Monday 21 January 2013

Leash your goddamned dog.

Asbury Park, my former hometown in the States, is a city of lakes. Its boardwalk and downtown have experienced fortune, decline and rebirth since the late 19th-century but its lakes have lapped unaffected throughout. To the south is Wesley Lake, to the north Deal Lake, and near the middle is Sunset Lake.

I lived in a building overlooking Deal Lake (right) but knew well the corroding concrete edges and waterfowl-filled islands of Sunset Lake. Walking to AP's downtown from my place required cutting through Sunset Park -- which sprawled from art deco colossus Convention Hall on the boardwalk to the predominantly African-American city's urban Main Street -- and frequently past a pair of Australian Black Swans that a Sunset Avenue resident had brought in to scare off Canadian Geese. They were a striking sight and, according to the guy who put them there, a roaring success. Canadian Geese knew better than to mess with Aussie Blacks and sought shelter elsewhere.

[Note: The article I've linked to above -- from 2007 -- reports this pair of Aussie Blacks met their demise via a car and pit bull, respectively. The resident replaced them with six additional Aussie Blacks, whom I hope enjoyed much greater safety in numbers.]

Jump forward a dozen years and, as a Wildlife Victoria (WV) volunteer, I'm now an interloper in the Aussie Blacks' native land. We don't receive many calls involving these badass birds but the few I've responded to have made me appreciate their strength, loyalty and courage.

So it was heartbreaking to handle a case that involved an animal so capable of fending for itself and its kin laying in a pile of trash, unable to move, resting its head on its neck like a wounded soldier splayed on a battlefield (left).

Like all cases, this one from last week began with a text from a WV operator describing the situation. I called the member of public who reported it -- we'll call her Blanche -- and she said she'd been at Brighton Beach and seen a dog launch itself into a group of five Aussie Blacks standing in shallow water and attack one. Blanche also described how a 'supremely kind' man had taken the attacked swan from the scene and driven it to his home. She gave me the man's Brighton address and I was soon driving to one of Melbourne's most exclusive neighbourhoods.

The man's property was abutted by million-dollar estates but a step through his gate put me in a junk yard. A literal junk yard. Overlooking the debris, on the house's second floor, were broken windows, crumbling gutters and a sagging roof. I called 'Hello' but all was quiet. An old station wagon was parked haphazardly beside an alcove so I assumed the man was home. I maneuvered past rusted cans and broken plant holders and walked into a small front room that was like a children's ball pool at a fast food restaurant, only instead of balls I was waist-high in dozens of empty cardboard boxes. Inside the house -- the front door was open -- a wiry path snaked like a rabbit trail through matted newspapers, listing furniture and piles and piles of crap.

I've visited the homes of many eccentrics as a WV volunteer but this man's house shouted mental illness. Here, in the midst of Melbourne's bayside opulence, lived a hoarder. When I first moved to Australia my in-laws watched tabloid TV on which 'suburban hoarders' were a staple, but, like natural disasters, video footage didn't convey the magnitude of such a spectacle, especially amidst Brighton's splendour. I wondered if the 'supremely kind' man had made off with the swan to eat or feed to his dog or use as a pillow or hang from the ceiling like a feathered chandelier. Anything seemed possible considering the wasteland he called home.

I left the alcove and navigated the property's obstacle course of ruination to the station wagon's open tailgate. Overhead in a tall tree loomed a half-dozen planters, each abloom with empty, upended wine bottles. Who'd hang planters eight feet in the air and fill them with empty bottles? A crazy hoarder with a thing for modern art, obviously. Inside the wagon, on a blanket of trash, lay the swan, wrapped in a wet winter coat, its red-and-white bill hung over its broad, black breast.

One of its giant, black feet would occasionally kick against the wagon's interior but otherwise it was still. My previous encounter with a full-grown Aussie Black (shown here flaunting its feathered weapons of destruction) had resulted in a full-on wingslap to the head when it objected to my objective of taking one of its injured cygnets to a vet. This swan, however, was immobile, silent ... doomed.

While removing the wet coat a voice came from the house. I answered and watched a scruffy, older gent hopscotch his way from the alcove to behind the wagon. He didn't introduce himself but helped me move the swan from its bed of trash to a container I use for transporting large animals. Its long neck was bent but its head still drooped outside the container. I held its head gently as the man -- let's call him 'Sanford' -- described how he'd been walking along Brighton Beach when he came upon a woman yelling at her dog. Looking closer he saw a swan laying in shallow water and retrieved it before the dog could cause further damage while the woman called WV on her mobile. Sanford said the woman admitted to being embarrassed by her dog's behaviour but was clueless regarding her own role in the attack.

At that moment a dog appeared beside Sanford.

"I'm more likely to harm that swan than he is," he said, as his dog sniffed the carrier. Sanford's sympathy for the swan's plight erased the myriad thoughts brought by our bombed-out surroundings, as did his generous words of appreciation for the work of WV.

I lifted the carrier and began my careful extrication from the ruins. Sanford walked beside me, the box's unneeded lid in one hand, cigarette in the other. He yelled at a barking dog behind a wealthy neighbor's fence. After loading the swan into the backseat (shown here) he thanked me for coming and said, with childlike sheepishness, "Sorry for the mess."

Less sincere words I've never heard.

My role as a WV volunteer includes arranging for veterinary care so I called around for a vet prepared to examine an injured black swan. The first said their 'bird doctor' had left for Queensland six months ago. The second, Southern Animal Research Centre (SARC), said they'd examine it. Melbourne's dry, hot summer has seen birds and possums dropping from the trees, making 24-hour vets like SARC a regular destination. A vet wasn't in when I arrived so a vet assistant asked me to bring the swan back to an examination area. I placed the swan on a table and was soon surrounded by three staff members, all women.

"I know this is a dumb question ... but is that a black swan?" asked one with an almost religious reverence.

The vet assistant and I looked for wounds but could only find a small tear on one of the bird's wings. I decided to call Blanche again for details of the attack. Despite Sanford telling me she'd been the attacking dog's owner, Blanche described how she'd stopped to photograph five swans standing peacefully just offshore when a dog jumped over rocks and latched onto the back of the one that now lay silently beside us. She said the bird tried to fly but the dog held onto its back, confirming our fear that the swan's back was broken.

I left SARC knowing the swan would be anesthetised when the vet returned. Still double-checked a few hours later with a phone call, a small flame of hope taunting my judgment. That flame was quickly doused.

Moral of story: Leash your goddamned dog.

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