Safari Doctor ― Life and Adventures of
a Texas Wildlife Park Veterinarian
By Dr. Joe Cannon
Remember All Creatures Great and Small? Who could ever forget? Now, in Safari Doctor, it’s the Americans who are having all the fun! This entertaining and informative book is for all animal lovers and adventure seekers everywhere, including young people who would like to one day become veterinarians.
Share the challenges and joys of Dr. Joe Cannon during his years with exotic animals. The many memorable creatures include Silky Harris the fox, Judy the movie-star chimp, Dottie the fawn ― with elephants, lions, rhinos, and many more.
Included are photographs of these creatures, which offer a unique glimpse into the world of a wildlife veterinarian. Delight in a trip to a ranch in Mexico where Joe and a buddy round up zebra, something no one before had been able to do. Allow your heart to soar as your appreciation for all of God’s creatures greatly expands.
Praise…
The stories told in this book are true-life adventures of a modern-day “Doc Tari.” This is a great read for anyone who cares about these wonderful creatures. Mickey Hunt, exotic animal expert, Vice President of International Wildlife, Ltd.
A heartwarming, enlightening, and sometimes terrifying story of Dr. Joe Cannon’s lifetime as an animal lover and veterinarian. If you’re an animal lover too, you’ll love reading about his encounters with these creatures that have brought so much joy and meaning to his life…and can make better human beings out of all of us. Charles E. Bates, journalist and teacher
Price: $18.99
Book data: 184 pages, 6 x 9, perfect bound paperback, with dozens of photos, not included here at our web site
ISBN: 978-1-891774-05-8 and 1-891774-05-0
Bookstore locations: autobiography / youth
Distributed by Baker & Taylor and the distributors (702 S. Michigan, South
Bend, Indiana 46601, 574-232-8500, www.thedistributors.com)
Here are the Introduction and Chapter 1 from Safari Doctor ― Life and Adventures of a Texas Wildlife Park Veterinarian by Dr. Joe Cannon. We encourage you to buy a copy of this delightful book. See our Shopping Cart.
Copyright © 2006 Joe Cannon
Path Publishing, Inc., with Path Publishing in Christ
4302 W. 51st #121
Amarillo, Texas 79109-6159 U.S.A.
INTRODUCTION
From my earliest childhood memories of growing up on a farm, I always have been compelled to spend my time with animals. Fish, fowl, or mammals continually have held a fascination for me, and I have never considered doing anything other than having a life and career centered on animals. The events in this book are priceless memories to me, as I have had experiences in the animal world that money cannot buy. These experiences have served to greatly increase my respect for the strength and intelligence of all of God’s creatures.
The part of my life that I devoted to exotic animals was totally unexpected but turned out to be the most rewarding and memorable. It is ironic how life sometime works out that way. I do know that my two pets on the farm, Silky the fox and Red the hawk, both played major roles in the development of my philosophy of life, and they were strong influences on me during my formative years. It was only a short time after my graduation from veterinary school that exotics popped back into my life.
While I was attending the University of California at Davis on an ambulatory equine internship, part of my coursework was making weekly rounds at the Sacramento Zoo. It was there that I met Dr. Marry Fowler, the professor supervising our rounds at the zoo, and he reawakened my interest in exotics. He had been on staff at US-Davis for several years and was one of the pioneers in exotic animal medicine. He later published the textbook and bible for exotic medicine, Zoo and Wild Animal Medicine. I was extremely fortunate to have worked with him since his knowledge and understanding of exotics was unequaled during that time.
Dr. Fowler taught me a great deal about chemical immobilization, which is a must in the handling of wild animals. Being able to examine tranquilized animals opened up a whole new dimension for me. As it turned out, I would become a pioneer in the use of M-99 (atropine, a synthetic cousin of morphine and much more effective), and between 1973 and 1988 I used more M-99 for the capture of wild animals than anyone else in the United States. Dr. Fowler, my mentor, taught me well in the science of chemical restraint, enabling me to perform examinations, diagnostics, surgery, preventive medicine, and more.
As I began to handle, examine, and treat these amazing animals, I found that they quickly became part of my life. I learned that when a wild animal begins to appear ill, it is usually too late to do much. Why? The adrenalin rush and endorphin release that all wild animals possess allows them to keep going in the face of severe illness. Only when the infection or disease begins to finally take over the body do they begin to get weak or stop eating. By that time, the animal may be almost dead. That’s why I started to watch for earlier and more subtle signs of illness, using chemical immobilization if I suspected a problem. I could then draw blood, do an exam, and start treatment before the disease reached its final stages.
In 1971, I became the resident veterinarian for Earl Schwab's Green Thumb Thoroughbred Farm in Chino, California. While there, I was invited by a close friend to visit him at the Lion Country Safari in nearby Laguna Hills, which was the first park in California to attempt the open, drive-through concept in which visitors were caged in cars while the wild animals roamed around them. I enjoyed my visits so much that I volunteered my services and worked almost every weekend.
Every effort was made to make the park as similar to Africa as possible, with four separate compounds housing different species of animals that ran free in each. The lions and cheetahs were allowed to roam in their designated areas, and groups of giraffe, wildebeest, zebra, rhino, eland, and impala shared common areas.
The concept was wonderful! To see these magnificent creatures in a natural setting, where they could roam free and interact with each other, seemed to be the answer to conservation, display, and breeding all rolled into one.
During my one-year volunteer period at the wildlife park, I came to realize that exotics were special to me and that I wanted to dedicate a large portion of my veterinary practice to maintaining their health and happiness. I wanted to learn more about their habits and behavior, and become proficient in all aspects of their care.
With this in the back of my mind, my ears perked up when I heard of a new wildlife park opening up in Grand Prairie, Texas, just west of Dallas. Pat Quinn, the director of the Laguna Hills Park, had mentioned for some time that this was a possibility, but it was not until I asked him directly did he acknowledge that it was definite and that construction had already begun. I told Pat I would be very interested in becoming the resident veterinarian there, especially since I was originally from that area of Texas. He said he would put in a good word for me, and we left it at that.
About six months later I was offered the job. I couldn’t have been happier, as this would not only give my family an opportunity to get back home, but also allow me to use the park as a foundation to start my own veterinary practice in Grand Prairie. With a great deal of anticipation, my family and I started back to Texas to begin what would turn out to be the most exciting 10 years of my life.
The park, soon to be completed, was owned by International Animal Exchange. With their headquarters in Michigan, they were the largest importers and exporters of exotic animals in the world. Wildlife conservation and preservation were their main goals. They owned and operated the Mount Kenya Game Preserve for many years. Working closely with the actor William Holden, they accomplished many breeding and wildlife relocation programs for numerous species of endangered animals in this park. It was their hope that through the creation of a large wildlife park in America, even more captive breeding programs could be established worldwide.
Brian, Don, Tom, and Mickey Hunt, the owners and operators of International Animal Exchange, were true pioneers in wildlife conservation. Their plan for captive breeding programs included many species of exotics, such as Bongo antelope, Arabian oryx, Gaur cattle, Barasingha deer, white zebra, and white tigers.
Mickey Hunt was appointed Vice President and General Manager to supervise all of these projects. He would ultimately become my boss and confidant. Today, he is Vice President of International Wildlife, Ltd.
The park’s 360 lush acres were bound by the Trinity River and divided into five compounds, one more than Laguna Hills. Section I was hoof stock, containing some two hundred head of various African, antelope-type animals; in addition, this section included the main watering holes that had large islands in the middle where chimpanzees and other species of primates were housed. Section II was home to the African lions, with some prides as large as 20 to 30 animals. Section III housed rhinos, hippos, cheetah, and Cape buffalo, and also contained several lakes with islands that served as the home for spider monkeys and chimpanzees. In Section IV were the elephants, along with several species of hoof stock, including giraffe. Section V was the River Ride, home to many species of deer, birds, small primates, and some moated carnivores such as wolves, hyenas, and bears. Near the River Ride was the hospital nursery facility, which also housed some reptiles, birds, and small mammals.
For the next 10 years I devoted a large part of my life to caring for these wonderful wild animals. I will always consider it a great honor for them to have allowed me into their world. The park rangers and directors, who were an integral part of the day-to-day operation of this huge facility and are equally unforgettable, included characters such as Bill York, George Gray, James Ashe, Mickey Hunt, John Clay, Craig Collvins, Kurt Giesler, Vern McGran, Ron Surratt, and Ray Sutton. It is with special thanks and honor to them that I write this book. As you roam through the chapters, I hope you find these stories as fascinating as I do. International Wildlife Park-Grand Prairie ultimately closed for business after two major floods, but the animals will live forever in my heart. Enjoy!
CHAPTER 1
SILKY HARRIS
Life on a farm in the little community of Greens Creek was simple and peaceful. Greens Creek was named after the creek that ran through it. I spent a lot of time on this creek hunting, fishing and just being a boy. My dad had to work long hours, what with farming more than one hundred acres of dry-land peanuts and tending to the livestock. There wasn’t much time for fun or play on the farm. I had to grab that time when I could, because Mom and Dad always managed to find some work for me to do.
As far back as I can remember, my day on the farm began at daylight with feeding the livestock, which included cattle, sheep, hogs, chickens, and at times, maybe a horse or two. Tending to the animals was my favorite chore. I think they liked me as well as I liked them.
When the feeding was done, I went back to the house for a hearty breakfast of water biscuits, water gravy, sugar syrup, and sometimes ham or bacon, if we had recently butchered a hog. After breakfast, it was off to the fields to work all morning, either plowing or hoeing peanuts, our cash crop. We would rest for a little while after lunch and then go back to the fields to work at what we had been doing that morning. In the evenings, my relaxing hot bath consisted of water being heated on the stove in a pan and poured into a porcelain tub. This usually gave me about two or three inches of water to sit in, and that was after repeating the heating process two or three times.
As my Dad always said though, “It sure beats nothin’.” We simply couldn’t afford indoor plumbing.
I didn’t understand what Mom and Dad were talking about when they would say, “Times are hard.” I remember they talked a lot about money or the lack of it, and sometimes Dad would laugh and say, “We’re so poor that the poor sneer at us.”
One reason I never realized how poor we were was because we ate good. We always had vegetables such as black-eyed peas, green beans, potatoes, squash, okra, and tomatoes that we grew in our garden. We usually had home-raised beef, pork, and chicken, besides the wild game I brought home from my hunting. The wild game might be venison, quail, squirrel, duck, or a rabbit now and then. So, in a nutshell, I ate good, worked hard, slept good at night, and learned to despise our outhouse and lack of indoor bathroom plumbing. Getting friends to come spend the night was pretty tough.
At times I have mixed emotions about how I grew up. When I think back on those “hard times” and how hard we had to work, I feel sort of cheated in the fun department. On the other hand, I feel so fortunate that I grew up in the country where I had clean air to breathe, parents who loved me, a warm place to sleep, good home-cooked meals to eat, and a chance to bond with a host of animal friends.
I managed to have a few pets of my own to keep me company. They included the usual dogs and cats, but that never seemed to be enough for me. It seemed that the more that I was around animals, the more I wanted to understand everything about them. I was curious about all animals and especially wildlife. This probably explains why I adopted squirrels, crows, hawks, owls, and foxes. Dad didn’t have much patience with these unusual pets, but Mom was very understanding about them. I think she realized that sometimes life on a farm could be lonely without pets. She even helped with my feeding formulas and would go out with me on some of my jaunts from time to time. I enjoyed those times. I believe God put animals on this earth so that we could learn such things as patience, responsibility, love and nurturing from them. They probably taught me more about life than my parents and peers.
I lived to have a day off, due to a rain or a broken piece of farming equipment. This gave me some free time to hit the woods and fields to explore or hunt for food. I pretty much had to make my own amusement since we lived so far “out in the sticks.” It was on one of these rainy days when the sun had popped out, but was still too wet to plow or hoe in the fields, that my cousin, Bill Bamber, showed up. He knew I would not be working, and he was looking for a hunting partner.
“Hey, Cuz,” he yelled as he walked up the road to our house. “Let’s go over behind the old Henson woods and look around.”
“Great!” I said. “Let’s go before Dad finds somethin’ for me to do.” We hopped over the back fence and headed down the Henson fencerow. These times were like heaven to me because I could actually enjoy the beauty of Mother Nature, which I found fascinating then, as well as now.
As we walked down the briery fencerow through some very thick grass, we could almost taste the air it so fresh after the rain. The spring wildflowers were just starting to pop up, and the mixture of yellow, purple, and orange flowers was breathtaking. We hadn’t gone two steps until we almost stepped on a pair of bob white quail. “Look out, Bill,” I kidded as the quail burst from cover. “That could have been a snake, so you better watch where you’re walkin’.”
Bill snapped, “Snakes don’t scare me. Ain’t no poisonous snakes around here anyway.”
“Dad said we have some copperheads,” I warned. Bill didn’t have a comeback for that, but I noticed he started looking down more. “Why are we goin’ over behind the Henson woods anyway? That pasture is on Mr. Vaughn’s property, and you know how he is about crossin’ fences.”
“I saw some fox cubs out of their den in an old terrace a couple of days ago,” Bill answered.
“Are you kiddin’ me?” My heart started pounding so loudly I had to stop for breath.
“No, for real,” he said. “I saw ‘em!”
“Reds or grays?” I couldn’t contain my excitement.
“I couldn’t tell, but I did see two of ‘em.”
“Wonder why they were out of their den?” I asked. “I’ve seen lots of field dens in the spring but never any cubs.”
“Can’t figure it out either. I guess I’ve never seen any cubs out of their dens either.”
“Maybe they’re hungry,” I suggested.
“Maybe the mother got shot or run over.”
“Could be, but somethin’ don’t seem right. We’ll know somethin’s up if they’re out again today.”
I began running, not walking, toward the thick Henson woods, with Bill close behind. We made our way quietly through the thick woods to the southeast corner where we could get a better view of the terrace. Bill was telling me about it as we slowly peeked out of the fencerow and into the field. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There they were, just like Bill said, two of the cutest, little furry fox cubs you could imagine. With the sun shining on their coats, they almost seemed to be wrapped in silk. We watched them for at least five minutes without speaking.
Neither one of us had ever seen anything like this.
“Bill, what do you figure? Why aren’t they in their den, and where is the mother?”
“Got me, Cuz. The mother could be in the den or out huntin’.”
The cubs didn’t seem weak, but they weren’t very playful either. It didn’t look normal to me. We watched them for about 20 minutes, and they never did go into their den. Then I got the idea to try and find out if they had a mother.
“Bill, let’s walk over and see if the mother’s left any tracks since the rain, and if we don’t find any, we’ll smooth out all the trails with our hands and come back tomorrow to look for her tracks to see if she is comin’ or goin’.”
Bill said he reckoned that would work, so we hopped over the fence and moved cautiously toward the cubs. Of course, at the first sign of movement, they ran into the den faster than a ground squirrel. Bill and I looked all around the den for fresh tracks of the mother and found none. We brushed out a few old tracks with our hands and headed back home. The two cubs were all I could think about that evening as I finished my chores, had supper, and got ready for bed.
It was still too wet to plow the next day, so Bill showed up about the same time and we headed back to the old Hensen woods. Deep down inside, I was hoping that the cubs would not be there and that their mother had returned. But as it turned out, neither was the case.
Just like the day before, we eased our heads up over the fencerow, and there they were again. They were just as silky and beautiful as before but seemed a little less active than the day before. Today we didn’t waste any time, just crossed the fence, and headed for the den.
Zoom! They hit the hole again just like before. We were somewhat puzzled by the fact that we found no sign of the mother’s coming or going to the den. We decided to give it the rest of the day before any hasty decisions were made about taking these cubs if they were orphans. We left and came back around “dark-thirty.” This time the cubs were not out, but as we approached the den we could hear them whining and crying from down deep inside the burrows. Again, we found no signs of tracks of the mother. Things were getting complicated.
As we walked back toward the house, I began thinking about trying to raise these guys on a bottle. I had some experience on this subject as I had raised a baby squirrel that fell out of its nest. “Squeaky” did real well, and I was even able to reintroduce him to outdoor life when he grew to be an adult squirrel. I kept thinking of Squeaky as we walked and recalled how hard it had been to feed him several times a day and keep him clean. I wondered if a baby fox would be harder to care for.
“Bill, do you think we can raise these guys if we have to?”
“I bet we can if we set our minds to it,” he reckoned.
“It won’t be easy; we’ll have to hunt for them and everything.”
“It might be fun though.”
“What about your parents? What will they say?”
“They won’t care,” Bill laughed. “I’m always bringin’ somethin’ home.”
“Mine will throw a fit. I’ll have to try and convince Mom to soften the blow before I tell Dad.” They both actually liked Squeaky after a while, but they seemed glad to see him go when I took him back to the pecan orchard to let him meet other squirrels. “Maybe it won’t come to all of this. Maybe the mother will be there tomorrow, and we won’t have to take them. I think I’ll tell Mom tonight, just in case.”
Later that evening, I asked my mother, “Mom, do you remember how Squeaky needed me and how we all saved his life?”
“Of course I do son, and you did a good job of raising him. But, as you found out with him, wild animals are meant to be in the wild.”
“But aren’t you glad we could help Squeaky, since he was an orphan and too young to take care of himself?”
She looked at me sort of puzzled, as to why I was bringing up Squeaky.
“What’s up? Is there somethin’ you need to tell me?”
“Well, not yet, but maybe tomorrow,” I answered sheepishly.
“Now, Joe Ed, I hope you’re not thinkin’ of bringin’ home another critter to raise.”
I knew she was serious when she called me Joe Ed, so I answered cautiously, “I’m not sure yet, but it may have to be done, Mom. I can’t just let them starve to death.”
“Well, whatever you’re plannin’, you better clear it with your dad first because you know how he is about another mouth to feed around here.”
“OK, Mom, if it comes to that, I will.” I felt I had gone as far as I could go. They did like Squeaky and accepted him, so maybe they would do the same with the foxes, if it came to that. As far as Dad was concerned, I didn’t dare ask him before the fact because he would definitely say no.
Luckily, the next morning there was so much dew that we still couldn’t get back into the field to plow, so Bill and I went fox hunting again. There they were, just like before, but now they were whining and crying outside and wandering farther from the den opening. Bill and I looked at each other, and we both agreed we had no choice.
We jumped the fence, farther down the fencerow than usual, and worked our way in from behind the cubs. We crawled the last 25 yards on our bellies and through briers to keep from being seen. Then, at the last minute, we charged the two cubs. Bill covered the hole, and I scooped up one of the cubs. The other one ran back to the den, and Bill grabbed him. Our mission was accomplished. We looked one last time for any sign of tracks of the mother. Since we found none, we felt better about our decision as we started home.
Then reality hit us. What have we done? I looked at Bill, and Bill looked at me.
“Dad’s gonna kill me,” I rambled nervously.
“I don’t know how to raise a fox,” he blurted out.
We started running toward my home because there were no other options, in our opinion. We stopped at the last fencerow to catch our breath. As I looked down in my jacket pocket and saw those two brown eyes looking up from that jet-black face, it was love at first sight. I couldn’t speak for Bill, but I decided right then and there that I would do whatever it took to raise this cub. Beyond that, nothing seemed to matter.
We got to the house and crossed the yard.
Dad hollered, “Son, where the heck have you been? I’ve been lookin’ all over for you. You need to kill us a chicken for dinner and clean it. Then we have to fix that cultivator this afternoon. Looks like it’s gonna be dry enough to plow by tomorrow. Where have you been?”
Although chicken for supper made my mouth water, I decided I might as well go ahead and “spill the beans.” Keeping a pet fox from your folks would be pretty hard to do. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the little gray ball of fur with its beady eyes, and to my surprise he had a white tip on his tail. He was a Red. I shoved it toward Dad and said, “Been huntin’.”
“What in tarnation is that?” he yelled. “What have you done gone and brought home this time? It better not be a fox.”
As he glared at me, I swallowed hard and said, “Well, uh, it is a fox, but he’s an orphan.”
“If he wasn’t before, he dang shore is now,” answered Dad. “Son, you just can’t keep him. Foxes and chickens don’t mix and you know that!”
“Yeah, Dad, I know. But I promise that as he gets older, I’ll keep him tied, or on a leash, or with me. He won’t kill our chickens.” Last year, Dad had ordered a pure, registered line of Cornish game chickens from a hatchery up north, and they had just begun laying and producing chicks of their own. Not only was Dad very proud of his chickens, they were about our main food source.
“It’ll never work,” he said, as he stalked off toward his tractor, muttering to himself. “Chickens and foxes just don’t mix. Anybody knows that.”
I guess I took that as a definite “maybe,” since I was running out of options, and set about locating a proper crate for my new companion. Bill took off home with his new buddy, and we both felt we were helping Mother Nature by adopting two of her orphans in need.
I found an old chicken crate, lined it with tow sacks, and placed the little cub in it. I put it in the corncrib and then started thinking about food and water. He was pretty small, so I figured he still needed milk. I found an old Dr Pepper bottle and mixed some fresh cow’s milk with some water, about half and half, and then I put an old artificial ewe’s rubber nipple on the bottle.
I headed toward the kitchen to find Mom to share the news with her. Besides, I was going to need her help to fix milk bottles and such. “Mom, look,” I yelled as I ran into the kitchen. I pulled the baby fox from my pocket and pushed it toward her.
“Oh my, Joe, what have you done?”
“He doesn’t have a mother,” I quickly explained.
“And just how do you know that?”
I told her the entire story about our many trips to the den in hopes of her understanding the situation since she was a mother. All I got, instead, was a long silence and I hated that.
She finally said, “Well, you’re on your own on this one. If you’re old enough to decide to bring a fox home, you’re old enough to raise it on your own.”
“I’ll raise him, I promise, and I won’t bother you or Dad. Do you have a pan I can use to warm up this bottle?”
She reached into our cupboard and brought out a pan and handed it to me.
“Now what do I do?”
She turned on the stove and pointed toward the sink as if to say, “You figure it out.”
I decided I had gotten all of the help I was going to get, so I set about warming the bottle myself. My first attempt at feeding was pretty messy, with me getting more milk on me than down the fox. Each day got better, though, as he learned to use the nipple and be a little slower and more patient as he nursed. In a few days, when he saw me coming, he would run and jump out of his crate and into my lap, with his little black ears held back and his tail and bottom wagging.
After a couple of weeks, it seemed that Mom and Dad weren’t going to cause too much of a fuss, for the time being at least, so I decided to name him. Every time I looked at him or touched him, his fur was like satin or silk. I remembered the first time I saw him and how he looked so shiny and silky in the sun. It was only logical to call him Silky, and I later added his last name of Harris, for whatever reason I don’t know.
So, lo and behold, Silky Harris was alive and well on the Cannon farm outside of Dublin, Texas. He thrived on his cow’s milk and water and grew like a weed. I decided when he reached about 10 to 12 weeks of age to let him out of his crate for short romps with me and my border collie, Rintey (short for Rin-Tin-Tin). It was amazing how quick the three of us bonded. It was a good thing that Rintey and Silky got along so well because it gave Silky a much needed playmate and companion in my absence. I did have to keep Silky on a long lead line, but he had plenty of room to romp and play with Rintey when I was gone. I kept him beneath a large apricot tree down by the barn, and as he got older he began digging the most elaborate den system you can imagine. These holes not only occupied his mind, but also kept him cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Rintey was fairly small, so he would actually crawl down in the den to be with his buddy.
As Silky Harris grew, his diet changed dramatically. I began feeding him rabbits that I would hunt for him when he was about four or five months old, and I started taking Silky with me on my hunts at about six months of age. I knew in the back of my mind that someday he would need to know how to hunt to survive on his own. This was a painful thought but a very realistic one.
On these training hunts, I left Rintey at home so Silky could concentrate on the business at hand: catching dinner. Silky and I would romp across the pasture and go down to the back fencerow, which was always good for a rabbit or two. It was during these hunts that I really began to get close to my companion, as well as develop a great respect for his speed and cunning. To have Silky running free beside me as we ran through the fields made me so happy. It seemed that when I was talking to him and playing with him, all my troubles and worries vanished. All I could do was marvel at his beauty and feel privileged that God had allowed me to be Silky’s friend and share such wonderful times with him.
It was early December when we neared the fencerow during one of our routine hunts for his food. Silky was sporting his full winter coat, which was truly magnificent. By this time he weighed about 15 pounds and was quite a sight to behold. The tips on his ears and feet were coal black. The red in his coat was a bright reddish-orange with some occasional white and black hairs popping through. His white belly was brilliantly white, as was the distinguishing white tip on his tail. At first, his orange eyes had a mischievous look, but I began to notice that they seemed to be getting a serious look instead. I figured this was due to a combination of the hunting activity and maybe him reaching puberty.
Our first few hunts had turned out futile as we spent a lot of time finding, tracking, and then chasing the rabbits to no avail. We had some success on the next two hunts, where I introduced a new technique.
Since our tracking and chasing hadn’t worked, I resorted to a more sly approach, which seemed to fit a fox. I simply taught Silky to “stay” and to “lie down.” I did this by giving him rabbit hors d’oeuvres when he responded and did what I asked him to. Believe me, getting a hyper fox to “stay” was not easy, especially in the woods with rabbit trails running everywhere. Locating rabbits was never a problem around our farm. The rabbits thrived on our peanuts and the lush, coastal Bermuda grass that grew well in our sandy soil. With fencerows next to the fields and all the dense cover there, it was a rabbit haven. Being December, the trees had lost their leaves and even the green briers had turned brown. This color contrast made Silky stand out like a sore thumb, so I had to make sure he stayed as still as possible.
Early one Sunday morning I was trying to get a hunt in before church. As we went over the back fence, I caught my jacket on a brier and tore it a little. When I stopped to get it undone, I caught a glimpse of two deer moving out ahead of us. I took a couple of steps and heard a loud noise, which sounded like the flapping of wings. When I looked out over our neighbor’s peanut field, hundreds of Pintail and Mallard ducks were bursting skyward from their nighttime roost in the open field. They stayed there at night to eat peanuts and sleep, and then flew away to surrounding lakes during the day. The sight of all this wildlife got my heart pounding, and I could only marvel as the cinnamon and white colors of the Pintails and the green and purple in the Mallards all mixed into a kind of rainbow effect. I watched until most of them were out of sight, but a few circled and drifted back in to continue their meal. It was time for me to get back to the business at hand.
I took Silky down the fencerow about 50 yards to the thickest part I could find and told him to stay and lie down. I hopped back over the fence and ran down below Silky about 100 yards. I started working my way back toward my companion, and I could see all of the cottontails breaking out of cover in front of me. They were running straight toward Silky.
I finally got back even with where I had left him and hopped back over the fence to look for him. He was not where I left him, which should have been a good sign. At least he had had something to chase. I looked and looked for him, but to no avail. At last I caught a glimpse of something red about 100 yards out in the peanut field and figured he had a long chase for a rabbit.
As I got closer, I knew that it wasn’t a rabbit. It had feathers. Silky apparently got bored while waiting for me to flush out a rabbit and went off on his own quest. He had managed to sneak through the tall grass to a flock of those ducks and had caught one of them.
I was in awe and exclaimed, “I guess you don’t need me, guy. Looks like you could even teach me a thing or two about huntin’. I know I couldn’t have sneaked up on wild ducks. Of course, I’m not a fox, either.” He paid no attention to me and just kept enjoying his duck breakfast. I was so proud of him and relieved to know that he could take care of himself if that day ever came.
Time passed, and winter turned into spring and spring into summer. Silky and I became more and more dependent on each other. He had won Mom and Dad over, and they actually played with him at times. On one particular sunny day, Mom and I had planned a fishing trip over to one of the Kiker tanks. I asked her if Silky could come along and was shocked when she agreed. Mom was the one who took me fishing since Dad was always working. She really liked to fish and could sit for hours and watch a cork, even if she didn’t catch anything. She taught me how to have patience while catching fish and even showed me how to clean the fish when we were through. The two of us were pretty good at it.
I kept Silky on a leash for this trip since I didn’t want anything major to go wrong. As long as he was on the leash, he did very well, but if I released him he would be off to the races.
We had been fishing for a couple of hours and had only caught a couple of little ones, so we were getting ready to go home. Then it happened. I got my line caught about two feet from shore, and Mom asked me what was wrong. “Hung up on somethin’, I guess.”
“Jerk on it and maybe it’ll come loose,” she said.
I gave it several tugs, but it didn’t budge. Since it was so close to the bank, I decided to wade out and get it loose. I took one step into the water and did I ever get a surprise. My line took off and my little Sears & Roebuck rod nearly broke. When that rod bent double, it really got our attention.
I began floundering around in the water trying to hold that fish and yelling, “I’m goin’ to lose him. Help me, Mom, help me!”
Mom couldn’t swim so she wasn’t about to jump in. When the struggle seemed futile, the fish made another pass close to the bank, and it was Silky that came to the rescue. That fox must have sensed that we were in trouble. He jumped into the water and grabbed that fish before we knew what was happening. He couldn’t drag it, so he just put his paws on it and held it down.
I couldn’t believe it ― a fishing fox!
This seemed to stun the fish long enough for me to get a finger in his mouth and through his gills, and jerk him out on the bank. Silky was right behind me, jumping and biting at that fish with every step. He didn’t know what it was, but he sure knew that he wanted it for himself.
Mom was in shock. “That is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” she said in astonishment. As we walked back to the pickup I could tell that Mom, for the time being anyway, had decided that Silky might be OK.
Since the fishing incident, I had begun to think to myself that I would have this fox forever, but things started taking a turn for the worst.
First of all, the apricot tree was Silky’s home, and for the first time since Dad could remember, it did not bear any fruit. It really didn’t appear to me to be dying, but Dad thought differently.
“You’re going to have to get rid of that fox or move it,” he informed me one morning on the way to the field.
“Why?” I asked with a puzzled look on my face.
“Because that apricot tree is dying. That fox of yours has dug so many holes around it until it has damaged the root system. I’ve seen it happen before. When a tree quits bearing fruit and starts to turn brown like that one is doin’, it’s as good as dead.”
My heart sunk, and I got a big lump in my throat at the very thought of getting rid of Silky. I didn’t answer Dad because I knew how he was when his mind was made up, and a 12-year-old boy sure wasn’t going to change it. I just sort of tuned in on the “moving” idea and tuned out the “getting rid of” part of what he said.
The next day I simply relocated Silky to a large oak tree farther behind the house and thought the crisis was over. The apricot tree did go ahead and die during the next few months, and Dad made me chop it down and cut it into firewood as a subtle reminder as to whose fault he thought it was that we would no longer have any homemade apricot fried pies. To tell you the truth, I missed those, too. Mom sure knew how to make fried pies, and the fact that apricots were her favorite fruit didn’t make her any more forgiving of Silky either.
It was along in October, and fall was definitely back in the air. The leaves were turning, and Silky had made himself several new dens as he prepared for winter. Everything seemed so rosy, and I should have known things were going too smoothly. I had been gone one afternoon on a very rare fishing trip with my cousin, and I was just heading through the front gate when I sensed that something was terribly wrong.
The first thing that caught my eye when I entered the yard was a huge pile of chicken feathers at the edge of the shrubs that surrounded our house. I just froze, not knowing what was going to happen next. My question was answered soon when Silky came around the house to greet me with a large Cornish game hen in his mouth and his collar missing. He was free and was definitely doing what foxes do ― eating chickens. He couldn’t have been any prouder of his prize and couldn’t wait to show me his catch. He pranced around the house with that chicken in his mouth and wasn’t about to let me catch him. I knew this was the end if Dad found out, and my only hope was to clean up everything before he saw it.
This idea was quickly squelched when out of the corner of my eye I saw Dad coming. Evidently, both Dad and I had happened onto Silky’s victim at about the same time, and both of us had completely different ideas as to how to solve the problem. Dad ran by me and headed into the house without saying a word.
“Where are you goin’?” I cried as I chased behind him.
“You know where I am goin’!” he yelled. “I’m gettin’ my gun and endin’ this problem right now. I told you that foxes and chickens don’t mix, and you wouldn’t listen. I told you to get rid of him, and you wouldn’t listen. Now it’s up to me to take care of it, and that’s what I’m doin’, taking care of the problem.”
I grabbed his waist and, through the tears, managed to get out a few pleas of “Please, Dad, no! Don’t kill Silky! Please, Dad, don’t kill Silky!” I could see this wasn’t working, and time was short so I headed for Silky. By then he was holed up in the hedges by the house and eating his prize. I crawled into the hedges and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and headed toward the barn. I had no idea what this was going to accomplish, but I had to do something.
Dad came out on the porch and yelled, “Joe, stop, right now!” I froze in my tracks and waited. Dad soon appeared with his shotgun lying across his arm. “Put the fox down and go in the house,” he demanded.
“No,” I cried hysterically. “If I do, you’ll shoot him.”
Dad ordered, “Do as I said. I’m not goin’ to tell you again. There’s not but one thing to do to a chicken-eatin’ fox and that’s shoot him.”
Hearing all of the commotion, Mom came running out on the porch and, to my surprise, joined in on the plea not to kill the fox. “Now, Bryce, you know how much that fox means to him, and it’s not right to just kill him. He was only doin’ what was natural for a fox. We have lots of chickens, and we won’t miss one or two.”
He came back with, “Adelle, you know as well as I do, the problem is not just that he has eaten two chickens. The problem is that now he’s a chicken-eatin’ fox and he won’t stop.”
Sensing that Dad was weakening a little, I started begging again, “Dad, if you won’t shoot him, I’ll get rid of him myself. I promise!”
I guess the sad scene of a crying boy holding his pet fox in his arms, refusing to let him go, and my mother being on my side, reached some sympathetic spot inside him. He actually started to cool off and even began to talk to me in a more rational tone. “Son, I know you love this fox, but he’s still a fox and he can’t survive in the wild and you can’t keep him here.”
“Dad, he can survive in the woods. I know he can! I’ll take him off right now. Just please don’t kill him!”
Dad looked at me with skeptical eyes, but he hadn’t been on some of Silky’s hunts and had no idea how he could hunt on his own.
Before Dad could revert back to his original idea of shooting Silky, I ran for our old 1941 Ford Pickup that Dad let me drive occasionally. “I’m takin’ him right now,” I said through the tears. “I’ll be back later.”
Since Dad made no active attempt to stop me or to drag me out of the truck, I took advantage of the momentary pause in the action and fired up that old pickup and drove down the road. I was still crying so hard I could barely see, and I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do with Silky Harris. He just lay in the seat beside me and was looking up at me with chicken feathers still in his mouth, wondering why his picnic had been interrupted.
I took a right turn on our dirt road and headed north. It felt like my mind was spinning out of control as I drove up that country road. I didn’t know where to take him, but I knew I couldn’t take him back home. I remember telling myself, Stop an’ think! Just slow down an’ think. There was no answer to this. When I tried to slow down and think, all I could think about were the good times we had and how all that was over. He was my best friend, and I told him everything. Who could I talk to now?
As I drove and took deep breaths, I slowly started to feel a calmness coming over me. It was a relief in that I knew this day was coming and that because it was finally here, I didn’t have to dread it any longer. Silky was not dead, and at least I had taught him how to survive out in the wild. I relaxed some and set out to find Silky a home.
I knew he needed to be far away from people to remove the temptation of coming up to them. If far enough away from people, he might even meet a female fox and become a dad, I told myself. I drove about 10 miles, back into an area where the road dead-ended into about a thousand acres of thick brush and timber. This big ranch had all sorts of wild game and varmints on it, as I remembered from hunting deer there the previous year.
I stopped the truck, cut off the motor, sat there for a minute or two, and then grabbed Silky and began one of the hardest walks I would ever have to make in my entire life. I would walk for a while, run for a while, and cry for a while. It seemed I must have walked for two or three miles back into those woods before I found a nice green area with a spring-fed creek nearby.
Silky had no idea what was about to happen, and he probably thought we were on one of our many hunts. It was then, and only then, that it hit me how to handle this. I would simply make him “stay” and say “down,” just like when we were hunting. That way, he would not follow me. And when he became bored he would start hunting on his own, just like the day he caught the duck.
I found a big log, placed Silky behind it, and gave the commands to “stay” and “down.” All I could do then was run as fast as I could toward the truck. And run I did. I never looked back. As the wind and branches hit me in the face, all I could think of was our great times together and how happy Silky would be now that he was free to hunt, be a daddy, and to run and play with other foxes.
That was the last time I saw Silky.
Bill’s fox turned out to be a female, and he kept her for several more years. As she got older and more independent, she would run farther from home and would, on occasion, bring back her kill to the house. Bill tried to encourage her to hunt alone and figured that one day she would just disappear and go out on her own. That was exactly what she did. Bill saw a couple of foxes about two miles from his house while out hunting one day and thought that one of them was her, but she just turned and ran away. Bill said it made him feel good that, if it was her, she had found a mate and would be happy.
As I became a teenager and looked back on those days with Silky, I wasn’t sure who taught whom. I really think I learned more from him about Mother Nature and about growing up in general. I learned how to be more nurturing, understanding, patient, and caring. All of these traits I would use later on in life while working with animals.
Silky had a lot to do with my decision to become a veterinarian, and more specifically to become an exotic animal veterinarian. The hands-on rearing of this fox made me very aware of the fact that wild animals have needs, desires, feelings, and sicknesses just like other animals. The wild factor often covers these things up, but they are there if someone will just take the time to understand them and care.
For bringing this respect, admiration, and understanding of wild animals out in me, I will always be grateful to Silky Harris and will never forget him as long as I live.
We hope you enjoyed the Introduction and Chapter 1 from Safari Doctor ― Life and Adventures of a Texas Wildlife Park Veterinarian by Dr. Joe Cannon. To buy a copy for $18.99 plus $3.75 shipping, pay through PayPal by clicking on Shopping Cart or mailing us at Path Publishing, 4302 W. 51st, Amarillo, Texas 79109-6159. (The total is $22.74 ― with sales tax to Texans, $24.62.)
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For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills. Psalm 50:10