Devil's Claw

by Valerie Davisson

  Solange’s still-heavy French accent made it difficult for people to understand her. Her father had brought her to California when she was fifteen, and she remembered her teacher telling him that although she picked up her new language easily, she would probably never lose her accent, because she didn’t learn English before hitting puberty. Except for those few years when she lived in California with her father, Solange lived much of her life in Paris and, later, when she married Mustafa, Morocco.

  Gina was not only easier to understand, but could answer any question about sea otters put to her.

  “Don’t sea otters compete with local fishermen? Isn’t that why there’s a ban on otters?” a man once asked.

  “Otters do eat sea urchins, which on the surface of it makes them look like competitors with local fishermen, but they actually improve the health of the kelp beds, which are home to a huge variety of animals and fish. Left unchecked, sea urchins will eat an entire kelp forest to the seafloor, creating a marine desert. Everyone loses then,” said Gina. “And to answer your second question, there was a ban at one time, created for several ill-advised reasons, but it’s been lifted.”

  When the man asked why, Gina replied, “Well, for one thing, it wasn’t very effective. You can’t tell a sea otter where he can go. They’re independent little cusses—and they don’t read signs!”

  Although not crazy about being in the spotlight, Gina had taken on these extra duties with a pragmatic shrug. So far, she had spoken at over a dozen fundraisers and the requisite environmental hearings. Whatever helped the otters.

  Finally, avoiding the temptation to pass slow-moving traffic on the right, Gina made it to Main Beach. With directions from the shore patrol, within minutes she approached the spot where an athletic woman in khaki shorts was waving her down.

  Grabbing her equipment from the jumble in the back seat, Gina slammed the gearshift into “Park,” turned off the ignition, and jumped out of the car, making her way quickly across the warm sand to the woman who had flagged her down.

  “Hi, I’m Logan, the one who called,” she said, “and that’s Amy, my daughter.” Indicating the girl standing guard over the otters, she added, “She’s the one who found them. Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “Gina,” she said, extending her free hand. “Gina Richards. Just glad I was there. I almost didn’t come in today.”

  When they reached the otters, Gina knelt down to get a closer look. The girl created some shade by holding her Levi’s jacket over the otters.

  Gina did a preliminary assessment. The mother had been dead less than twenty-four hours. No colored tags on her rear flippers, eyes present, no foul odor or dark liquid oozing from the corpse, and flies but no maggots in the fur.

  She didn’t make these observations out loud.

  Turning her attention to the otter she could save, the pup, who was breathing—just barely hanging on—Gina felt for broken bones and checked the pup’s vitals.

  “Should we keep it wet? We didn’t know what to do . . . ,” the girl asked, clearly upset, stepping back a little more so the vet could maneuver, but still hovering.

  “You’re doing fine . . .”

  “Amy,” the girl supplied. “And that’s my mom, Logan.” She mustn’t have realized introductions had already been made. “We found them this morning. The tide was going out, and we almost lost them. We pulled them up, and . . . is the mother dead for sure?”

  “You did the right thing, keeping the sun off her,” Gina said, hoping to stem the girl’s questions so she could concentrate.

  “It’s a her? You mean the baby or the mom?” Amy asked.

  Focused entirely on the small life she was trying to save, the vet didn’t respond.

  It didn’t look good. The tiny animal was too quiet. Most otter pups were very vocal, emitting piercing sounds when they were anxious or hungry.

  Probably in shock. She wouldn’t know the extent of the pup’s injuries until she got her cleaned up and on her table, but she came prepared. Transporting a newborn pup wasn’t complicated. Making sure it survived the trip was the hard part.

  Lifting her slowly off her mother’s breast, she held her gently, checked her over, then administered a subcutaneous injection, giving the injured animal essential fluids and a hefty dose of antibiotics.

  Finally, she remembered the two women were there. Logan and Amy had wisely stayed out of her way while she was working.

  “Can one of you come along?” she asked. “My assistant’s not in yet.”

  “I can!” Amy quickly volunteered, eagerly stepping forward.

  “Good. There’s a green carrier in the back of the Jeep—I need it—and there should be a towel. Bring them both over here so we can get this little girl to where I can hopefully help her.”

  Only one in ten orphaned pups was able to be saved, and even fewer qualified for rehabilitation. She would probably have to be euthanized, but Gina wasn’t giving up yet.

  Stay with me, little one.

  Amy quickly complied, bringing the towel and carrier back to Gina, who instructed her to place the carrier on the sand and hold open the wire door.

  Placing the pup gently inside, Gina latched it securely.

  She turned to Logan. “Can you wait here for animal control?”

  “Yes, of course,” Logan said.

  Once Amy was belted in the passenger side, Gina carefully put the carrier at her feet. It needed to be out of the wind and sun, and there was no time to snap on the Jeep’s soft top. Gina did take the time to instruct Amy to don thick leather gloves. She was to steady the wire carrier but make sure her hands stayed on the outside.

  “Even a baby sea otter can deliver a nasty bite,” she warned, “especially an injured one.”

  “Shouldn’t we wrap it in a blanket?”

  “No, she’d overheat,” Gina said.

  She fired up the engine.

  Hang in there, little girl.

  “Shore patrol will be back with animal control soon. You can hitch a ride back with them.”

  5

  Thursday, July 2, 2015, 9:30 a.m.

  Feeling useless, Logan watched as the Jeep sped away, skimming across the hard-packed sand, saltwater spraying out from under the tires.

  Animal control got there quickly. Rolling the carcass unceremoniously onto a tarp and loading it in the back of their van only took a few minutes. They said they were taking it to the sea otter center.

  The driver explained, “It’s the law. Any sea otter found dead anywhere in California has to be examined to determine the cause of death.”

  “They do an autopsy on them?” Logan asked.

  “It’s called necropsy for animals,” he said, showing off a little.

  She had more questions, like why did they need to perform a necropsy when the cause of death was obvious—something had tried to take a bite out of this one—but she knew by the look on his face she’d exhausted the man’s knowledge . . . and patience.

  Besides, the flies had followed. It was time to go.

  Opting to skip sharing the return trip with a dead sea mammal, Logan got a ride back with the lifeguards. On the way, she called Liam to let him know why they weren’t back yet. He said he’d meet them at the center, but Logan told him she was already on her way to pick Amy up. Liam wouldn’t hang up until she promised to bring Amy straight back to the cottage. Logan wasn’t used to having to answer to anyone else in regards to her own daughter, but she reassured him she would.

  Thirty minutes later, she was heading north on PCH, obeying most traffic laws. Making a left at Goldenrod, she drove past a larger-than-life, whiskered sea otter smiling down at her from a carved wooden sign.

  Welcome to the Southern Sea Otter Sanctuary and Education Center

  Quite a mouthful. They could call it SSOS for short, but saying the first two S’s together ma
de it sound like you had a speech impediment.

  About one hundred feet in, the road came to a T. A small, clearly lettered sign directed school buses, delivery vehicles, and employees to the left, everyone else to the right. She went right and parked.

  Crunching to a stop, she had her pick of spaces. She was relieved to see someone had left one of the large entrance doors propped open.

  The artist’s rendering on the brochure hadn’t done it justice. The elegant building fit the landscape beautifully, perched on the edge of a bluff, overlooking a small cove bound by Devil’s Claw on the south and a steep cliff on the right. Frank Lloyd Wright would have approved.

  While the engine ticked, Logan got out of the car and regrouped. She had no idea what to expect when she went inside. If the pup didn’t make it, she’d have to gather her heartbroken daughter back into the car and drive her home. She knew how attached Amy got to animals. When she was eight and her guinea pig died, she’d cried herself to sleep for a week.

  The glass entrance doors were set in an undulating wall of colored tile. As she approached, the colors rolled through turquoise to bottle green to ultramarine blue, mimicking the constant movement of the Pacific. The effect was immediate. It felt as if she were swimming through a giant, playful wave.

  Taking the open door as an invitation, she went in.

  It took a minute for her eyes to adjust. Directly in front of her, a sleek reception desk sat in the middle of an airy space, curving to match the bend of the wall behind it.

  Sea-star tiles embedded in the polished concrete floor created three meandering paths for visitors to follow: left, right, or straight past the desk to the back. To the right was the entrance to the gift shop. Long shades were drawn down inside all the floor-to-ceiling windows. Against vandals, she assumed. If it were already stocked, merchandise on open display would be quite a temptation.

  About forty feet behind the counter, sunlight streamed in a couple of exit doors, beyond which she could see a short path. Framed by artistically arranged granite boulders and coastal scrub, the path went right up to the edge of the bluff, to a paved area with benches, a metal rail, and several telescopes facing toward the ocean. Breathtaking view.

  A left turn at the reception desk took you toward what would be the main attraction: the otter exhibit. A velvet rope marked the entrance. Rescued animals who could not be released back into the wild successfully would serve as ambassadors to the public for their species.

  Logan wondered if the pup would live long enough to be the first to enjoy the fancy new digs. She couldn’t imagine how much something like this cost. All this for one group of animals, animals that, for most Southern Californians, were only a fond memory. Wanting to do more than help people remember sea otters, Solange wanted to bring them back, or at least support those who came back on their own. Logan read something to that effect in the SSOS mission statement on the back of the brochure. A lot of environmental groups were behind it: Friends of the Sea Otter, California Coastal Commission, StayWild, and others she hadn’t heard of.

  On the left, a low bench ran along the front wall, ending in a bank of elevators. Beyond that were several closed doors.

  Not knowing which of those doors might lead to Amy, Logan had just about decided to try each one but was saved by the bell. Or the ding, anyway. One of the elevators opened, disgorging a smiling twentysomething man. He leaned out, blocking the doors to keep them from closing.

  “Hi, you must be Logan. Come on back—everyone’s downstairs.”

  His T-shirt boasted the same friendly otter face as the one that greeted her from the sign as she drove in.

  “Thanks,” she said, having to look slightly down to make eye contact. The man couldn’t have been more than five foot six.

  “Dennis,” he said, offering his hand in a firm shake. “Gina’s assistant.”

  6

  Tuesday, July 2, 2015

  There were three choices: “1,” “2,” and “L.” He pushed the button for “2.”

  “How’d you know I was here?” Logan asked.

  “Security cam. There’s one hooked up in the lab, but it doesn’t work yet. They started with the outside. We’ve had some vandalism. They’re still adjusting it.”

  “Oh . . . how’s the otter pup doing?”

  “She’s pretty weak, but if anyone can save her, Gina can. She was famous for taking on hopeless cases at the Slough.”

  “The Slough?”

  “Yeah, Elkhorn Slough—it’s an estuary about fourteen miles north of Monterey, one of the main field research areas. There are a bunch of sea otters up there. Well, not a bunch, but more than there are here. Gina was one of the vets in charge of the orphaned sea otter rehabilitation program at the aquarium.”

  Every time she heard the word, Logan told herself she was going to find out exactly what estuary meant—some kind of water marsh, she thought. It seemed like a seventh grade science word she should know. She wanted to ask but waited a beat too long. The smooth elevator ride ended with a lurch.

  “They need to fix that,” Dennis said.

  The high-end finishes of the public area upstairs did not extend to the first floor. This part of the center was obviously built for work, not show.

  “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s got everything we need,” Dennis said.

  “Found her!” he announced. Looking like a cross between a science lab and an industrial kitchen, the twenty-by-thirty room was all white cabinets, buckets, and stainless steel sinks. Except for a set of sliding glass doors in the back, every inch of wall space was lined with pegboard, putting an impressive collection of knives, clamps, and hoses within easy reach. A large steel-topped island dominated the middle of the room.

  That’s where Amy was, sitting on a stool, watching Gina gently work on her little patient while Dennis picked up a clipboard to continue recording the results of the exam.

  “One-point-eight kilograms.”

  Logan did the calculations in her head. About four pounds. That’s not much less than Amy weighed. Born five weeks premature, she almost didn’t make it. As soon as she came out, it was obvious something was wrong. All Logan saw before they whisked her baby away was the tiny infant’s purple face. She’d been in labor so long she was too weak to lift her head. All she could do was lie there. No one told her what was going on.

  She still remembered the rush of relief she felt when the nurse finally placed the living, breathing miracle in her arms. A halo of white-blond fuzz. Such soft, soft skin. And almost translucent, blue-veined eyelids. Perfect.

  “It’s a girl,” the nurse had said, “and she’s hungry.”

  Dennis’s voice brought her back to the present.

  “How’s she doing?” he asked.

  “She’s QAR.”

  “Quiet, alert, and responsive,” Dennis explained to Logan and Amy. He turned back to Gina. “Want me to fix up a bottle?”

  “Yep, don’t know how long it’s been since this little girl ate. Blood sugar’s low. We’ll see if she accepts it.”

  After the pup had successfully sucked down her lunch, Gina carried her into an isolation room, placing her in a plain fourteen-by-six tank. A clear plexiglass wall gave Logan and Amy a good view.

  Floating aimlessly like a furry cork, the pup opened her eyes. Two shiny black marbles set in a furry light-brown face looked all around, checking out her new world. Her fur looked lighter now that she was cleaned up. Paws, back flippers, and nose were black.

  For a few seconds, Logan made eye contact with the pup. She swore it smiled, but it was probably only wiggling its whiskers. It looked so helpless, bobbing there, but also totally unconcerned, trusting that someone was going to take care of it. The resilience of life. Just a couple of hours ago, this newborn lay near death and almost certainly would be dead if Amy hadn’t spotted her and help gotten there in time.

&n
bsp; After a few minutes, Gina pulled the pup out onto a slightly raised platform lined with a rubber mat and began towel drying her. Another platform anchored the other end.

  “That’s the haul out,” Dennis said. “Newborn pups can’t do much more than float, so we have to do everything for them their mothers would do. You have to keep them clean and dry.”

  Amy, once again wearing her Levi’s jacket, arms wrapped around herself to keep warm, kept her eyes glued on the pup as Gina completed the drying, then began combing and brushing its fur.

  “If you don’t keep their fur super clean, water gets in and they can get hypothermia and die,” he said.

  “Doesn’t their blubber keep them warm?” Amy asked.

  “Otters don’t have a layer of blubber like seals do. They only have fur. Grooming like that traps air bubbles inside. Insulates them. It also stimulates their oil glands to keep the hair waterproof.”

  “Why does the tank have to be in a separate room?”

  “It’s an isolation tank—abandoned orphans don’t have very strong immune systems.”

  “She wasn’t abandoned. Her mother died,” Amy said.

  “Well, yeah, of course, she . . . that’s just what they call any pup left on the beach . . . ,” Dennis said. His voice trailed awkwardly.

  Gina emerged from the small room, peeling off a pair of light-blue rubber gloves. Immediately, the newborn pup began to complain . . . loudly.

  “Eeeeeee! Eeeeeee!”

  “Make that VAR,” Gina said with a wide smile. “Vocal, alert, and responsive.”

  Turning to Dennis, she added, “We’d better start a schedule.”

  Once a round-the-clock care and feeding schedule had been created, which Amy, of course, volunteered for, they rode the elevator back up to the main level. Amy said Liam would help, and Logan was pretty sure Brandon and Jeff would jump at the chance to help feed and care for a baby sea otter, too.

  Logan suspected Liam would agree just to make sure Amy didn’t tire herself out. Dennis took the night shift, with Gina on call. Amy, Liam, Logan, and her students, if they were available, were to arrive at 8:00 a.m. for training.