unless it was very sick. It’s not as if it’s lost its way or anything. The ones that wash up here are always sick.’
‘What do we have to do?’ asked Milt.
‘Well, you and I should first go up to the house and contact the experts. Jake will go and get the baler out of the boat and make sure the calf doesn’t dry out. He knows what to do.’ He turned and looked out at the mother. ‘She’s the problem. We have more hope of saving her than this one. But she could get stranded herself as the tide goes out. Somebody has to get into the water and make sure that doesn’t happen.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Stephanie.
Dad looked at her. ‘It won’t be easy out there. She’s abig animal. I don’t think you’ll handle it on your own.’
‘I’ll help her,’ said Vicky. ‘Just tell us what to do.’
‘Stay between her and the beach. Hopefully she’ll be scared of you and move further out to sea. Don’t get too close, because if she flicks her tail, she could bowl you over. You’re going to get wet-through anyway.’
‘That won’t kill us,’ responded Vicky. ‘And if it saves her, it will be worth it.’
And so we were assigned our tasks. Mine was both the easiest and the hardest. All I had to do was get seawater every so often, and slowly pour it over the calf, making sure none went down the blowhole. The hard part was watching the calf die.
After the first lot of water, the eye opened and I felt sure that it focused on me for a while. The calf even took a few breaths, which gave me some hope. Then the eye closed and the breathing stopped. I knew that they didn’t breathe regularly, but I would expect a calf to breathe every quarter hour or so.
After almost forty minutes I knew it was dead, although it would take a stethoscope to confirm that. By then Milt had returned, but not Dad—he’d gone to the pub where he would meet the expert.
‘Is it dead?’ asked Milt as he joined me on the beach.
‘Yes,’ I replied softly.
He nodded sadly. After a while he said, ‘I hate seeing wild animals die. We’ve left so little space for them on this planet, that it’s got to the stage where every death is important.’
I kept quiet, partly because I didn’t totally agree with him: some wild animals were pests and needed to die.
‘I once watched a fox die,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s a memory I’ll never forget.’ He paused for a time, collecting his thoughts. ‘My father and I went camping for the weekend in the Cotswolds. We were hoping to photograph foxes. Unfortunately, it was at the height of the foxhunting season, and the only fox we found was one that had escaped being killed by the hunts. It was a vixen and she was in a bad way. There were puncture wounds along her back where she’d been attacked by the hounds. She had difficulty walking. I remember the way she looked at us, pleading for help. We managed to get her wrapped up in a sleeping bag and took her to a nearby village. The publican said we could take her to the local vet, or to one in a town some distance away who was said to be good with foxes.
‘We ummed and ahhed for some time before deciding to go to the local one, mainly because the other was fifty miles away and it would end up taking too much time and costing too much. The local fellow took one look at the vixen and decided that she had to be put down. What could we do but accept what he said? He gave her a lethal injection, and we watched her die. We tried to convince ourselves that it was the best thing for her. That was until we discovered that the vet was the master of the local hunt. For all we knew, it was his dogs that had injured her in the first place. I believe he killed that fox even though he could have fixed her. She died because we didn’t care enough to spend the money or the time to save her.’
He turned to me. ‘Now that I’ve got money, I’m never going to let something like that happen again.’ He pointed to the mother whale. ‘We might not
‘What do we have to do?’ asked Milt.
‘Well, you and I should first go up to the house and contact the experts. Jake will go and get the baler out of the boat and make sure the calf doesn’t dry out. He knows what to do.’ He turned and looked out at the mother. ‘She’s the problem. We have more hope of saving her than this one. But she could get stranded herself as the tide goes out. Somebody has to get into the water and make sure that doesn’t happen.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Stephanie.
Dad looked at her. ‘It won’t be easy out there. She’s abig animal. I don’t think you’ll handle it on your own.’
‘I’ll help her,’ said Vicky. ‘Just tell us what to do.’
‘Stay between her and the beach. Hopefully she’ll be scared of you and move further out to sea. Don’t get too close, because if she flicks her tail, she could bowl you over. You’re going to get wet-through anyway.’
‘That won’t kill us,’ responded Vicky. ‘And if it saves her, it will be worth it.’
And so we were assigned our tasks. Mine was both the easiest and the hardest. All I had to do was get seawater every so often, and slowly pour it over the calf, making sure none went down the blowhole. The hard part was watching the calf die.
After the first lot of water, the eye opened and I felt sure that it focused on me for a while. The calf even took a few breaths, which gave me some hope. Then the eye closed and the breathing stopped. I knew that they didn’t breathe regularly, but I would expect a calf to breathe every quarter hour or so.
After almost forty minutes I knew it was dead, although it would take a stethoscope to confirm that. By then Milt had returned, but not Dad—he’d gone to the pub where he would meet the expert.
‘Is it dead?’ asked Milt as he joined me on the beach.
‘Yes,’ I replied softly.
He nodded sadly. After a while he said, ‘I hate seeing wild animals die. We’ve left so little space for them on this planet, that it’s got to the stage where every death is important.’
I kept quiet, partly because I didn’t totally agree with him: some wild animals were pests and needed to die.
‘I once watched a fox die,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s a memory I’ll never forget.’ He paused for a time, collecting his thoughts. ‘My father and I went camping for the weekend in the Cotswolds. We were hoping to photograph foxes. Unfortunately, it was at the height of the foxhunting season, and the only fox we found was one that had escaped being killed by the hunts. It was a vixen and she was in a bad way. There were puncture wounds along her back where she’d been attacked by the hounds. She had difficulty walking. I remember the way she looked at us, pleading for help. We managed to get her wrapped up in a sleeping bag and took her to a nearby village. The publican said we could take her to the local vet, or to one in a town some distance away who was said to be good with foxes.
‘We ummed and ahhed for some time before deciding to go to the local one, mainly because the other was fifty miles away and it would end up taking too much time and costing too much. The local fellow took one look at the vixen and decided that she had to be put down. What could we do but accept what he said? He gave her a lethal injection, and we watched her die. We tried to convince ourselves that it was the best thing for her. That was until we discovered that the vet was the master of the local hunt. For all we knew, it was his dogs that had injured her in the first place. I believe he killed that fox even though he could have fixed her. She died because we didn’t care enough to spend the money or the time to save her.’
He turned to me. ‘Now that I’ve got money, I’m never going to let something like that happen again.’ He pointed to the mother whale. ‘We might not
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