One Young Fool in Dorset

by Victoria Twead

  Many baby birds were brought to our sanctuary by rescuers and we had a success rate of about 50%. Some had fallen out of their nests and needed constant feeding. Others were rescued from the jaws of a cat or dog and brought to us. It was always sad when we lost a little bird, but a triumph when we succeeded, when the baby thrived and was eventually set free.

  Unfortunately, many well-meaning rescuers don’t know that a baby bird with all his feathers is usually a fledgeling, and isn’t necessarily needing help. He hasn’t fallen out of the nest at all. He’s ready to take the big step into the outside world. It’s a dangerous time but he needs a couple of days on the ground. If the would-be rescuer leaves the little thing alone and watches, he’ll probably see the fledgeling’s mother appearing to feed him and teach him how to survive.

  Sometimes we cared for deer that had been knocked down by cars. They were difficult patients because they often died of shock, even when their injuries weren’t extensive.

  The Special Care unit was where pregnant rescue cats and dogs came to give birth to their litters. One of our jobs was to fuss and play with the pups and kittens, to socialise them, and make them familiar with human handling. Being paid to play with puppies and kittens? I couldn’t believe my luck!

  In addition, there were two long-term residents of the Special Care unit. Sandy and Gordon had already been at the sanctuary for years before I joined, and stayed after I left.

  20 Gordon the Gannet

  Dorset Mackerel with Gooseberries

  Sandy was a large, affectionate golden retriever and was beloved by us all. In turn, he loved everybody and was happiest leaning against somebody’s leg as they stroked his head and played with his soft ears. Only Pepper, the vicious Jack Russell with the deformed leg, had been in the sanctuary longer.

  Anyone meeting or looking at him would never guess there was anything wrong with him, but poor Sandy was an epileptic. Several times a day, he would freeze, and his soft brown eyes would glaze over, the signal that another fit was imminent. Then his body would go stiff and he’d fall to the ground on his side. Now he had lost control. He foamed at the mouth and his body jerked as he paddled with all four limbs. It was heartbreaking to see, and there was nothing we could do to help him. The fits generally lasted between 30 and 90 seconds but seemed to go on for ever. When the seizure subsided, Sandy was left confused and disoriented, and in need of much petting and reassurance.

  The fits were so frequent, it was considered most unlikely that Sandy would ever find a new home. So he was kept in the Special Care unit where we could keep an eye on and give him as much attention as he needed.

  The other permanent patient was very different. Gordon, the gannet, (otherwise known as Thatbloodygreatbadtemperedseabird) was a big character at the sanctuary. Apart from an emu I met briefly many years later, Gordon was probably the most foul-tempered bird I have ever encountered. He had been found on a beach, exhausted, being tormented by a couple of dogs. A lady happened to be walking along the waterline and saw what was going on.

  “Hey! Clear off!” she shouted at the dogs. “Leave that bird alone!”

  The dogs ran off and she looked down at the bird. He didn’t look injured, but he couldn’t fly and she was determined not to desert him.

  “Okay, bird,” she said, approaching Gordon. “I’m going to pick you up, put you in my car and take you to the vet for a check over.”

  Gordon glared at her.

  Before she could even reach down, Gordon’s razor-sharp beak slashed her hand.

  “Okay, bird,” she said, mopping her bleeding hand with a handkerchief, “let’s do this another way.”

  Gordon glared at her.

  The lady unzipped her jacket and threw it over Gordon. Gordon squawked, but she managed to wrap him up and secure his wicked beak. She carried him to her car and took him straight to the local vet.

  Luckily, there was no queue, and she and Gordon were admitted right away.

  “Ah, so you’ve brought me some sort of seabird, have you?” asked the vet, staring at the webbed feet protruding from the jacket. “Just pop him on the table.”

  “He’s got a very…”

  Too late. As the vet tugged off the jacket, Gordon’s beak was free. He whipped it round and took a chunk out of the vet’s hand.

  “...sharp beak,” finished the lady.

  The vet called his nurse.

  “Brenda, could you restrain this lady’s gannet please, while I attend to my cut hand and the gannet owner’s cut hand?”

  He disinfected and bandaged both their wounds, then addressed himself to Gordon. Gordon’s beak was now taped shut but that didn’t stop him glaring balefully at all three of them.

  “Oh, he’s a gannet is he?” asked the lady. “And he’s not mine, I just found him on the beach being barked at and tormented by a couple of dogs.”

  “Did he try to fly?”

  “No, not that I saw.”

  The vet unfurled Gordon’s wings, one after the other, and examined each closely.

  Gordon’s eyes narrowed in threat.

  “Well, I can’t see anything wrong with his wings. Or the rest of him. I’d say he’s a young bird and he got caught in that storm last night. I think he’s exhausted. A good rest and feed and he’ll be as right as rain.”

  “I can’t look after him,” said the lady. “I know nothing about gannets and I have to go to work. Can I leave him here?”

  Gordon’s eyes became evil slits.

  “I’m afraid we can’t take him either,” said the vet. “I suggest you drop him off at the animal sanctuary. Tell them he needs a rest and a feed, and I’m sure they’ll look after him then set him free in a few days when he’s got his strength back again.”

  The lady very kindly did exactly that. She delivered Gordon to the animal sanctuary, and relayed what the vet had said.

  “Be careful,” she warned. “His beak is lightning fast. He’s already drawn blood twice!” She pointed to her bandaged hand. “He got me and he got the vet, too.”

  Gordon blinked malevolently.

  “Well, I must be off. I’ll leave you to it,” she said, and left.

  The Special Care unit manager, Simon, found a vacant pen with an empty pond which he reckoned would do nicely for Gordon’s short stay.

  “This’ll do, Tony,” he said to his long-haired assistant. “I’ll pop out and buy some fish for him, and we’ll fill his pond up tomorrow. He should be good to release in a few days.”

  Never work with children or animals; they’ll always surprise you.

  A gannet in the wild

  Tony the Hippy was very careful and managed to release Gordon’s beak without mishap. He left Gordon glaring round his temporary pen and waited for Simon to return. Simon arrived back from the fishmonger with a selection of fish for Gordon.

  “How’s Gordon been?” he asked.

  “Cool, man, groovy.”

  Tony quickly chopped up the fish.

  “I’ll try him with this,” said Simon and entered the pen.

  He dumped the fish onto the ground, watching Gordon’s reaction. Gordon peered at the mound of fish.

  “I think he’s interested,” Simon said to Tony.

  But Gordon wasn’t interested. Next morning the mound of fish was exactly as they’d left it, except it was crawling with flies and beginning to smell.

  The worldwide web hadn’t yet been invented. In those days, if one wanted to research a subject, one had to go to the library, or buy a book about it, or ask an expert.

  There wasn’t a library close to hand, or a bookshop. They didn’t know any gannet experts, so they did the next best thing, they phoned the vet.

  “Could you tell us what gannets eat, please?”

  “Hmm… Seawater fish, of course. I’m guessing mackerel and local species. Hasn’t he eaten anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh,” said the vet suddenly. “I’ve just remembered something from my student days. I believe you need to ke
ep the fish whole, don’t cut them up. Did you chop them up?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “Right, keep them whole in future, heads, tails, everything. Then grab the tail and waggle it like mad so that the bird thinks its alive. They’re not attracted to dead fish.”

  “Oh! Right! We’ll try that then.”

  “Take care, his beak is really sharp.”

  “Don’t worry, he hasn’t tried anything with us yet.”

  Simon was hopeful and shot out to buy some fresh, whole, local, fish. He returned with a bag full, their tails poking out of the top.

  “Let’s see if this’ll tempt him,” said Simon. “Do you want to try, or shall I?”

  “Hey, man, I’ll have a go,” said Tony the Hippy.

  He grabbed a fish, let himself into Gordon’s pen and crouched down. Holding the fish firmly by the tail, he waggled it in Gordon’s direction. Gordon eyed him warily from the other side of the pen.

  “He’s watching,” said Simon, “keep waggling!”

  Gordon shrugged his shoulders, then started lumbering towards Tony and the fish, his webbed feet slapping the ground.

  “Yes!” said Simon. “He’s interested! He’s coming over! Keep waggling the fish!”

  Gordon was gathering momentum and moving faster now, heading for Tony and the fish, a gleam in his eye.

  “Come on, man,” said Tony encouragingly. “You must be starving, come and take a big bite.”

  Gordon reached the fish, stretched out his neck … and took a chunk out of Tony’s hand.

  “Ow!” yelled Tony, jumping back with more energy than hippies usually display. “Listen, you bloody over-sized seagull, I was just trying to feed you!”

  Tony needed first aid for the nasty cut that Gordon had inflicted.

  “Hey,” he told me much later, holding out his hand for me to see. “I still have the scar.”

  And Gordon still hadn’t been fed. Simon phoned the vet again and told him the latest developments.

  “Looks like you’ll have to force feed him,” said the vet. “You’ll need to push the fish down his neck. About three or four good-sized fish. Every day.”

  This wasn’t good news for the staff or Gordon, but it needed to be done. Simon and Tony worked out the best way to do it, and it was a two-man job requiring sturdy gloves.

  This was the procedure:

  Using a board, herd Gordon into a corner of his pen.

  Grab Gordon’s neck with one hand, and his beak in the other.

  Kneel astride Gordon, to keep him still and his powerful wings folded, whilst still holding onto his beak. (Gannets have a wingspan of up to two metres, or six and a half feet.)

  Pull his beak open, pointing up, so that the fish will go straight down the neck.

  Ram the fish down Gordon’s throat.

  Poor Gordon. It was a terribly undignified operation and can’t have been comfortable. However, it worked, and Gordon grew stronger, although his temper never improved.

  Simon and Tony hoped that, when his pond was filled with water, Gordon might become more contented. They ran a hose into the pen and began to fill the pond. Gordon backed away to the far corner, glaring at the hose as though it was a vicious serpent. Even when the pond was filled to the brim and the hosepipe removed, he refused to come out of his corner.

  “Hey man, what’s the matter with that dude now?” asked Tony. “I thought he’d go and have a paddle at least.”

  But Gordon hated his pond and wouldn’t go near it.

  The next surprise came the following day. Having been force-fed several fish, Gordon was squirting all over the place, and his pen was a mess. Tony decided to hose everything down and pulled on his wellington boots and thick gloves in preparation. He let himself into the pen.

  Gordon glared at him and the hosepipe.

  Tony switched on the water and aimed a jet at the ground, washing Gordon’s messes away.

  Gordon, shivering, shrank into the corner as far away as possible. Tony needed to finish the job and did so as quickly as he could, not wanting to distress the bird.

  “Hey, you know what?” he remarked to Simon later. “I reckon that gannet is afraid of water.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Ridiculous it may have been, but Gordon the Gannet turned out to be an anorexic, aquaphobic, human-hating, non-flying seabird. How had he, a bird who wouldn’t fly and hated water, survived in the wild at all? It was a puzzling question.

  Gordon couldn’t be released; he had come to stay. They drained the water out of his pond and he was much happier, although he had to endure the daily hosing out of his pen. He never fed himself and had to be force-fed daily.

  Gannets live between 17 and 37 years so Gordon became the longest staying permanent resident in the sanctuary, even longer than Sandy the epileptic golden retriever or Pepper, the limping, confrontational Jack Russell. When I arrived at the sanctuary, Gordon had already been there some time, and he was still going strong, slashing anyone who came too close, after I left. I was never allowed near him as I was a casual worker and not insured against his onslaughts.

  How did I know Gordon’s story in such detail? I knew because I had found my first ‘proper’ boyfriend, a fellow member of staff at the sanctuary.

  21 Tony the Hippy

  Quick and Easy Sausage and Mash Pie

  Although Bournemouth was, and still is, a favourite destination for the retired, it is also a centre for language students. My school friends lived in the Poole district, and I lived even further away, in Wareham, but Bournemouth was where the action was, and where we could go to discos and meet boys.

  We had a number of favourite haunts where we’d go on Friday and Saturday nights. Top of the list was probably Le Kilt, where admission was often free for girls. We spent all week at school planning and discussing what we were going to wear, then arrived dressed up to the nines. There, as the music blasted out James Brown and the Bee Gees, we met and danced with an assortment of students from all over the world.

  As Le Kilt was in Bournemouth, it was difficult for me because I lived so far away. Luckily, Jo often invited me back to her house and we would get ready together. Sometimes I stayed the night, or I caught the milk train back to Wareham in the early hours of the morning. It cost me nothing as I had a season ticket because I caught the train to school every day.

  We met a huge variety of foreign boys. I remember one Libyan boy, who I dated once, giving me a present. I was really pleased with it and took it home.

  “Ach, what is that terrible smell?” asked my mother soon after.

  I sniffed the air.

  “What does it smell like?” I asked.

  “It smells like a very big old dog has sneaked into the house and died,” she said.

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

  “Yes, like a very smelly dog,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You haven’t brought home a stray dog?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Humph! Something is making that smell.”

  She prowled around the house, sniffing the air until her nose led her up the staircase.

  “It’s getting stronger!”

  She quickened her pace then sniffed her way into my bedroom.

  “I found it!” she crowed in triumph, then pointed. “What is that on your bed, may I ask?”

  All heaped up, it did look a bit like a big scruffy dog, or some other large animal. But it wasn’t. It was my new Afghan coat.

  For those who are unfamiliar with the Afghan coat, I will explain. It is a sheepskin or goatskin coat made with the fleece on the inside and the soft suede-like leather on the outside. It is often exquisitely embroidered with highly coloured silk thread. Afghan coats were first sold on London’s Kings Road in 1966, where they were discovered, worn and made famous by the Beatles.

  Good Afghan coats are cured and tanned professionally. However, numerous bad imitations flooded the market. These were coarsely embroidered and poorly cured. The Afghan coat I was
given was definitely one of the latter. Most of the time it was inoffensive and smelt of nothing, but woe betide if I wore it in the rain. Then it became a reeking, fetid monster. It smelled so bad that my mother made me hang it in the garden shed; it wasn’t allowed in the house.

  I wonder whatever happened to that Afghan coat? It became so lively after getting damp that it may well have walked itself back to Afghanistan.

  I had other colourful boyfriends who also gave me strange exotic gifts, but I lost my heart properly for the first time to Tony the Hippy, one of the permanent workers at the animal sanctuary.

  With hindsight, it was all very one-sided. I would watch Tony as he mixed Sandy’s dog food, and my heart would lurch. But Tony never noticed me.

  “Hey, give this to Sandy,” he would say, passing me the bowl.

  If our fingers touched, it felt like an electric spark had arced between our hands. I froze, savouring the moment.

  “For Sandy,” he repeated, looking at me as though I didn’t have both metaphorical oars in the water.

  “Yes. For Sandy,” I repeated.

  I gulped and turned away, my face on fire.

  Tony the Hippy wore his dirty blonde hair long and he sported a bristly moustache like Peter Starstedt. Beads swung around his neck and his jeans were flared and tattered. His floral shirts bore slogans of peace. I thought he was wonderful. I would find any excuse to work in the Special Care unit so I could be near him, but he never noticed me.

  Being a permanent member of staff, Tony lived on-site in an old caravan. It was propped up on a pile of bricks, knee-deep in weeds. When Tony was off-duty, I would hear the strains of Bob Dylan or Joan Baez floating from his window, along with wafts of strange-smelling cigarette smoke. Sometimes he’d strum along to the music on his own guitar, and I would listen mesmerised. But he never noticed me.