Lessons & Reflections from the National Butterfly Center

A week ago, fire broke out at the National Butterfly Center.

Omar sprang into action, with Randi close behind.

The urgent call came loudly over the radio, “FIRE! FIRE!”

Max, ran out the door of the pavilion with his radio in hand, calling, “Where? Where?!”

“SPIKE!”

“Where?”

“SPIKE! At Spike’s place!”

I dialed 9-1-1, only to be notified our location was not in the emergency management system.

The call was re-routed, only to be transferred and dropped. At this point I, too, ran for the door, yelling back at Dale and Terry to tell them what was happening if anyone called back.

When I arrived at Spike’s enclosure, there was smoke and smell, as well as Max, Omar and Randi tamping down dried leaves and straw where flames had been nearly extinguished by the hose.

Spike was splayed, flat on the ground, far from the smoldering debris. The front parts of his shell were singed and spots on his feet were starting to appear ashy.

I know tortoises can feel their shells and immediately wondered if he was in pain from the burns. And what about his lungs? His throat? Would they be damaged from the inhalation of super-hot air?

The sirens wailed in approach. The Mission Firefighters backed up the tanker and took over the scene as a Border Patrol field medic arrived, asking how could help—and yes, he evaluated Spike. He even conferred with a veterinarian by phone and suggested we get Spike to his doctor ASAP.

I texted Spike’s “regular” vet, Dr. Sasha Harris at Mission Veterinary Hospital. She advised me she was at home, but her husband, Dr. Mickey Harris at Valley Animal Hospital could see him. For the next hour I continued to text information to Sasha, who relayed my messages to Mickey.

Mickey and two techs were waiting for us when we pulled up with Spike. They offloaded him and rushed him to the back, where I could see Dr. McManus and others waiting to receive and assist him.

It’s been an anxious week for our National Butterfly Center family. We are still not sure Spike will make a full respiratory recovery. We know he’s “just a” tortoise—as some would say—but he is beloved, nonetheless, and we would definitely suffer his loss.

Today, he is headed back to the vet’s office because he’s still not out of the woods. We can’t get his antibiotics in him. Worse, we’ve tried to trick him by sticking the pills in his strawberries so often he’s now refusing to eat.

We know many will scoff at our “silly” situation or rail against our ridiculous attachment to this animal in the face of a national emergency, but seriously, our collective disregard for the wild things is partly responsible for this pandemic.

Spike, like so many species, was plucked from his natural environment, introduced to commercial trade and trafficked for human consumption (no, not to be eaten, but purchased—a victim of our consumerist culture).

What will it take for us to comprehend this? To change our ways? To all become conservationists?

What will it take for those who relish the death of this place in the hope of another to supplant pie-in-the-sky with real stewardship?

What will it take for the habitat destructionists, greedy extractionists, mad scientists, parasitic capitalists and manifest destinists to see…

“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.”

All Things Bright and Beautiful

William Henry Monk