Sequim Gazette Editorial and Letters to the Editor

I cruised into Sequim on July 7, 1976, on the heels of our nation's 200th birthday party. I was to begin work as an associate veterinarian with Dr. George Bell at the Sequim Animal Hospital the following Monday.

In vet school at Washington State University I had no intention whatsoever of going into practice. As an undergrad I was a wildlife biology major and thought acceptance to vet school only would further my wildlife opportunities.

Upon graduation in 1970, I took my degree south to graduate school at Texas A&M University to get involved with fish, marine mammals and Texas wildlife in general. The field work was exciting, but soon the bureaucracy and politics of academia came crashing down on me. After 31/2 years I migrated back to the Pacific Northwest to spawn.

It was particularly difficult starting out in practice in my hometown of Walla Walla because I had paid poor attention to my vet school curriculum. Jim and Dallas, my mentors, had the challenging job of breaking in not only a rookie but a rather ignorant one at that.

After one year I had some confidence and negotiated a position in Port Townsend, where after six months my first marriage fell apart. I took this as a "sign," and was accepted by the University of Wisconsin to pursue a doctorate degree in wildlife epidemiology. I was happy to be back on my chosen path but I had a three or four month interim with too much time on my hands.

Single with no responsibilities, I decided to explore Olympic National Park until it was time to head east.

The solitude was my salvation. Being alone in the outdoors filed my prescription perfectly. The six weeks of hiking the coast and park trails changed my priorities.

The beauty and diversity of the Olympic Peninsula informed me that it is simply more important where I live than what I do. I understood during this sojourn that falling in love with your environment is no less important than falling in love with your spouse - or spice as the case may be.

So I went into Sequim to the first veterinary facility I found (there were only two) and asked about a job. The timing was right. I had a totally new, unexpected position.

Now 32 years later, I look back on those hikes as a defining moment in my life. My passion for this magnificent geography has in no way diminished. It's grown, and the fulfillment of what I do has become just as rewarding.





A tiger by the tale



The Olympic Game Farm is a wildlife exhibition on 80 acres just outside of Sequim. During the 1950s and 1960s, the game farm worked closely with Walt Disney Studios on a variety of wildlife adventure films including "Charlie the Lonesome Cougar," "Those Calloways" and "The Incredible Journey."

I was called to the game farm for many interesting problems.

One such case involved a large male Siberian tiger named Demetrius. The big cat had lost condition over several months, dropping from perhaps 500-600 pounds to an emaciated animal who looked more like a large striped spermatozoon than the beautiful tiger he once was. He was so skinny, it was plain that something had to be done.

It is a "Catch-22" in exotic animal medicine that in order to examine and treat the patient it must be immobilized with drugs, further risking its well-being. In the 1970s, few efficient drugs were available in concentrated enough potency to knock out a 300-pound cat. We possessed a potent narcotic called M-99, but narcotics are contraindicated in felines. After weighing available options, we decided to risk using M-99 on Demetrius. It was virtually kill him or cure him.

Though pathetically thin, our tiger still was eating. I wondered about diabetes or kidney disease, but, in truth, it could have been most anything.

Lloyd Beebe, the owner, wanted to know what it was.

Demetrius was isolated in a large metal-barred cage where a dart fired from a tranquilizer gun soon rendered him unconscious. As the big cat was going down he went into a series of violent seizures, during which abdominal contractions forced a full urinary bladder to be evacuated in impressive squirts, some of which traveled 20-30 feet. Nobody was hit, but a nearby tin shed took a couple of shots that sounded like an assault by an irrigation sprinkler. So much for a urine sample.

Fortunately, the seizures soon were over and Demetrius lay in the straw on his cage floor in quiet repose.

I gave him a general physical examination. Placing my hand with outstretched fingers flat against the pads of a front paw, I felt only humility. What a rush to be stalked and attacked by such a creature in the wild - the rush before the crush. It must have happened countless times. An ancient chill fluttered deep within.

In general, I found nothing apparently wrong with Demetrius. I took blood for a complete blood count and chemistry panel, checked his teeth (oh, my!) and later tested his blood for feline leukemia virus. All test results were normal.

Upon running into Lloyd weeks later, he asked me what I had given our patient to make him so much better. Aside from a long-lasting shot of penicillin, which was a token gesture considering he had no fever, I had done nothing.

Over the next few months Demetrius gradually gained back some 200 pounds and to this day, more than 10 years later, he is alive and healthy.

I have puzzled over this unlikely cure ever since. Maybe the violent seizures triggered the expulsion of a partially-obstructing gastrointestinal foreign body. Maybe the antibiotic helped. I really have no clue, but like all experienced professionals who know deep down that it's better to be lucky than good, I took the credit.



Dr. Jack Thornton is a semi-retired veterinarian who works at the Blue Mountain Animal Clinic on Old Olympic Highway.