Most people have never heard of a javelin. But for Lisa Bates, the beloved wild boar-like animal that inhabits Arizona is a close friend, as are the 5,000 or so animals a year that pass through the doors of her Tucson Wildlife Center. Jack rabbits, bats, hawks, and coyotes live there temporarily while their injuries – often the result of contact with humans or our high-speed cars – are treated.

In the world of wildlife conservation, there is a regular debate about the extent to which humans should interfere – whether nature should be left to simply ‘take its course’.

The problem with this idea, says Ms. Bates, is that it assumes a “natural” ecosystem – a place where humans haven’t squashed animal habitats, where we don’t drive cars through hunting fields, where we don’t put toxins on the earth and excess carbon in the air. Tucson is a real lesson in the human expansion that creeps into natural environments and the resulting collision.

In a pristine environment, she might be able to turn away from an injured owl or rabbit. May be. But that’s not what we have, she said. We have a land and an ecosystem drastically changed by humans. Humans must therefore help.

“It’s in our nature to save a baby,” she says. Javelines included.

Tucson, Arizona.

The call came in on a Friday morning. A javelin, a beloved boar-like animal that frequents this desert region, lay in Vi Conaty’s front yard. He had been there since the day before, nestled between a rock and a garden sculpture of Saint Francis, and he still hadn’t moved.

“It’s the middle of town,” said Lisa Bates, founder and executive director of the Tucson Wildlife Center, the organization Ms. Conaty called for help, thanks to the advice of a 911 dispatcher. javelins shouldn’t be in the middle of town. ”

Ms Bates squinted at the iPhone photos Ms Conaty had sent. “It’s hard to know if it’s a nap. Or whatever, ”she said. “Maybe he was hit by a car.”

Wildlife vet Sara Wyckoff and veterinary technician Mariah Spicer seized the keys to their truck. “We’re going to have it,” Dr. Wyckoff announced.

Mrs. Bates nodded.

“Let me know,” she said.

Ms Bates established the Tucson Wildlife Center over 20 years ago to help wildlife like this: creatures in need, and especially those harmed by encounters with Tucson’s growing human population.

At the time, she had recently retired from her career in plant science and wanted to embark on wildlife rehabilitation, a job that had become more and more professional during the 1980s and 1990s. She had always loved the creatures of the desert, she explained. The first animal she saved as a child was an orphaned raccoon. She would end up raising coyotes, javelins and bobcats – any animal, really, that she found in trouble. “I like all species,” she says. “Small javelins and big javelins to a skunk.”

She opened her non-profit organization in 2000, mainly welcoming animals larger than other wildlife centers in the area could not handle, such as bobcats and coyotes. But one by one, she said, those other wildlife rehabilitation centers closed. The people who ran them retired or moved to other areas. In 2015, hers was the only remaining wildlife facility in southern Arizona, and she decided to build a wildlife hospital. She also agreed to take the approximately 1,500 smaller animals – from baby birds to orphaned bats to injured hares – which had been taken care of by other rehabilitation centers.

The Tucson Wildlife Center, she was determined, would help all creatures. “We have respect for all life,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a little lizard or an elephant. If he needs help, we’re here for him.

Today, this means that the association welcomes 5,000 animals per year. Around 200 are on site at all times, from the intensive care unit for animals to the in-flight rehabilitation enclosure. A handful of animals that cannot return to their natural habitats, whether due to injury or because of their acclimatization to humans, remain at the center; resident bobcats serve as “foster mothers” for orphaned cubs.

Often the first step for Tucson Wildlife Center staff is to recover animals in distress. After all, as Ms Bates says, “we don’t think it’s a good idea for a member of the public to put a full-size javelin in their car.”

That’s why this Friday morning, Dr. Wyckoff and Ms. Spicer went to the Tucson center.

Emergency response

Unlike domestic pigs, javelins, which can weigh 60 to 90 pounds, have sharp canines and tend to charge if they feel under attack. To fully examine the animal in Ms. Conaty’s front yard, Dr. Wyckoff knew she would probably have to anesthetize it and bring it back to the wildlife center. “We will assess the situation,” she said from the passenger seat as Ms Spicer made her way into town.

The animal was still a few yards from Mrs. Conaty’s porch when they arrived. He did not run away when Dr Wyckoff approached, but he did chatter his teeth softly – weak warning behavior. Dr. Wyckoff decided she would use a dart to put the animal to sleep.

Veterinarians and technicians at the center meet their patients in all kinds of ways. A crow flies in a window; a motorist hits a coyote; a hare is found in a trap. Sometimes people themselves bring the animals to the Tucson Wildlife Center, located on the eastern outskirts of town, tucked away on a ranch near the Saguaro Mountains. Ms Bates met people who took injured animals onto the bus because they did not have a car, walking to the center to the center; she knows people who have driven for hours on end hoping to get help for an ailing rabbit, a downed starling.

The center operates a 24-hour emergency telephone service. Two full-time wildlife vets lead the recoveries, but Ms. Spicer often performs rescues.

“I had this one day when I took part in a rescue to cross town at a peak,” Ms. Spicer recalls. “Then there is a call – there is a rabbit. So I think I’ll stop and get the bunny. And then I get a call about a bat. … And we are driving and I got a call for a great horned owl. So now I got this great horned owl, wrapped in a towel. It’s like a joke but it wasn’t. Oh! And there was also a box of baby quails.

That day, the javelin was the only call. Dr. Wyckoff slowly walked over to the animal, crouched down, and blew the dart into its side. It was 10:02 a.m. At 10:07 am, she checked the animal. Almost out, but not quite. A minute later, she hoisted it up and brought it to a transport cage in the trunk.

The more precise assessment made her worried.

She suspected he had been hit by a car.

“It’s our nature”

In the world of wildlife conservation, there is a regular debate about the extent to which humans should interfere – whether nature should be left to simply ‘take its course’.

Mrs. Bates thought about it. She has. But the problem with this idea, she says, is that it assumes a “natural” ecosystem – a place where humans haven’t squashed animal habitats, where we don’t drive cars through hunting fields. , where we don’t put toxins on the earth and excess carbon in the air, and where we don’t take water – so much water – for our own needs.

If that was reality, then maybe she could turn away from an injured owl or rabbit. May be. But that’s not what we have, she said. We have a land and an ecosystem drastically changed by humans. Humans must therefore help.

“It’s in our nature to save a baby,” she says.

But in wildlife veterinary medicine, “saving” can be complex. Dr. Wyckoff explains that his decisions would be different if his patient were a companion dog, which would be groomed until recovery and fed even if he limps. If a wild animal is injured to the point where it might never be able to live in its habitat, or might face complications in the end, she often decides that the nicest act is to end the suffering of l ‘animal.

And that was her decision as she examined the x-rays of the javelin.

Mrs. Spicer leaned over the animal. – I’m sorry, darling, she said.

They left the examination table. There were dozens of other animals to help. Dr Wyckoff reviewed the patient list. She checked the great horned owl in the intensive care unit, running her hands through his feathers. His wing was recovering well.

The Red-tailed Hawk, whose x-ray showed a dozen buckshot, was also healing, though its wing would need more time. The hare in intensive care was doing well. Across the treatment room, another staff member fed a nightjar. A turtle was recovering next to them.

According to Dr. Wyckoff, this is how she and the others at the Tucson Wildlife Center can live out their commitment to the world around them.

“I think you just have to do what nature says to do,” Ms. Bates said. “To save, wherever you can.”