Outdoors : They’re Too Wild for Suburban Life : Wildlife: Waystation in San Fernando is a haven for creatures that have been injured, abandoned or surrendered by individuals.
It’s 3:30 p.m. and there is a sense of stirring at the Wildlife Waystation in San Fernando.
“Everything’s going to be moving because it’s feeding time,” says Martine Colette, the proprietor. “And Calamity is here.”
Calamity and her pal Ruff are dogs of speculative ancestry that run the grounds with brazen immunity, confident in the chain-link enclosures that separate them from the inhabitants--or, more important, the inhabitants from them. Here there are lions and tigers and bears and more, and chances are, should the gates suddenly open, neither Calamity nor Ruff would be tolerated for long by those that regard them as taunting, tempting hors d’oeuvres.
But soon lunch arrives, and the animals’ attention turns to the wheelbarrows containing slabs of raw meat, which is distributed from respectful distances by a crew of volunteers. Watching an African lion devour its meal, a visitor realizes why he was asked to sign a brutally frank waiver absolving the facility of blame in the event of a horrible death.
The Waystation, located on 160 hilly acres a few miles up Little Tujunga Canyon, is neither zoo nor reserve nor even a public attraction, but a haven for wild animals, birds and other creatures that have been injured or abandoned or surrendered by individuals who found that a grown-up Bengal tiger isn’t about to bring in the morning paper.
The difference between the Waystation and a zoo, Colette says, is that “they have a broader variety of species--a pair of wolves, a pair of tigers, a pair of jaguars. We have 30 (African) lions, 35 mountain lions, 40 wolves, a couple of dozen tigers. . . . “
The facility is open for tours on the first and third Sundays of each month, “just to let the public know where its money is going,” Colette says. “This place is set up for animal comfort, not human comfort. We have no snack bars. It’s (geared) for peace and tranquility, especially for the stressed animals.”
Visitors will see no tricks performed.
“We’re animal rescuers,” Colette says, “not animal trainers.”
The Waystation is the only licensed facility of its kind in the country--a nonprofit, tax-exempt California corporation totally supported by private and corporate donations. It costs $55,000 a month to provide board and room to the 600 to 1,000 animals that may be in residence at any time.
There is seldom enough money or equipment but never a shortage of animals. Right now they need pickup trucks.
The animals are kept in clean, shaded, spacious enclosures and are well fed. Those in need of medical attention are treated by veterinarian Ben Gonzales of the Los Angeles Zoo, who volunteers his time, or resident veterinarian Silvio Santenelli. Their infirmary includes a hydraulic operating table for exceptionally large animals, built and donated by the Engineering Department at UCLA.
A visit to the Waystation is equally heartbreaking and uplifting. Meet Buster, a mountain lion whose loose skin hangs almost to the ground, the result of overfeeding by an overindulgent private owner.
“That was the grossest, fattest cat on four stumpy little legs,” Colette says. “We get them from starving to acute obesity, and both are cruelty.”
Buster’s neighbor is Bruiser, an older mountain lion whose owner had the animal’s claws removed so he wouldn’t tear up the furniture. Or the kids. Now Bruiser’s paws are broken down so badly that he slinks around his enclosure like a four-legged Groucho Marx, walking on the backs of his forelegs.
“This is what the bad de-claws do,” Colette says. “He’s not in pain. He just can’t walk properly. If he were in pain, we would not allow him to suffer.”
The pathetic Bruiser holds the group’s attention for a moment. Then Colette says: “I would like to personally do something awful to everybody who de-claws.”
Hummer, a female Malayan sun bear, is gnawing on a bun. Hummer can’t eat meat anymore.
“Malayan sun bears were very popular as pets,” Colette says. “They’re little, tiny bears. However, bears have claws and teeth, and in this case they de-clawed the animal and did a very bad job . . . left particles of nail and it regrew in corkscrews inside the flesh. We had to surgically correct most of the animal’s toes.
“But these people went one step further. They pulled out all of her teeth.”
Thus, the ideal pet: a small, clawless, toothless bear. The Waystation got the bear when the owner died.
Bucky is a half-grown deer, nearly blind, brought in by a well-known Southern California big game hunter who demanded anonymity.
“It might ruin my reputation,” he said.
As the story got around, donations came in, but nothing could be done to save Bucky’s sight. So the money is being used to build a large, natural enclosure for deer.
In operating the Waystation for 22 years, Colette also has collected African lions from pens knee-deep in pig slop, and a great horned owl that will never fly. Tweedle Dee, whose neighbor is Tweedle Dum, a barn owl, roosts on a perch with its wings hanging limply from its sides because of calcium deficiency.
Colette’s father was a naturalist in the Belgian diplomatic service. After living throughout the world, she settled in California as a fashion designer.
“(We lived) in the Beverly Hills-Hollywood area, (where) it was quite fashionable to have exotic animals for pets,” Colette says. “When the animals became cantankerous, my circle of friends started saying, ‘Call Martine. She used to live in Africa. She knows about these things.’
“I started getting these animals into my home and my yard. I began calling zoos. ‘I have an ocelot that has been given to me . . . a former pet.’ And the zoos said, ‘We cannot accept people’s pets because the animals are not habituated, they’re not socialized.’ From that point, an idea was born of a halfway house--hence the name, ‘Waystation.’ ”
Colette explained that some captive-bred wild animals have never cohabited with their own kind and must be introduced until they become compatible.
“We can buy the animals time until a zoo becomes available or until we socialize them or bring them into good condition,” she says. “Any member of the public that finds an injured or abandoned animal, there is no charge to them.”
She would like to expand the effort, perhaps in another Western state.
Some creatures, such as hybrid wolves, are forever displaced. Breeders have mixed domestic dogs with wolves, hoping to acquire the best traits of each. Instead, they got the worst, and the results wound up at the Waystation.
Judi Williams, Colette’s publicist, says: “This is a dead end for them because they’re not a dog and not a wolf. A wolf is very shy. A dog is aggressive. They’re schizo. Wolves belong in a social structure. But if you bring one into the family and, say, the mailman looks like he might threaten that family, he’s going to get eaten.”
Colette says: “A very sad story. People say hybrid wolves make wonderful pets. If they were such wonderful pets, why do we have so many here?”
The Waystation’s philosophy is stated in a quotation engraved in wood and hanging over a roadway: “Accuse not nature. She hath done her part. Do thou but thine.”
Colette sees few reasons for anyone to own an exotic or wild animal, and since January, 1987, the California Department of Fish and Game won’t issue a permit to possess one purely as a pet.
“There are people with valid reasons, perhaps doing certain studies,” she says, “but the way our wildlife is vanishing from everywhere in the world . . . they’re not toys, not something you should have because you want a pet.”
Late one night in 1988, the Pasadena Humane Society brought in Voltage, a female raccoon that had ventured into the Jet Propulsion Laboratory grounds and shorted out a transformer.
“Blew the power out to all their satellites, blacked everything out,” Colette says. “She took 16,500 volts and survived. She was brought here with her feet and face burned to a crisp.”
Nobody would have objected if Voltage had been put to sleep, but euthanasia is the Waystation’s last resort.
Voltage recovered and was released a year later to resume her normal life.