I would be equally fine with not encountering humpback whales that day …

  While I was trying to come to grips with the possibility of a fruitless trip, the captain (my man Captain Maui!) ran to the side of the hull and leaned over, pointing at what looked to me like more blue water. Within a minute, though, about a hundred feet off the port side of the boat, a mama humpback breached the surface. It was like she was rolling the whole ocean. Magnificent. Then her calf rolled up beside her—managing to look both massive and adorable.

  A mother-and-baby pair was what we’d hoped to find, but seeing them live and loud and beautiful in the ocean was even better than I’d imagined. Their appearance was probably the only thing that could make Tahiti more beautiful.

  As the female whale swept forward, her tail waved over the water. Aware that each whale’s tail is divided into two flukes and is unique, almost like a fingerprint, I wondered how this one was different from every other one in the world.

  On Dr. Poole’s go, we slid into the water with snorkels and fins, trying not to splash, then swam as smoothly and peacefully as we could toward the pair of whales, hoping not to disturb them. I had come a long way since my first deep-sea encounter, with manta rays in Australia. That day, in my excitement to be near them, I’d scared them all away before any of my classmates could get close. By this trip I’d (mostly) learned to contain the impulse to completely freak out at first sight. On the inside I was screaming—LOOK AT THAT!—but on the outside I was tamping it down, keeping calm, thinking, Don’t scare the whales.