Waumbek
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Rescue accomplished; the dog is home again after vet care.
From the Burlington Free Press
Mansfield porcupine makes its point
Published: June 25. 2005 12:00AM
By Ed Shamy
Free Press Staff Writer
Such a romantic, tranquil Vermont scene: After work on a gorgeous early-summer Thursday, Dr. Robert Pfister, his girlfriend and their three dogs hike on Mount Mansfield, ambling toward a spot from which to watch the sun drop behind the Adirondacks.
How quickly the idyllic can turn nightmarish.
"We heard Bodhi scream," Pfister said Friday, not yet fully recovered from the ordeal that would stretch nearly to dawn.
Bodhi is a 65-pound husky, a dog who can usually fend for himself. This time, he found his way into a life-threatening pickle. The dog apparently chased an animal into a rock crevice less than 2 feet high and 8 or 10 feet deep. The dog was yelping, whimpering, screaming for help and could not work his way back out.
Pfister, who said he's about 5 feet 7 inches tall and weighs about 145 pounds, squirmed around the half-ton rock -- about the size and shape of the hood of a small car -- that blocked the entrance and tried to help his dog exit.
Something beside the dog was hissing and growling inside the cave. "It was pitch black, I didn't know if it was a bear or what it was. I didn't have much choice, though," Pfister said.
As he reached into the darkness, he figured out what had been Bodhi's quarry. "I got zapped," he said. Porcupine quills stuck out of his right hand, his forearm, his chest. He quickly yanked them out.
Pfister sent his girlfriend, Susan Christopher, down the mountain for help. It was a long way down the Teardrop Trail, a steep gash just south of the Mount Mansfield Nose. It was muddy, and it had begun to rain.
The worst hour
Pfister stayed with Bodhi. Christopher was gone for an hour.
"That was the worst hour. He was in a ton of pain. I went into a pit of despair," Pfister said. He folded a leaf into a V, collected some rainwater and passed it to Bodhi. It offered a bit of relief, but not much. The dog was a pincushion of quills. They had pierced his eyelids, his tongue, his lips and the inside of his mouth.
"I thought, 'This dog is dead,'" Pfister said. Twice, he got sick to his stomach from the emotional upset. "I'm very close with these dogs."
The 7-year-old dog, named after the sacred tree under which the Buddha attained enlightenment, soon would die.
Pfister dug with his hands. He tried vainly to move gargantuan rocks. The dog whimpered.
Two hikers Christopher had encountered on her way down the mountain showed up to help -- Pfister never got their names. They brought headlamps, rope and maybe most important, optimism.
Police dispatchers contacted Jennifer Silpe and Seth Friedman, the animal control officers for Underhill, just before 9 p.m. There is no such thing as a normal call for animal control officers. A frantic man high on a mountain beside his injured dog trapped in a cave at night was cause for alarm, but not surprise. Off they went, with the standard tools: a noose at the end of a long pole, Kevlar gloves, flashlights.
Silpe said they met Pfister partway up the mountain.
"He was beside himself," she said. And with good reason.
When they reached the cave, she said, the situation looked more dire than they'd been led to believe. The dog would not or could not move. The rock partially covering the entrance was huge and was over Bodhi. If it fell, it would crush dog and porcupine. Bodhi was screeching from within. The drizzle, the mud and the darkness did not help. The porcupine, at least, was so scared and so tired, it "basically went into shock" and didn't make any more trouble, Silpe said.
Friedman tried several times to get the noose around Bodhi's neck and push him out another way, but that didn't work.
Last option
The group turned to the last, best option with reservations. They pooled the gear they had, gathering caribiners, a come-along, a pry bar, rope and webbing. They tied fast to the rock blocking the husky's way out, wrapped the rope around a tree, rigged the come-along and added muscle to their ingenuity.
As they began to grunt and nudge, coax and prop the rock from the cave entrance, Silpe warned the dog owners.
"We have a 50-50 chance" of success, she cautioned. If the rock slipped and fell, and if Bodhi wasn't instantly killed by the impact and the weight, she was prepared to shoot the animal rather than have him suffer further.
Christopher could not bear to witness that. She left, escorted down the mountain. Pfister, who works with newborns at Fletcher Allen Health Care and has worked with children in hospital emergency rooms, was himself freaking out. A few times, Silpe said, she had to ask him to step away and collect himself. He was frantic.
Slowly, steadily, the rock moved.
Seth Friedman held the noose tight around Bodhi's neck. He later told fellow animal control officer Silpe that he was either going to pull the dog free or snap its neck. He was applying all his force as the others worked the rock, thinking as he pulled that the work was like pulling a cork from a bottle. That cork was going to pop or it was going to break.
It popped.
Bodhi "came out in kind of an explosion," Pfister said. By Friday, he was likening it to childbirth.
He rushed over and kissed Friedman. He offered Friedman and Silpe money. To buy them dinner -- for two nights if that's what they wanted.
Faceful of quills
Bodhi, face full of quivers, acclimated.
"For about 30 seconds, he freaked out. He likes the insides of his ears scratched and I stuck my index fingers into those nasty, waxy ears and calmed him down," Pfister said.
Silpe called ahead to VCA Brown Animal Hospital in South Burlington. Barbara Burroughs, a veterinarian, was on call and she was waiting for Pfister and Bodhi when they arrived well after midnight. They anesthetized the dog and, working side by side, pulled more than 300 quills from the husky.
Bodhi went home at near dawn on Friday, about 12 hours after he'd chased the porcupine into the crevice.
Within a couple of hours, Pfister and Silpe were at work. Friedman was on his way to a family gathering. The hikers who'd volunteered help and the rangers who'd worked so hard were back doing their thing.
Pfister admitted Friday to being "embarrassed and chagrined." He said he'd learned to keep his dogs on leashes while hiking -- a rule in Underhill State Park.
"I personally have never been involved in anything so dramatic," Pfister said. He acknowledged that the words were especially strong coming from an emergency room doctor. And he stuck by them.
"Seth and Jennifer," the animal control officers, "deserve a medal. Just incredible, what they did."
There will be no medals. The officers are part-timers in Underhill. They work only when called. They're paid $7.90 per hour.
From the Burlington Free Press
Mansfield porcupine makes its point
Published: June 25. 2005 12:00AM
By Ed Shamy
Free Press Staff Writer
Such a romantic, tranquil Vermont scene: After work on a gorgeous early-summer Thursday, Dr. Robert Pfister, his girlfriend and their three dogs hike on Mount Mansfield, ambling toward a spot from which to watch the sun drop behind the Adirondacks.
How quickly the idyllic can turn nightmarish.
"We heard Bodhi scream," Pfister said Friday, not yet fully recovered from the ordeal that would stretch nearly to dawn.
Bodhi is a 65-pound husky, a dog who can usually fend for himself. This time, he found his way into a life-threatening pickle. The dog apparently chased an animal into a rock crevice less than 2 feet high and 8 or 10 feet deep. The dog was yelping, whimpering, screaming for help and could not work his way back out.
Pfister, who said he's about 5 feet 7 inches tall and weighs about 145 pounds, squirmed around the half-ton rock -- about the size and shape of the hood of a small car -- that blocked the entrance and tried to help his dog exit.
Something beside the dog was hissing and growling inside the cave. "It was pitch black, I didn't know if it was a bear or what it was. I didn't have much choice, though," Pfister said.
As he reached into the darkness, he figured out what had been Bodhi's quarry. "I got zapped," he said. Porcupine quills stuck out of his right hand, his forearm, his chest. He quickly yanked them out.
Pfister sent his girlfriend, Susan Christopher, down the mountain for help. It was a long way down the Teardrop Trail, a steep gash just south of the Mount Mansfield Nose. It was muddy, and it had begun to rain.
The worst hour
Pfister stayed with Bodhi. Christopher was gone for an hour.
"That was the worst hour. He was in a ton of pain. I went into a pit of despair," Pfister said. He folded a leaf into a V, collected some rainwater and passed it to Bodhi. It offered a bit of relief, but not much. The dog was a pincushion of quills. They had pierced his eyelids, his tongue, his lips and the inside of his mouth.
"I thought, 'This dog is dead,'" Pfister said. Twice, he got sick to his stomach from the emotional upset. "I'm very close with these dogs."
The 7-year-old dog, named after the sacred tree under which the Buddha attained enlightenment, soon would die.
Pfister dug with his hands. He tried vainly to move gargantuan rocks. The dog whimpered.
Two hikers Christopher had encountered on her way down the mountain showed up to help -- Pfister never got their names. They brought headlamps, rope and maybe most important, optimism.
Police dispatchers contacted Jennifer Silpe and Seth Friedman, the animal control officers for Underhill, just before 9 p.m. There is no such thing as a normal call for animal control officers. A frantic man high on a mountain beside his injured dog trapped in a cave at night was cause for alarm, but not surprise. Off they went, with the standard tools: a noose at the end of a long pole, Kevlar gloves, flashlights.
Silpe said they met Pfister partway up the mountain.
"He was beside himself," she said. And with good reason.
When they reached the cave, she said, the situation looked more dire than they'd been led to believe. The dog would not or could not move. The rock partially covering the entrance was huge and was over Bodhi. If it fell, it would crush dog and porcupine. Bodhi was screeching from within. The drizzle, the mud and the darkness did not help. The porcupine, at least, was so scared and so tired, it "basically went into shock" and didn't make any more trouble, Silpe said.
Friedman tried several times to get the noose around Bodhi's neck and push him out another way, but that didn't work.
Last option
The group turned to the last, best option with reservations. They pooled the gear they had, gathering caribiners, a come-along, a pry bar, rope and webbing. They tied fast to the rock blocking the husky's way out, wrapped the rope around a tree, rigged the come-along and added muscle to their ingenuity.
As they began to grunt and nudge, coax and prop the rock from the cave entrance, Silpe warned the dog owners.
"We have a 50-50 chance" of success, she cautioned. If the rock slipped and fell, and if Bodhi wasn't instantly killed by the impact and the weight, she was prepared to shoot the animal rather than have him suffer further.
Christopher could not bear to witness that. She left, escorted down the mountain. Pfister, who works with newborns at Fletcher Allen Health Care and has worked with children in hospital emergency rooms, was himself freaking out. A few times, Silpe said, she had to ask him to step away and collect himself. He was frantic.
Slowly, steadily, the rock moved.
Seth Friedman held the noose tight around Bodhi's neck. He later told fellow animal control officer Silpe that he was either going to pull the dog free or snap its neck. He was applying all his force as the others worked the rock, thinking as he pulled that the work was like pulling a cork from a bottle. That cork was going to pop or it was going to break.
It popped.
Bodhi "came out in kind of an explosion," Pfister said. By Friday, he was likening it to childbirth.
He rushed over and kissed Friedman. He offered Friedman and Silpe money. To buy them dinner -- for two nights if that's what they wanted.
Faceful of quills
Bodhi, face full of quivers, acclimated.
"For about 30 seconds, he freaked out. He likes the insides of his ears scratched and I stuck my index fingers into those nasty, waxy ears and calmed him down," Pfister said.
Silpe called ahead to VCA Brown Animal Hospital in South Burlington. Barbara Burroughs, a veterinarian, was on call and she was waiting for Pfister and Bodhi when they arrived well after midnight. They anesthetized the dog and, working side by side, pulled more than 300 quills from the husky.
Bodhi went home at near dawn on Friday, about 12 hours after he'd chased the porcupine into the crevice.
Within a couple of hours, Pfister and Silpe were at work. Friedman was on his way to a family gathering. The hikers who'd volunteered help and the rangers who'd worked so hard were back doing their thing.
Pfister admitted Friday to being "embarrassed and chagrined." He said he'd learned to keep his dogs on leashes while hiking -- a rule in Underhill State Park.
"I personally have never been involved in anything so dramatic," Pfister said. He acknowledged that the words were especially strong coming from an emergency room doctor. And he stuck by them.
"Seth and Jennifer," the animal control officers, "deserve a medal. Just incredible, what they did."
There will be no medals. The officers are part-timers in Underhill. They work only when called. They're paid $7.90 per hour.
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