surprise. more seals.

Okay, so I'm sure you're getting sick of my seal posts, especially as they've been relatively depressing. This one, I'm sorry to say, is not much different. But since I rearranged my seal shifts to accommodate my upcoming trip to Normal, Illinois and accidentally ended up with 4 days in a row, all I've really had going on this week has been seals. I had six animals to show for it, two of the them sloppy seconds from Tuesday night, and a couple of critters left on the beaches. Still, it took me a while to post about them as I've spent the last two days reading the final Harry Potter book (I know, dork), about which I will say nothing, in case you actually care and are still reading yourself...

So starting with the sloppy seconds, SwanSong was impressive, even intimidating in size, (130 kg) but he turned out to be one of the sweetest and most polite sea lions I've met in a while. He'd been seizing on the beach in Pismo Tuesday night. I had the pleasure of giving him an injection Wednesday morning. I'd fretted about it the night before (hearing he'd required four boarders for his first injection), but I found him rather loopy and relatively approachable. The real challenge was boxing and lifting him as we had to ship him in a metal carrier which weighed at least another 100 pounds. Thank goodness for once I had all of three men on my schedule. As much as I'm fond of saying it takes a man to catch a man, it definitely takes a man to ship a man...

Hummus must've come off the drive on beach. This I know because the State Parks girl has been doing a Greek appetizer theme all summer. Hummus was allegedly too difficult to tube feed, so it was lucky for me that he was hungry enough by morning to eat his fish offer instead. Also, he was apparently still quite thirsty as all he wanted to do was drink his pool water. Again, much as I usually resent my sloppy seconds, I'm glad to have had them as they are still in treatment (unlike most of my own animals).

So before we had a chance to ship off the big boy and the thirsty one, we got a call about an animal on Morro Rock. Other than the customary running of the poison oak gauntlet (resulting in the itching I have on my arms, thank you short sleeves), this was the easiest Morro Rock rescue ever. Our little guy, SeaChili, was very close to the start of the trail and was tiny (14 kg) so he was exceedingly easy to carry out. One of my rescue crew stayed up on the bluff and snapped these pictures of my approach.

Followed by the moment of capture. Don't you love how my stealthy team comes out from hiding? You can barely see them in the first shot (and SeaChili couldn't really see them at all). We look so professional. I'm proud. In truth, SeaChili saw me coming the whole time but simply felt too miserable to run away.

It became obvious why SeaChili was such easy prey when we examined his swollen hind end at the site. I regret not making a better case for Butorphanol as I cringe when I look back at the pictures... He ended up dying by Friday, most likely from septicemia, they say. They're thinking all that swelling was from a perforated organ, not a broken limb. Still, how uncomfortable.

Wednesday night, instead of attending the staff meeting, I convinced a couple of volunteers to swing by the drive on beach to pick up Butterball. Butterball was a harbor seal yearling - a very unusual stranding as we usually only see the dependent pups - who'd been used as a chew toy for a shark. You can see here the slice down her nose, but you can't see the majority of the wounds on her body. We flushed them all clean and gave her antibiotics and something for the pain. We were delighted to see she'd made it through to the morning. Unfortunately, the vets determined Thursday that the shark had done too much internal damage to be repaired. Sadly, it wasn't the most dramatic wounds that were deadly. Instead, the more subtle wounds were incurred while being shaken (not stirred) and these resulted in the perforated organs.

Just after we shipped Butterball early Thursday morning, I sent another volunteer down to the drive on beach for Sadjaw. This was the worst broken jaw I've seen yet. This picture doesn't successfully mask the damage, but it's a lot less gruesome than the ones I sent to Sausalito to convince them to euthanize her mid transport (in Santa Cruz). Like Workout, this gal's injury was likely caused by a seal bomb. In this case you could still see a flash burn on her neck.

I thought I'd have nightmares about Sadjaw, but apparently my cats were more on my mind. That's cuz OC spent Thursday in the hospital (again with the chronic constipation - triggered, I can only presume, from my 32 hours spent in Santa Cruz?) only to return there first thing Friday morning (to repair the laceration on his tongue he'd suffered while waking up from anesthesia...). He's fine now. In fact, he spent the day reading Harry Potter with me. He's always quite lovable after his hospitalizations, come to think of it. I'd like to believe it's gratitude, but it's more likely self preservation, as with each incident I'm increasingly urged by my sister (who is apparently no longer his medical benefactor) to euthanize him. He's openly bitter that he's been restricted from dry food (his favorite) and I'm sorry to report that Fancy Feast, like blackbirds, seems to inspire his feline flatulence.

So adding injury to injury, Propeller here came off the drive on beach Friday morning. We assume it was a boat that tore the hole in his shoulder. Lucky for him his wound was fresh and he had full mobility in his all important front flippers. Even so, vet staff was talking euthanasia, but in this case my photos were sent in the seal's defense. Propeller was so full of life, in fact, that he very nearly disfigured me in an unfortunate cross boarding mishap. My inexperienced boarders lost sight of their two goals - protect the one without a board (that would be me) and keep your eyes on the bitey end. We pretty much simultaneously realized the situation had gotten out of hand. They were yelling "stop" while I was just yelling. I left my needle in the animal and as I retreated he grabbed my bottle of betadine, bit a hole in it (shaking it for full effect) and demonstrated what he'd like to do to my face. We decided to give him his last injection an hour later (and with a different cross boarder). Happily, Propeller was accepted into treatment, though he does face a serious risk of infection.

Before I had a chance to deliver Propeller to the site, I came across Lexi. I found her accidentally, on the way to check an inaccessible, entangled girl, who wasn't (I learned later) there anyway. Like many of my seal rescuing pals, I cannot drive past a beach without scanning for anomalies. In this case, I knew the rock in the tideline was not really a rock, as it hadn't been there the day before. Sadly, I found it was a seizing, totally unresponsive sea lion. She'd been there a while, I'd guessed, as the sea gulls had already pecked one of her eyes. I called for help, which soon arrived. Against my better judgment, my help convinced me that maybe, just maybe, my two wheel drive truck could make it through the soft sand and out to the seal (saving us the hike across the beach). I wasn't at all surprised to see my truck stranded mere seconds later. Miraculously, with the help of brawny beachgoers, we got my truck unstuck and we even made it back through the same stretch of sand on the return pass. Still, it was a foolish thing to do, with two seals in boxes already. It won't happen again. So as you may have surmised from my not so subtle note of foreboding, Lexi is also no longer with us.

On Saturday, the last of my four day run, I got a call on the one I'd been looking for when I'd found Lexi. We've been calling her (not so creatively) "entangled girl." She was on an inaccessible dock - no stairs down, no ladder up, always covered with sea lions - but after seeing this photo (which I only got by sticking my head through a fence from the pier above) we started thinking we might make an attempt by boat. We even had our most skilled staff person in town (teaching, of all things, a class on dock rescue). Once we had our plan in place, however, our entangled girl went missing in action.

Saturday night my team also whiffed on a skinny yearling out on the jetty at Morro Rock. I feel guilty as I wasn't there (I went out to dinner in SLO, hoping to be nearer the entangled girl in case we got the call to action) but I've definitely whiffed on the jetty myself, so there's no guarantee I could have done any better. I went out and watched a glorious sunset there (hoping he'd haul back out), enjoying the company of a handful of hungry otters, each one looking like it might be my sea lion. After sticking my shoe in an errant puddle (my penance, I guess, for not being there earlier) I worked my way back out across the rocks, defeated by the anti-climatic ending to my busy week.

And soon I'm off to Normal. I know there's a pun in there somewhere, but I'm too tired to come up with it. Not sure if I'll have computer access there, but if I do at least I will be forced to post about something other than seals...

3 cuties and their ugly stepsister

This morning I had the pleasure of shipping off yesterday's yearlings. I usually don't enjoy the leftovers (I call them sloppy seconds) as it's all of the scrubbing with none of the glory, but today the seals were too adorable to resent. Hut here was taken into custody Saturday afternoon for being skinny and hanging around the Harbor Hut restaurant in my neighborhood. It's not such a bad place for a sea lion, really, but they tend to attract a crowd. And it isn't the easiest place to rescue (all rocks and they see you coming) so if Hut got himself caught that's definitely his own fault.

Cabo San Luis, on the other hand, at least had this lovely hole in his neck to justify his captivity. He came in from Avila Beach and I'm pretty sure he's the one we got a call on (but couldn't find) late Friday night. The hole doesn't look so bad - it's most likely just a popped abscess - but I can't imagine it feels all that great. He was noticeably grumpier and more lethargic than his neighbor. Still, he was well behaved when it came time to leave. He boxed himself up quite politely.

We thought perhaps we'd gotten off easy - an uneventful transport, a couple of dirty pens, an excuse to go out to breakfast - but alas, the skeleton Sunday crew had some glory coming its way after all. Our first rescue was in our least favorite location (a place called the Sandspit) and, in fact, it wasn't even really on the Sandspit. Our seal was between the Sandspit and our second least favorite location, the aptly named Hazard Canyon. Though it only took 20 minutes to hike out to her, it took more than an hour to carry her out. And of course she couldn't be a dainty little yearling. Feo was 59 kg of full grown adult female.

I considered sparing you any photographic evidence of Feo, but then I found this deceptively tame shot. It fails to adequately capture the depth and the horror of her broken maxilla. You can tell her features are askew, sure, but you can't really tell why. And if you fooled yourself just a little, you could almost come to believe that the red tint on her fur was a trick of the setting sun. You wouldn't have to know that she was still all bloody from her struggle against my net. In particular, what you can't see here is that there's a perfect little (presumably man made) hole in the center of all that mess.

Much as I love to pass off the throwing of the net, I had to catch this girl on my own. I was first on the scene and my cohorts were not willing to bring down the carrier unless I had something to put in it. Perhaps even more impressive than the fact that I caught and carried her, is the fact that I was able to weigh her all by myself. It was anything but graceful, getting all 79 kg of seal and carrier on and off the scale twice (the first time I got an error message), but I was determined to succeed. I had sent the rest of the crew on another rescue and it just didn't seem fair to leave Feo boxed up any longer than necessary. Unfortunately, I still had to wait for them to return before I could administer her sorely needed pain meds. At least I've got a chance to make it up to her, as my incredibly sweet hubby has agreed to go back out there with me to give her a midnight dose. There's likely precious little that vet staff can do for her tomorrow. The least we can do is keep her free of pain.

Though I could've enjoyed having help off loading Feo, I was glad the rest of the crew went and rescued Surely here. It was nice to have a patient who wasn't in any way disturbing. In fact, Surely was rather acrobatic and entertaining. Interestingly, Surely had been loitering in the same neighborhood as Hut and was equally unacceptably approachable. I like that this shot shows his ribs and hip bones, because at 18 kg, we probly should have considered relocating him. But as I've said before, I firmly believe if you can catch them, you can keep them.

Anyway, I guess I'm off to dope up Feo one last time. No seals for me tomorrow. Instead I'm off to Santa Cruz for a visit with the nieces...

a few more days, a few more seals

So the past few days brought a few more seals and a little more sunburn. It all started Wednesday afternoon with a trip to the nudie beach. Although I made a point of grabbing my sunglasses before I left, it turns out I didn't need them. The helpful nudists had put on pants before we got there. Our animal was an entangled sea lion, sitting in the tideline, so as the coward who likes to stay dry, I mostly just watched. Even on the steep hike back out, I let the boys do the heavy lifting. Getting myself up the hill was unfortunately heavy lifting enough.

Our patient, which the not-naked nudists named Untied, was 36 kg. Since his twine neck tie was pretty simple, vet staff allowed us to cut it off on site. Though I'm a chicken when it comes to throwing the net, I was first to volunteer to take him down. Honestly, it wasn't much of a feat (we got to get him stoned first and someone else helped hold down his front flippers), but it seemed pretty exciting at the time. I found the biggest, wettest towel, and got a decent wrap around his head but I felt very alone in the second just before jumping on him.

Untied looks pretty much the same in his "after" pictures. I like this one as you can see (sort of) that he's essentially as tall as I am. The camera couldn't capture it, so you'll just have to believe me that he was feeling notably more chipper the next morning. He willingly ate his fish offer (having been too stoned the night before) and then rolled around scratching at his healing neck and the presumably itchy tar patches on his shoulder and hip. They'll put him in one of the salt water pools in Sausalito, no doubt, and he'll be out again in no time.

Thursday night, as Untied was probly first arriving in Sausalito, I picked up Fiesty, a 16 kg yearling, from a friend who lives closest to the drive on beach. We were both off schedule, but the day's official rescue crew was up north relocating another little yearling they'd just caught (which was actually Fiesty's same size). I didn't see their animal, so I can't say for sure, but I feel if you can catch a sea lion you can keep it. So I successfully made the case that we should keep Fiesty, if only for a couple weeks of free fish. Half the size of Untied, he lived up to his name and was a handful to restrain. Still, I was glad to have him. He was good practice for my tubing partner and he got us up bright and early for our next rescue.

Friday, when we should have been feeding Fiesty, we had the good fortunate of catching up with Maren. We'd first tried for this 30 kg juvenile on Wednesday, on the way back in with Untied. We spent some time chasing her up and down the beach in Avila, but she was crafty and stayed just far enough off shore to mock us. We got another call on her at sunset on Thursday (right after I got back into town with Fiesty) but the folks I sent couldn't find her. It turns out yet another one of our volunteers stumbled across her independently on Thursday night and went looking for her first thing Friday. Obviously she was still there as now she's here. I had to use this artsy shot of her as all her photos are creepy due to her milky eye discharge. I'm used to gummy and crusty, but gummy and wet is just gross. I'm not as optimistic for Maren as I am for Untied and Fiesty, but at least she's got some sort of a chance now.

Friday afternoon I chose a nap over a rescue and missed helping out with a big boy on the drive on beach. They're always magnificent, those adult male sea lions, but again I would have definitely been more spectator than participant so I'm happy with my choice. He was seizing, so I'm concerned about today's crew (as seizing seals often come in clusters) but not enough to give up my day off. Erik's home and though he's mostly doing his thing (yard work) and I'm mostly doing mine (napping and studying for the LSAT), it still feels like quality time.

Besides, I'm on again tomorrow...

prolapsed, purulent, and just plain broken

I've got seriously mixed feelings about my busy seal weekend. I got a lot of sun and saw a lot of action, but my patients were nearly all depressing. We handled an unusual string of prolapses - generally caused by cancer, nearly always ending in euthanasia - interspersed with a handful of other graphic conditions. In a lot of ways, such a weekend is more satisfying, as these animals unquestionably needed my help. But it's hard to escape the lingering twinge of despair at their suffering.

On Saturday we shipped Attard, a leftover from Friday's shift and the first of our prolapse girls. Attard was apparently a pretty exciting rescue as she threw the net off her head with her teeth once or twice. (Usually it's the boys that figure that trick out.) Anyway, she was still a little scary in the morning, but she mellowed out some after her pain meds. In fact, she then refused to be boxed up, putting our early morning transport behind schedule. My driver left weeping as she knew the outcome for this animal was pretty much predetermined. Still, having helplessly watched the prolapse grow on the one we've been calling "Prolapse Girl", I think Attard could be considered lucky.

After shipping Attard, we were called down to the drive on beach to rescue this little yearling we named Hole-In-One. He wasn't our original intended victim; he just happened to strand next to the seal that was first called in, another prolapse girl. She ended up being too alert to catch at the same time so it was lucky we had a spare to make our trip worthwhile. Hole-In-One was aptly named for the giant hole in between his shoulder blades which we're guessing used to be an abscess. Since he had full mobility and a decent body weight, we're hoping for a swift recovery.

Meanwhile, we got a call that a sea lion was drawing a crowd near Morro Rock. My transport drivers were just returning and one of my two seal rescuing neighbors agreed to go down and help out with the netting. I missed that rescue, but it sounds like another good one. Everyone came back wet and smiling. At 67 kg, Eisenburg was a worthy prize. Eisenburg's condition was more subtle than the others (if we weren't so certain of her gender we might have thought her prolapse was her package...) but the result was the same. I've actually learned she died on her own before they even had a chance to euthanize.

While we were preparing for a second transport (as we didn't have enough drugs to keep Eisenburg out of pain overnight), we got the call we'd been waiting for since June 23rd. Not everyone agrees, but I believe our next sea lion, Mamie, was our original "Prolapse Girl." She was the right size (55 kg) in the right area (Cayucos) and her prolapsed parts were certainly the most advanced. Her location was not ideal (we had to haul her up a cliff and across a field) but we had a lot of men around for the rescue, so mostly all I had to do was supervise. I was surprised (and saddened) when I saw how easy it was to catch her. She'd been so net savvy before and now her spunk was gone. We gave her something for the pain and shipped her off immediately.

You might think Saturday was done after four animals, three rescues, and two transports. But then you would be wrong. At sunset it was back to Oceano for the prolapse girl we'd left behind that morning. She was still pretty skittish, but one of the State Parks plover monitors had noticed she did not fear his vehicle. He drove slowly up between her and the ocean, cutting off her egress while also concealing our net wielding volunteer. They named her Innovation, after this clever rescue technique (which we may likely employ again). I was too far away to make it to the beach in time so I waited in the parking lot to bring her back to site. The same neighbor who had bailed me out earlier with Eisenburg returned to help me with the after hours off loading and treatment. I kind of wish we'd stayed to give her some fluids as she had super gummy eyes in the morning, but we'd already had a 15 hour seal day and she was still pretty active that night.

First thing Sunday morning we shipped off Innovation and didn't even have time to clean her pen before we got the call on Chile Chavez, who we believe has a broken shoulder. You can't see the lumpy bumpy swollen parts in this picture (you're welcome), but you can tell he's got all his weight on the other flipper. He was a pretty easy capture (not wanting to move at all) and his condition merited yet another immediate transport. Vet staff haven't yet confirmed that his shoulder is broken, but if it's true, it's likely another death sentence. So I'm rooting for gnarly abscess.

Speaking of gnarly abscesses, just as we shipped off Chile Chavez, we got a call on this little yearling we named Tenera. You can see in this photo the hole in his side where his abscess used to be. It started out looking like a tumor on his shoulder and ended up looking like a saggy breast. After all the helplessness of the patients we had before him, it was really satisfying to watch the thick pink discharge pour out of him as we hosed him down. Tenera got some antibiotics and pain meds and proceeded to spend the night. He wasn't exactly chipper the next morning, but he was cooperative and significantly less purulent. We shipped him off after breakfast (his and ours) and though there are still a couple hours of daylight left, it's starting to feel safe to say that's the end of my busy seal weekend.

a slew of seals i got to see

You may have noticed I haven't posted a seal update in a while. The last two weeks were punctuated by a handful of very busy rescue days which I couldn't post about promptly as it was birthday season. Not only does it take a while to craft a birthday blog, I like to let them linger for posterity. Now that all that madness is over, I can catch you up on my adventures. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), enough time has passed that I've also learned the outcome of some of the animals.

So here thay are in somewhat chronological order:

Friday, June 22nd: This little yearling actually looked pretty good. At 20 kg, Perso here was in custody more for suspected domoic acid toxicity than malnutrition. A full four kilos more than most of his graduating class, his trouble was that he was a bit wobbly. While he looks like he's doing just fine in this photo, really he's just trying to hold it together. I only had the pleasure of feeding him and transporting him, as he was a left over from Thursday's crew. Even so, I was sad to learn that he died six days later; cause of death was pyothorax and pneumonia.

As soon as I got back from transporting Perso (a three hour round trip to Taco Bell in King City), I left again with an otter they named Jasper. I have no photos, though, as I didn't bring my camera on transport and, besides, I'm sick of taking pictures of dying otters. She had a better chance than most - female, weaned, more alert than some - and she made it to the Aquarium alive. She even enjoyed an evening feeding but died before morning. Her death was blamed on one of the top two parasites those otters get. I can't quite place the name, but at least it's not toxoplasmosis, the one blamed on feral cats and opossums.

Company, on the other hand, was all mine. Another skinny sea lion yearling, he turned out to be woefully full of pus. The call for him came in on my way home from the 2nd transport (the otter). I was already up north, so I swung by and caught him on my way back home. My friend who netted him reports that he had a stick in his neck, but the source of his pus had to be more than just a stick. We tried to tube feed him which was tough enough as his neck was twice its normal size. When that purulent discharge came up from his stomach tube, we squealed a little from surprise and had to discontinue our attempts to hydrate him. Because we couldn't tube him, we arranged to ship him very early Saturday the 23rd. Miraculously, he's doing just fun. All hail antibiotics.

Saturday, June 23rd, and Sunday the 24th were spent chasing the gal we've begun to call Prolapse Girl out on Morro Rock. She chose the least accessible rock possible (surrounded by open ocean, just next to the surf line up) and the tides were working against us. She let us get close, (the tease) but she bailed at the first swing of the net. We kept hiking out (through poison oak) at various tides to check on her but to no avail. She loved her rock and if she couldn't be on it, she was in the water. I did see her once, from my car. It seemed she had been keeping an eye on me and had followed me back to the shallows just to say hello. I stuck around until sunset hoping she'd haul out on sand after the crowds left, but no such luck. Other crews made attempts on her Monday and Tuesday (both on bad docks) but she was wise to the ways of the net. No sign of her again until the following Sunday, July 1st, when we snapped this photo. I like this shot as it conceals her condition and preserves her proud spirit. I have others, with the seagulls lining up to snack on her increasingly protruding uterus, but I couldn't bear to post them. We failed in our rescue, but no matter what, hers is not going to be a good outcome. Prolapses have been known to bleed out in the net and they are generally caused by cancer, so the best she can hope for is the pink juice. We keep thinking it's a blessing we haven't caught her, but still, I'd like to end her pain.

To add insult to injury, Sunday June 23rd we also missed out on a yearling we were calling Smuggler down in Smuggler's Cove. We didn't even know there was a trail down to Smuggler's Cove until one among us pointed out there was a bit of a break between the neck high poison oak. He'd been down there before (and was unwilling to go again) and said the trail ended with a pretty steep 20 foot drop. Having already gotten poison oak on Morro Rock, a few of us figured what the heck. We were at least relieved to see our animal looked smaller on shore than from the cliff (usually it's the other way around) but the trail head was far from the seal and he beat us to the ocean. Empty handed again, we ended our weekend with aloe vera and calamine lotion.

Wednesday, June 27th, we finally had a keeper. Little Party Animal here came unexpectedly after sunset. Erik had to be our designated rescue driver since I took advantage of the fact I wasn't on schedule and had a couple margaritas. My neighbor was on call, but she had rolled the dice and enjoyed a glass of wine. Since I had jinxed her by inquiring about her day before sunset, and because I had the closest set of equipment, I had to go on the rescue. It was a good call to recruit me as we barely made it to the beach in time. We were basically rescuing a shadow. Our caller it seems was in a festive mood as well. Erik gave her a designated ride home before returning to pick up the rescue crew.

Party Animal was shipped off Thursday morning, June 28th. My friend who dealt with that day caught two animals of her own (see below) and worked straight through till midnight (watching another otter die). At least they didn't make her transport it at such a late hour. Something about the runny black death poop and the agonal breathing, I guess, helped them to decide to save the fuel.

Friday morning, June 29th, I got to feed and ship the Thursday rescues. D'avignon was a small yearling from Avila who came in with a collapsed eye. At least you can't tell from this picture that the eye is ruptured. Guess I shouldn't have told you. Anyway, it turns out the eye wasn't the worst of his problems as he later died (on Sunday, July 1st) of malnutrion.







The other Thursday rescue was Kinney. Again, it was after sunset when my friend and her crew of helpful bystanders helped to heave his 64 kg body straight up a cliff (still in the net) just shy of Morro Rock. Kinney, it seems, was also doomed, as he died on Monday, July 2nd, from a rib fracture, pyothorax, and peritonitis. He was so polite and well behaved. Here he is getting his subcutaneous fluids and he didn't even need a fence. The boys are always so much nicer than the girls. I'm really sad to see him go.




We got one fresh rescue of our own on Friday, the 29th. San Miguel came in from the San Simeon area and he wouldn't let me do a thing with him. At 34 kg, we could have considered tube feeding him but he was vocal and bitey and we don't generally do tubings down here for animals above 30 kgs. We tried to give him subcutaneous fluids but he kept pulling the needle. We offered fish but he thought they were gross and dead and freezer burnt. Little did I know he'd spend two nights. He was so dehydrated he smacked his lips around like a stoner with cotton mouth. On the second night vet staff convinced us to fill up our (hard to clean) pool so at least he got some external hydration. Rumor has it he still isn't eating dead fish but up in Sausalito they've got the skills to tube feed him so at least he's no longer hungry.

Before we arranged to transport San Miguel (which was later canceled), we got a call on Call Box. Same sort of area, just south of San Simeon State Beach. Another skinny yearling, though I was surprised to learn he weighed 16.2 kg. We let a new girl throw the net (he looked like a good trainer model). I should have photographed the rescue but for whatever reason I didn't. Like Kinney, Call Box was also a well behaved patient, although we did have to discontinue his first tube feeding when we realized his stomach was full of hose water he'd lapped up upon admission.

While bringing Call Box in, a different crew picked up Mr. Hand in the southern most part of our range, Oso Flaco. Mr. Hand is actually a girl and has domoic acid toxicity written all over her. In fact, this photo captures perfectly two of the biggest giveaways - the thick brown slobber and what we call "seizy eyes." DA animals, we've noticed, will often open their eyes wide enough to expose the white strip of flesh that holds them in. This almost always precedes a seizure. We doped up Mr. Hand and he was still loopy. Like Call Box, Mr. Hand was another new girl's first netting. Hers was much more challenging, I hear, as Mr. Hand was on the run and the wind kept inverting her net.

While treating these guys, it was back up to San Simeon for Bethke. Though Bethke weighed only 12.6 kg, it turns out she is a little boy. You can see from her dark runny feces that she's not having the best of times inside. Still, she tubed pretty easily (except once when she was a little bitey) and was very interested in her neighbor, San Miguel.

Sunday, June 30th, we finally shipped off our rag tag full house. Later in the day we brought in Falafel, another patient from the drive on beach. Like Mr. Hand and Perso, we got to give him some Lorazepam and this is his best attempt at holding things together. At only 23 kg, he was a struggle to restrain for his tube feeding. And although he was stoned, he still pulled his sub q needle. Like D'Avignon, he has a suspect eye but reportedly the rescuers saw it open and it's okay.

Rumor has it another animal came in on Monday and at least one more attempt was made on Prolapse Girl, too. Given that today is the Fourth of July, we are sure to get some action. I'm not actually on the schedule, though, (and have even unloaded my rescue truck) as the fourth is Erik's absolute favorite holiday. We're having another couple over for a barbecue and we'll go to Cayucos for the fireworks. Still much to cook and a little to clean so I guess I'm off for now.

15 things I love about Zoe

What can I say about the girl whose birth made me an Anti? Whose adventures inspired me to write my first and still unpublished children's book? How can I begin to describe my eldest niece? Well, for one thing, I can say she's really not a girl any more. All of fifteen years old, she is now more woman than child. But then, she's always been a bit of an old soul. I remember dreaming of her once before she was born. We were walking down a beach, hand in hand, and though she was a toddler, she was offering me sage advice, explaining the meaning of life (which I promptly forgot upon waking up, of course). Indeed, this has been Zoe's role her entire life. She is like a living Magic 8 Ball her mother and I turn to for guidance and wisdom. Only once has she refused to answer, explaining with exasperation, "You know, Mom, I'm just a kid." I suppose that's her version of, "Reply Hazy, Ask Again Later."

I cherish the moments I've gotten to spend watching the round faced toddler we called Squeaker grow into the tough as nails catcher, keystone of her softball team, they call O.G. For a while, really, I didn't know what to think of the whole softball thing. In fact, I openly rejected it, calling it Kryptonite, as it weakens me to think about it. I feared that I wouldn't know how to relate to Zoe's inner jock, or that she would think less of me for my lack of interest in the game. Instead, I found that as in all things, Zoe accepts me the way I am. As usual, she was the bigger person.

Though I find it easy to admire Zoe, I have really struggled with this entry. It's difficult to do her justice with mere words. Ever since the birth of her sister, and my second generation of nieces in Washington, she's made a point of trying to get me to admit she's my favorite niece. While I refuse to commit, I will say I have certainly loved her the longest.

So here I give you 15 reasons I love Zoe:

1. She's incredibly smart and hardworking. So much so that last year she earned a full scholarship to a very competitive private high school. The admissions staff even went as far as calling her their "ideal candidate." I'm not surprised they were so taken by her. In fact, she's amazing in every way. I am humbled she still tolerates my presence let alone that she still seeks out my company.
   
2. Smart as she is, she sometimes does deliciously inexperienced things - like microwaving metal - that remind me she is in some ways still a girl.
3. Like her mother, she's a horrible speller. Thus, her cat's name is Tabbee. She's a great mom to Tabbee (whose diabetes have led her to death's door at least once, and then it was Christmas Eve). Not only has she faced every crisis with grace and resilience, she's never even considered kicking her beloved companion out of bed for episodes of incontinence. Sometimes I believe that the only reason Tabbee is still alive is because Zoe's willed it so. If only that were enough to truly grant a cat immortality.
   
4. She's got a sort of wicked wit. She never fails to make me laugh. I remember once her mom was surprised when her teachers described her as having an edge, as we always think of her as our sweet Zoe.
   
5. She's not afraid to try new things. Like learning Japanese.
   
6. She's hot and she knows it. Great hair, natural highlights, blue eyes, bright smile. She's so hot, in fact, that I decided against posting a photo that shows her face. (The internet is a scary place for cute girls.) Sadly, though, even in her hotness, she has not escaped the inner critic all women seem to have. She'd like to have six pack abs (I guess her boyfriend's don't count...) and she is, I think, jealous of her sister's boobs.
7. Her first word was, "Duh," as in "Duh, Anti Jen," repeated as I was saying goodbye to her mom and lamenting something dorky I'd just said, done, or thought. That pretty much says it all.
   
8. She's a brute. I hate to play even casual sports with her because someone always ends up crying and it's never her.
9. She farts like a man. I'm sure she would not appreciate my sharing this particular fun fact, but I couldn't resist. Though I am not the one who coined the phrase (her uncle did, and he sees her least of all her extended family...), I must say it is so very true. Had I not been trapped in the car with so many of her intestinal outbursts, I might not feel so entitled to share.
   
10. She gives a great teenaged dirty look. I suspect she is giving me one now.
    
11. Unlike her sister, she does have a price. She accepted my offer of $50 to eat the bug in the lollipop that Sadie rejected. I have pictures (taken professionally - it was at my wedding) but I swore never to share them. If you come to my house, though, I'll show you. The photographer even caught a tear rolling down her cheek. Before you condemn me for being an awful Anti, please know she was actively involved in the negotiations for this challenge. She'd learned her lesson, to up her price, after I once paid her a dollar to eat a Sardine flavored jelly bean. And I have a photo of her later, proudly displaying her cash settlement. I may have scarred my Zoe, but I don't think it was on this day.
    
12. She's the life of the party. I remember the way she worked the room in her walker when she was just a toddler and her parents were hosting a Thanksgiving feast. A natural flirt, she scooted from guest to guest with a grace and confidence which have only grown through the years.
    
13. She's generous with her time and sensitive to the needs of others. She once watched over Curry (who was captive in the outdoor duck pen) so I could take a shower in peace. I wouldn't feel so bad if she hadn't had wet hair at the time (and if I hadn't reduced Sadie to tears with my insistence that Curry be banned from the house for five minutes) but I really needed a shower.
    
14. As I mentioned before, she's an outstanding softball player, but she's not exactly what you'd call a natural athlete. She's lobbed enough tennis balls over the fence at her local park to recognize she hasn't got the tennis touch. And though she's not a great swimmer or a particularly fast runner, this did not deter her from improving in both areas. She just worked harder.
    
15. She's your classic big sister. I remember playing with her in the yard of her grandmother's house. She was picking up handfuls of dirt and rubbing them onto her infant sister. When I intervened, telling her Sadie didn't like the dirt, she picked up one more big handful and rubbed it in good. Another memorable quote from their childhood, "Zoe, don't hit your sister so hard." Though they don't come to blows very often, now the currency of their conflict is denim. There never seems to be more than one pair of jeans available for them to wear on a school day.

Zoe's beginning to make plans for her life as a grown up. Surely she will go to a great college, probably Ivy League and most likely on a softball scholarship. She wants to be a professional photographer. She intends to remain a city girl. She swears that in her twenties she will not blow all her money on expensive champagne and fancy restaurants (as her mother and I did).

I hope I always have a place in her world. Happy Birthday, Zoe.

as requested

A regular reader and dear friend of mine requested not only a clarification but a diagram regarding the A frame hug, item #37 on the list of 63 things I love about my dad. Never one to disappoint a friend (except for yesterday when I disappointed two friends after I forgot it was Monday as in Movie Night Monday. Sadly, once I remembered it was Monday I still "forgot" to attend Movie Night... I know this is horrible, both the forgetting of the day of the week (a byproduct of the princess parasite lifestyle), and the intentional ditching of a friendly invitation, but the last Movie Night I attended was actually really lame (limited seating, as in I sat on the floor, and limited movie, as in others kept talking through the plot only to insist we rewind and watch key parts again...). And besides, Movie Night is held in a town which is 45 minutes away from my own. I rarely even drive this far for seals. And, to top it all off, my husband was home and awake (both of which are rare) which was way more appealing than any chick flick could be...), and so, as I was saying, since I am never one to disappoint a friend, I give you the diagrams.

Above and to the left is an example of a normal hug.

To the right, the A frame. Notice how the bodies tilt and only touch at the top of the torso? This forms the A frame.

I think because I was raised on the A frame, that I am not a particularly touchy feely person. In fact, recently I was dismayed to be hugged in a group setting by a girl I barely know and like even less. When lamenting about it later (to another friend who suffered a similar experience) she commented that she'd warned her husband of the impending intrusion on his personal space. She instructed him to "give her the long hug" in self defense, an interesting tactic I'd never considered. While it prolongs the initial unpleasantry, it practically guarantees there will be no repeat of the unwelcome event.

63 things I love about my dad

Before I go on and on about my Dad, can I first say how much I love this picture? I love it for so many reasons, not the least of which is that it always gets me humming, "Come on Eileen," as my sister and I are dressed straight out of the not-yet-existent Dexy's Midnight Runners video. Secondly, I love that we are painting in our dress shoes. Mom says that's because we were poor then and we only had one pair of shoes. (By the way, notice how my sister's are black patent leather? Oh, how I envied that black patent leather. Though I now absolutely adore red shoes, I had major issues, particularly a few years later, with a pair of red unscuffable sandals my mom bought for me. I really wanted black patent leather; she told me maybe for my next pair. I then went on a mission, constantly trying to scuff my unscuffable sandals. Darn it, if it wasn't true, I really couldn't scuff those sandals...) Finally, I love this picture because we are painting the garage the same color it already was - brown. Brown, it seemed, was the color of my youth. Brown eyes, brown hair, brown car, brown house, brown swing set, Brownies... We even befriended a neighbor we referred to as "The Brown Car Lady." (We liked her because she would let us stand on her kitchen table while she painted our toenails.) Anyway, ironically, I just bought new sheets. Wanna guess what color? Brown. To match my brown leather couch. Oh, how Erik mocked me, but truly, the ensemble really goes...

Today, however, is not about me, or my shoes, or my sheets. Today is about my Dad. A textbook Daddy's Girl, I adore my Dad. Not only do I look just like him, I act a lot like him. This is not always a good thing, as he is rather eccentric and would have trouble navigating the real world without the help of my down-to-earth Mom. Truth be told, I'm sometimes even sad for my poor Dad as he is trapped in a sort of unfortunate time warp. He is the perfect fifties dad, patiently plugging away at work to provide for his family (in fact, my Mom has often said he will "work until he dies"). All he asks for in exchange is a little respect - some peace and quiet when he gets home, the big piece of fish at dinner, the remote control at night. He does pretty well with the fish and the remote, but man, does he have very little peace. My Dad is in some way at the center of every family drama. I believe this is because he is, like our president, "the Decider." We used to vote on family issues, but whenever he was outvoted, he would declare that he got six votes. Because his vote is omnipotent, he is constantly lobbied by opposing forces. I remember once we asked him who his favorite child was. He very easily answered "Kevin" because at the time, Kevin could barely talk.

In addition to being the most coveted ally, my Dad is a safe place. I feel like I could tell him anything and he wouldn't be fazed. He generally responds to life's calamities with pensive silence and later, his checkbook. Although he is Catholic to his core, he's never once told his children he was "disappointed" in them. In many ways, he epitomizes forgiveness. But it could be denial. Either way, it's very Catholic.

I actually find my Dad both entertaining and inspiring. He's a self made man who is unintentionally hilarious. He can't help but be anything other than himself. And so today, on his 63rd birthday, I give you 63 reasons why I love my Dad:

1. He didn't get mad when I sold all his Cokes for a quarter at my lemonade stand. In fact, he thought it was funny.
   
2. He bites his tongue when he is concentrating.
3. He can't resist a bargain. Just ask the driver of the meat truck who came across my dad washing his own car and changing his own oil filter. That lucky driver sold my dad so many frozen entrees (chicken cordon bleu - yum) that Mom was furious as her freezer was already full.
4. He buys cheap gas. I do too. It's a waste of time and energy, but we both can't bear to pay even a penny more elsewhere.
   
5. He tips 20%, but not because he wants to. This is in honor of the decade I spent waiting tables. He still calculates the tip before tax and rounds down a dollar rather than up, but believe me, this is a big improvement.
   
6. Though he has a reputation for being cheap (an uncle of mine once described him as "tighter than a donkey's asshole facing uphill against the wind"), he's also quite generous. He buys animals through the heifer project and has his church set up on auto pay.
7. He spoils his children. He supports us in whatever harebrained schemes we may propose. I think he secretly wishes he hadn't spoiled his children, as now we are in many ways paralyzed financially, but I don't think he could have been any other kind of Dad.
8. He encourages us to save for the future. Sadly, we rarely do it. I worry about a future without my Dad. It will be an ugly place.
   
9. He once replaced the seven dollars I lost on the Wildwood Boardwalk when, at the age of six, I stashed them down my shirt. I had seen Laverne & Shirley keep their money that way, I just never realized they were sticking it in their bras. This is actually my earliest money memory which, if you believe Suze Orman, set the tone for my life. "Go ahead and be careless," I learned, "Daddy will fix it." Though Suze may find fault with this memory, I treasure it. What I take away from it is that my Dad thinks it's cute when I'm dumb.
   
10. He says he hates the animals but he's often seen napping with the cats and I think he secretly likes them.

11. He enjoys reenacting things he saw on TV. The most hilarious thing I can recall was his acting out a Friends episode. He kept standing from one side to the other and changing voices to represent the different characters.
12. He is equally enthusiastic when reading children's books. He's always quite animated.
13. In fact, he's great with children. He's not afraid to play. I especially enjoyed riding with him on my nieces' see-saw recently.
    
14. He's athletic. Can't wait for that apparently latent gene to kick in. Too bad this athleticism most commonly manifests itself in the form of the Thomas Family Death March. (Cuzen Bob, can you say "Philadelphia in the summertime"?) My Dad is so athletic, he once ran a marathon. His feet turned blue from the dye in his sneakers and his toenails later fell off, but he finished.
    
15. He's quiet, except for when he's not. When pushed over the edge, Dad whips out with what we call "The Border Voice." This voice was born at the Canadian border but has been used in any number of locales (often airports or shopping malls, or on the phone with customer service reps or lawyers...). It's actually quite effective because it is so out of character.
    
16. He also makes really girlie noises, like right before he dives into a cold pool.
    
17. He won't fix his ingrown toenails. I know, as I inherited them, that it is a painful condition with a simple cure. Instead, he prefers to periodically soak and pick at his swollen big toes.
18. He loves his mother. He calls her every night. Never mind that she lives on the East Coast and it is 10 pm by the time she hears from him (she naps in preparation), they both love it. I worry for him, as a world without his mother will be as dark for him as my world will be without my Dad.
    
19. He loves my mother. I love to see them holding hands.
    
20. When my mom is not around to take care of him, he makes jelly sandwiches and peanut butter sandwiches, but seldom peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
21. He whistles. His whistle is part of his vocabulary. When he whistles, that generally means that a patient has died. He longs to write a book about all he has seen with his patients, but I have had trouble communicating to him that the whistle doesn't translate well to the page.
    
22. He's wicked smart. He's got a photographic memory that was apparently on a recessive gene, as none of his children got it.
23. He keeps up on his profession and isn't afraid to try new things. As a result, he's saved a lot of lives and alienated a number of less adequate doctors.
    
24. He is adored by his patients. I used to be jealous of them, particularly because they were so much more lovable than his children. And we were never considered sick because we were never dying. Even the need for stitches was negotiable if my Dad was in charge. Now I finally get it. I realize that as much as my Dad could love his patients because they were good, he still loved his kids, even when they were bad.
    
25. He dresses up at parties for his patients like Big Bird or Santa Claus. The kids are generally young enough that they don't get the connection and they sadly report, "Oh, Dr. Thomas, you just missed Big Bird." Though this past Christmas they did mention that last year's Santa was black...
26. He once met Mr. Rogers. Mr. Rogers is even cooler than you think he is. Just check out this blog.
    
27. He was a good baby. The shape of his head proves it. Below is an illustration I made for an unpublished book I wrote that shows an aerial view of the "good baby head." It is flattened on the back side as he seldom cried and therefore laid flat on his back during his skull's most formative days. (By the way, Bob Barker himself once held up this illustration to his studio audience and announced that I was
    "very talented, ladies and gentlemen.") Take note also of the completely ineffective comb over.





28. He finally cut this comb over off. It happened sometime after a patient of his told him his hair was "pretty" and another commented it was "weird."
29. He loves mountains. And churches. And trees. Anyone who's sat through his vacation photos knows this. He also loves scenic routes. To this day I associate the signs of a squiggly arrow with the motion of food moving backwards up your digestive tract.
    
30. He would patiently re-teach me to swim each summer when we lived in Virginia. They say swimming is like riding a bike, you never forget, but I was also really slow to figure out the bike riding.
    
31. When we finally moved to California, he took great care of our pool, though it was never easy. We had a tree in the backyard he nicknamed "Old Yosemite" that dropped needles like you wouldn't believe. And then there was the cheap bubble wrap cover that constantly shed its shredded bubbles as they scraped against the flagstone border. But Dad had worked hard for his pool and he would not be denied the pleasure of using it. He had been told it couldn't be built (too small a yard, too narrow an access) but he just hired a smaller bulldozer.
    
32. He's a picky eater. He refers to artichokes and other green things as "poison" and claims he's allergic to curry. Actually, he just hates curry (and root beer) cuz it reminds him of the time he spent on a boat in the service.
33. He dances at weddings.
34. He doesn't mind losing at board games. Especially when playing with the grandkids.
35. He's actually sort of immature. He thinks it's funny to show my mom three fingers and invite her to "read between the lines."
    
36. He used to let me sit on his lap and steer the car up the drive way.
37. He gives A frame hugs. I think they're a little weird and distant, but now I think it'd be wrong if he did anything else.
38. He loves to eat off other people's plates. One of Erik's favorite memories of my Dad took place when they went to a sports bar while my mom and I shopped. Erik ordered a sandwich which he unwittingly shared with my Dad. They also enjoyed the free peanuts, discarding the shells on the ground. My Dad, reportedly, particularly enjoyed crunching them with his feet.
39. He likes chick flicks and he's not ashamed to admit it.
40. He once drove our car through a river. It was probably just a creek, but I remember it seemed impassable and was probably not the wisest path. Still, he went for it.
    
41. He always eats Cheerios with half a banana for breakfast.
42. He loves to point out things he's reading in the newspaper and read them aloud.

43. I love that when he visits other people's houses, he finds a quiet spot, reads their periodicals and falls asleep.
44. He's a strong supporter of his college, Villanova. He still wears his school ring and he's always singing the fight song, "V for Villanova, V for Victory..."
    
45. He was inspired to become a doctor after a house call from a doctor during his childhood. Like his pool, he faced many obstacles on his path to this goal, but he got it done.
46. He can sleep and watch TV at the same time. Anyone who doubts this can just try changing the channel. He will instantly wake up.
    
47. He can nap anywhere. And he does.
48. He wears funky ties to work. He particularly likes his Sponge Bob Square Tie.
    
49. He calls us "sports fans," though none of us are.
50. He has a sense of humor about his insanity. He appreciated it when I referred to him and my brother as "two nuts in a sack."
51. He's a great writer. He doesn't always have the chance to show it. He once wrote Erik a phenomenal letter of recommendation. And he writes a decent family Christmas letter when I am on strike.
    
52. He was an Eagle Scout and an altar boy, which, of course, makes his children major geek spawn.
    
53. And yet, he used to be a rebel. He likes to show us the scars on his knuckles that he claims he got from the angry nuns at his Catholic school. Alternatively, his sisters say the scars are from the time he broke a window with his fist after they'd locked him out. He also fondly recalls smoking cigarettes and reading comic books while his sisters were forced to clean his room.
    
54. In many ways, he still is a rebel. He once refused to pay all the parking tickets he'd racked up at the Naval Base - until the parking authorities scraped off his stickers. This was another incident where I saw the Border Voice in action.
    
55. Like my Mom, he also stop smoking.
56. He has really neat eyes. They're hazel with little flecks of blue and brown in them.
57. He doesn't drink water, I think ever. Certainly not in restaurants, which is great for me as I'm always one glass ahead of the waitress.
58. He's an optimist. I surely didn't inherit that.

59. He likes to coast down hills. It's annoying sometimes (especially when he claims he's saving gas - the poor man's hybrid) but it can also be fun. He used to take us down a particularly steep street in San Diego (B Street, I think) and it felt just like a roller coaster.
    
60. In fact, he loves to drive. This is not always a good thing. He's crashed a rental car in Italy, ran a red light in San Diego, and, of course, whenever he's in charge of family road trips, the bathroom stops are notoriously infrequent. ("Next town," he says. "That wasn't a town," he says, as we finally pass a place with buildings...) But because he likes to drive, I do get to see him and my mother on a fairly regular basis, despite the fact that I live two states away.
61. He hates to wait. He'll take a right at a red light even if it's the wrong way.
62. He loves his little MG. He considers it a classic even though a mouse once considered it home and one of the cats (presumably Ginger) once peed on the gear shift.
    
63. He's always turning off the heat. This actually drives everyone crazy, especially if he accidentally lets Ginger the pee cat into your room at night. I believe it isn't so accidental, this passing of the cat. I wouldn't be surprised if he thinks that people who sleep with the heat on deserve to have their things peed on.
64. Two memorable quotes from Sundays: Either "nobody in this car needs a donut" or "I'm saving you calories" as he takes a big bite out of your donut. Now, whenever I drive past the donut shop, I often hear myself thinking, "nobody in this car needs a donut."

Happy birthday, Dad.

yesterday i sort of did poison my husband

So I know I told you a few months back that I was not trying to poison my husband. I thought, then, you might want to know that last night I did sort of poison my husband, but only accidentally.

While making him dinner, I noticed our microwave was on the fritz. (He had told me a couple nights prior that it would turn on when the door was open, but of course I immediately figured he was doing something wrong. My first thought when it happened to me? Oh, we need a new microwave.) Anyway, despite this phenomenon, I continued to use the machine. (I later learned that the internet says this problem is just a failure of the door switch and it's really just the light and fan that stay on, not the actual microwaves - unless, of course, you feel intense heat. But I can't say I knew that at the time...)

What I found more disturbing was the noxious smell of melting plastic. I figured it pretty much had be coming from the microwave (as the real oven had no plastic in it, on it, or around it), but I couldn't see anything melting. I didn't think for even a moment that the noxious fumes might be settling into Erik's dinner. He tasted them later, the noxious fumes, and abandoned his meal for bed. Still, the damage was done.

It was little surprise to either of us when he ended up projectile vomiting at 3 am.

So today we bought a new microwave.

I will say, however, that Erik blows chunks a lot. I don't know if it is a sensitive constitution and he refuses to consider it might be an ulcer. Still, he's all superstitious about certain foods (like apple juice, spaghetti, and enchiladas) that seem to most commonly inspire his emesis. His gastric dysfunction is most likely a function of his odd schedule - eating large meals before going to bed - but still, it's worrisome. At least when I barf, it's because I am stinking drunk. Not pretty, and again, not proud. But at least it makes sense.

Interestingly, this week's local weekly tabloid featured an article on men with eating disorders titled "Manorexia." I told him I think he has Boylimia.

perhaps an even more disturbing discovery?

So this is something perhaps no grown person should know. As much as Sauvignon Blanc and Apple Jacks do not pair well, apparently Froot Loops and Margaritas are ever so much more palatable.

I'm not saying I'm proud. And, yes, I know why my jeans don't fit.

i hate it when that happens

Whiff is the sound of my ego deflating.

Today I missed (whiffed) for the first time since my rescue net was repaired last fall. Like all my other whiffs, however, this one has an asterisk attached. Today's whiff I blame on my overly eager, dreadfully inexperienced rescue cohort. We were down at Morro Rock (thankfully not on the rock like yesterday, just on the rocks by the rock) looking at an underweight yearling and devising our strategy. While I told her I planned to creep up slowly and quietly with the net, she decided it would be helpful if she were noisy and noticeable. Her efforts to distract the sea lion from my approach only served to inform him that something was seriously up. He was able to take off before I could get close enough to get a good swing in.

For the record, I only have three other official whiffs under my belt. The first was against a big male (much larger than Tapia) who I actually had in the net a few times. I just couldn't keep him there as he kept tossing it off his head with his teeth. I blame this whiff on the fact that I was using the heavy net (it weighs 25 pounds dry). At least that whiff was somewhat exciting. My eldest nieces and hubby were watching from shore. They told me they really weren't sure who they were rooting for as it was a pretty even match. I felt further exonerated when the sea lion hauled out again and I handed the net to another volunteer (this one a man) only to watch him whiff too.

My second whiff came at 2 am on the drive on beach. This time, honestly, I wanted to whiff or else I would have taken my friend up on his offer to meet me at the beach. While it isn't always necessary to have two people around for a successful rescue, it's helpful, especially in the dark. Anyway, I didn't even really swing on this guy. Just driving up disturbed him enough that he took off for the water. This was perfectly fine with me. He was no longer in danger of being a speed bump and I could go back to bed.

My final official whiff I actually do feel horribly about. This one was on the jetty at Morro Rock, on the ocean side, of course. This sea lion really needed a rescue (he was dragging his hind end) but I chose a poor approach. I still think if I'd come from the south rather than the north, I might have had a better shot at him. As it was, I didn't have strong enough footing to take a decent swing. Essentially I just harassed him back into the water when what he needed most was rest. I really thought he'd restrand somewhere else but no such luck.

So today makes four. For those who are keeping track, I do not include Brindell among my whiffs because we did ultimately catch him. It's only a whiff if you come back empty handed... And I also don't count that entangled sea lion that I left in Cayucos last year, because I didn't even have the net with me. That's a blown assessment, not a whiff... And, now that I think about it, there was another big male I faced off against with a friend, but she had the big net - I was just the back up. We both came away empty handed, but that whiff goes on her record more than mine.

I really shouldn't be so bummed. Actually, I ought to have more whiffs on my resume. The fact that I have so few is more a testament to my cowardice than any sort of kudos to my accuracy (as I have a tendency to pass off the long shots to my more experienced friends). And besides, today's critter did have some fight left in him. It's not the worst thing to know he's spending another night in the sea.

I think I'm still just really shook up about yesterday's rescue. Though I've seen broken jaws before, there was something about Workout that I found particularly disturbing. In fact, I'm not alone. A member of our stranding staff said his injury pierced her veil of indifference too. And, yes, he has passed on to the big Rock in the sky, but I'm happy as it truly was the best thing for him. Interestingly, vet staff thinks the damage to his jaw was done by a seal bomb (basically an underwater firecracker) which I am amazed to learn is legal under the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Seal bombs are technically only legal when they don't cause bodily harm to marine mammals, but clearly they have the capacity to be devastating.

Anyway, at least the gal that helped me on yesterday's adventure is not burned out by the experience. Gnarly rescues are generally polarizing - they either get people totally addicted to the process or they scare them away forever. She swears she's still on board, so that's a good thing.

So I guess my ego and I shall retire for the evening. There are worse things in the world than whiffing. Like seal bombs.

today i got my workout

I almost didn't post a photo of today's rescue. I usually try to spare you internet friends the uglier side of my hobby. In fact, this picture is actually not as gruesome as I thought it might be. If you didn't know this was an unnatural angle, you might just think he was being particularly vocal. Unfortunately, this sea lion's injury looks much worse in person... At least take comfort in knowing that by the time this photo was taken, he was full of enough Banamine and Butorphanol that he wasn't feeling a thing.

He'd been spotted by a surfer (who also happens to be my pet sitter) just a couple hours earlier. She reported him as skinny and small and on Morro Rock. She couldn't tell his jaw was broken from her spot in the surf line up, but she could see the rock he was resting on was fairly flat and accessible. For those who aren't from these parts, Morro Rock is the giant rock for which my town is named. It's massive and mostly surrounded by open ocean. Usually the animals we get from "the rock" are around or near the rock, or at least on the rocks by the rock. Very seldom are they actually "on" the rock. In fact, this is only the third time I've been out there in five years. It's not exactly fun, but it's always memorable.

Although we couldn't spot him from the parking lot, we figured it was worth the long dusty hike out to determine if he was still there. After all, what's a little poison oak between friends? Besides, only one part of the trail is truly scary - narrow and steep, you have to lean in towards the rock to keep from sliding into the ocean. And we knew we'd responded quickly. My rescue partner and I were both on the beach within fifteen minutes of the first call.

Once we got close enough to see his injury, we were so grateful we'd made the effort to find him. Pausing a moment to soak in the sadness of his situation, we quickly got on with the rescue. The netting was actually easy enough. He saw me coming the whole time; he just didn't feel like going anywhere. Carrying him out across the rocks and through the brush was the real challenge. The fact that he couldn't close his jaw didn't prevent him from trying to bite us. Maneuvering him safely would have been much more difficult if he were fully functioning.

At only 28.8 kg, Workout was extremely underweight. (For comparison, recall that Trolling, last week's skinny 2 year old, was considered emaciated at 37.4 kg...) I would say I'm grateful he didn't weigh more (after all, he was already a Workout), but I'm bummed to think his weight loss is indicative of the amount of time that's passed since he broke his jaw. It's not that we've never repaired a broken jaw, but fresh wounds are always better than old ones.

Though he may soon be headed for the big Rock in the sky, at least he won't have to starve to death to get there. And Butorphanol is a very good thing.

2 regrettable discoveries

Recently I've made two disturbing discoveries.

1. I've had a typo in my profile THIS WHOLE TIME. Not just a run of the mill dyslexic typo or even a finger-too-fast-on-the-keyboard typo, I had entire extra letters in the word "moment." I am such a spelling snob that I would like to think perhaps I was drunk when I set up my profile. Given my known habits, odds are pretty decent I was. Not attractive, I know, but I'd rather be drunk than stupid.

2. Speaking of drunk, for all you budding sommeliers out there, I have learned that Apple Jacks and Sauvignon Blanc are a bad pairing. The combination just might make you throw up a little.

Enough said.

3 seals and a splinter

I love delivery. It's the thing I miss most about living in a city. Urban dwellers can have just about anything delivered anytime. You name it and they can get it - from urgent documents to illicit drugs. You can even have yourself delivered (by cab, of course). Here in Morro Bay, though, the most I can hope for is a pizza and even that I'd better order before 8 pm. This Saturday, however, I got something delivered that no city dweller can dial up. This little yearling sea lion, Carpenter, was scooped off the drive on beach in our south county and delivered to me by my pal who rescued him. His stay was brief (lately we've been keeping these guys overnight just to mellow them out) as I shipped him off immediately after breakfast. I didn't want to trouble the understaffed Sunday rescue crew with the burden of his transport.

Thoughtful as I was to clear the decks on Saturday, Sunday turned out to be a busy day anyway. The weather was glorious and so the beaches were crowded with folks eager to locate (and harass) sick sea lions. The first call came from San Simeon and though I was on the schedule and lived closest, the gal who was in charge tried to spare me the long drive north. (I usually take Sundays off so she knew I was only on call out of pity.) She got sidetracked, though, on her way north by this little yearling, SueAnn, who was hanging around the jetty in Morro Bay (not nearly as far out or as far up as Walls, I must say). So while she went for the sure thing, I grabbed another neighbor friend of mine and headed up north for the long shot.

We were shocked to find Trolling was still there. He was patiently waiting two feet from the surf, actively ignoring the chaos around him. We're told he was even letting people throw rocks at him. He's bigger than our recent run of yearlings (37 kg to everyone else's 16 kg), and too skinny to be a classic Domoic Acid victim. Based on the amount of water he drank at the site, I'd put my money on Leptospirosis.

Leptospirosis is one of the first words we teach our new volunteers. We like it because it's long and intimidating. We use it to encourage people to keep their dogs away from our animals. "He might have Leptospirosis," we say (even when we doubt he does), "which is transmittable to dogs and humans" (which is totally true). This isn't a horrible Lepto year (it runs in 3 or 4 year cycles), but we do see a smattering of them every season.

Anyway, tucked and dry, skinny and disinterested, his was a pretty easy netting. It barely got my adrenaline flowing. Apparently, he was saving his ferocity until he got back to his pen. There he nearly bit me while not getting his penicillin shot. He ended up wearing the Dual Pen while my hand made a hasty retreat. I actually felt his whiskers brush against my glove - never a good thing. I was able to get him medicated this evening, at least, after he had a few hours of peace and quiet and I devised a safer approach.

As delighted as I am to have conquered my tricky sea lion, the undisputed highlight of my day came at dinner time. Tonight I had the distinct pleasure of extracting from Erik's hand the most gigantic splinter I've ever seen. He got it lodged in there a week ago, when he suffered a puncture wound in the wilderness. He wasn't certain that there was wood left behind (even the doctor wouldn't go digging around after it), until his body slowly worked it to the surface. Such a wonder of science, our immune system is. Anyway, knowing how I dig a good pick (I'm forever freeing his pores of this or that), he saved it for me, like a little treasure.

Such a good day.

it's really over

Yesterday my buddy and long time love, Bob Barker, worked his last day at the Price is Right. I should be really really bummed, perhaps I'm in a state of shock or denial, but all I can feel is happy for him. I've long imagined that the whole hosting thing got old. I've seen it first hand, how a particularly lame audience can really grate on his nerves, always asking about his age and other random stuff they'd already know if they were Loyal Friends and True... I consider how well I know the games and how I flinch when people make poor choices. He must be even more offended by the stupidity of the masses when they make shameful mistakes. I mean, really, people, when playing the Money Game when has it ever not been "El Cheapo"? And can you honestly say it has ever been 90 or 85 dollars? And to those who've played Plinko, where is the sense in dropping your chip to one side or the other? Everyone knows the sweet spot is where the n meets the k. And to those people who have played the Check Game, $2500 is almost always safe. And the Range Game, hello, stop the Range Finder when you're at Bob's eye level, aligned with the green section on the left. And those playing Pathfinder, dude, the path always ends in a corner with either 5 or 0. I've always figured Bob returns to his dressing room after each show, pours a stiff drink, runs his long fingers through his thinning hair and sighs.

All that is easy for me to say, though. Apparently the hard part is bidding your way up on stage, eh? I won't deny that I may be taking some measure of joy in knowing that now I'm not alone in my sad fate. Now no one in the world can play a pricing game with Bob.

Still, it does feel like I'm losing a friend.

Another thing lost today? Erik's shaved off all his long hair. He actually went to a barber a couple days ago to trim the most annoying of his locks. Unfortunately, he came home with bangs. Boys don't have bangs, I mocked him. And so, today, my reward is a pile of two and a half years of hair in the backyard. He didn't even leave anything on top, which was the whole idea that spawned the hair growing experiment so long ago. Like Bob and his show, I can only feel happy for Erik who is finally free.

And, yes, a little bit sad.