Holy Harry Achieves Sainthood

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I had never tied to deny the fact that I am convinced beavers are the most intelligent of animals - that their positive contribution to the health of our environment is essential. This morning I heard a report on the CBC that an area somewhere down near Lake Erie is about to construct an artificial wetland to help purify water - too bad the beavers, with their natural and very healthy wetlands, have been trapped out . . .

Anyway, I do not wish evil on any beavers anywhere, but if, by chance, somewhere a little beaver is orphaned, I have no greater joy than being given the privilege of raising it to maturity, and returning it to the wilderness. So, a few weeks ago when, quite late in the evening, the phone at my house rang and the message was - “A little beaver has been found, and needs someone . . . would you?”, the answer was, naturally, an enthusiastic, “Of course!” And so, the little beaver arrived.

Perhaps about eight weeks old, it resented being handled by humans. It resented the Esbilac that I had to feed it with a syringe. It did not really want to be held in a warm blanket - though, eventually, it permitted that and slept in my arms. Only then was I able to examine it more carefully . . . and found eight great swellings down its sides, and a big tear under one arm.

The little beaver has been found at a gravel crossroads, up near South River, several miles from any water. The woman who saw it, and picked it up had no trouble catching him - he was thin, and very weary and very frightened. The wounds had sealed. The reason for his condition has to be guess work, but the most obvious seems that he had been taken by a big owl, and carried away until, likely too heavy, he had been dropped - perhaps something frightened the owl. Anyway, the deep wounds were much infected. Infection is often found in surviving owl victims - the claws of the owl, used to carrying meat to its nest, where some of the meat rots, do carry infection.

So it became necessary to drain each wound on the sides of the beaver kit, daily - the pus dribbled out constantly. He seemed to realize that humans hurt him - and huffed at me mightily every time I picked him up. Thus I named him Huffing Henry. The only way to stop him huffing was to put the syringe full of Esbilac in his mouth - he did like to eat. (I notice I have suddenly assigned him a sex - since beaver organs are all internal, deciding the sex of the animal is a matter of speculation.)

When the infection continued, Tony and I took him to the vet. Dr. Ian White has been presented with all sorts and condition of wild creatures, and he tends them well. This time I held Huffing Henry firmly on the table, while Dr. White examined the holes made by the huge owl claws - examined, drained and medicated each. While Henry huffed. I told him the name I had bestowed on the kit.

The vet shook his head, “No,” he had just finished the last hole, “he should be Holey Harry.” So, of course, with my unconcealed reverence for beavers, I made just a slight change in the spelling. He is Holy Harry.

Holy Harry is growing. He is eating well now - apples and yams and dandelion greens, plantain and other assorted weeds - he likes them roots and all. He swims still in the tub.

The wounds are healing, very gradually - but they are healing. Daily, Tony drains and medicates each one. Holy Harry doesn’t huff as much as he used to. Maybe his name has something to do with the improvement in attitude.

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