The following is an excerpt from Phyllis M. Washburn’s book Good Morning Sam. In this part of the story, Phyllis and her husband Ralph rescue Sam, a mute swan, from bleeding to death. In all, the couple shared twenty-four years with mute swans and the book documents their time in narrative and photos. To read my interview with Phyllis about her interest in mute swans and in writing a book about them, click here.

Chapter Thirteen A TRIP TO THE DOCTOR

Life with only one swan settled into a routine schedule of two meals a day. Frequently, Ralph stopped at the Old Landing at noon to see if Sam was around. With an almost empty harbor to roam in, Sam often was off on a personal inspection tour of his harbor. At feeding time, if he was not waiting for us at the Old Landing, we sighted him swimming down the middle of the harbor, coming for his meal. He sometimes tarried along the way to nibble the algae on winter mooring sticks.

Arriving at the Old Landing one early May evening, we found Sam lying on the western bank of Black Point. We signaled to him by blinking the car lights and blowing the horn. He made no effort to come for supper.

“He’s looking this way,” Ralph commented, “he knows we are here.” We watched Sam twitch first one wing and then the other, in rhythmic movement.

“Sam’s hurt!” I observed looking through the binoculars. “There’s bright red blood covering the wing tips and most of his tail. Here, take a look.”

“Looks like he’s been bleeding for a while,” Ralph exclaimed. “We’ve got to reach him quickly.” He already had the car in motion. “We’ll stop at home to get something to carry him in; he may need medical care. Even if the injury isn’t bleeding, we can’t leave him on Black Point, he’s not safe lying there all night.”

“I’ll grab a sheet; we don’t have a box large enough to hold him.”

In an unbelievably short span of time, we got the sheet and secured permission to walk across the private property to reach Sam. We crossed the marsh in record time.

Not wanting to frighten the swan, we stopped when we were within twenty feet of him. “Hello Sam,” I called softly to reassure the swan it was friends approaching. Sam, facing us, intently watched our progress.

“See if you can get closer to him,” Ralph suggested. “If he heads toward the water, I’ll block his way.” Once Sam entered the water, it would be impossible to capture him.

I approached the swan with a piece of cornbread in my hand. He did not try to stand. The only sign of his concern was the slight raising of his wings. I continued talking to him while Ralph joined us.

It was a shock to see so much blood covering his white feathers. We made a quick visual search of his body to locate the wound but did not find it.

“Get him to stand,” Ralph suggested. “Maybe the cut is on his leg.”

When I held my hand up to offer him cornbread, Sam stood up to reach it but still Ralph did not find the wound. As I took a step back from Sam, he moved towards me.

“There’s a cut on the bottom of his right foot,” Ralph said. “As he steps forward, he leaves a blotch of blood on the ground. Hold the bread up higher. See if he’ll stretch upward to reach it.”

Sam did stretch to reach the cornbread. He put his weight on the front of his right foot and raised the heel off the ground. “I see it!” Ralph said. “There’s a cut on the heel of his right foot.”

“Is it bleeding a lot?” I asked.

“I can see the blood spurt out of the wound. We need to take him to the vet.”

As I talked to Sam, Ralph gently slipped the sheet over Sam’s head, around his body and under the webbed feet, being careful not to cause further harm to the oozing cut. Surprisingly, Sam never struggled to get away.

“Want me to help carry him?” I offered.

“Let’s see if I can do it myself. If we each carry an end of the sheet, his weight will be resting on the injured foot. It’ll be better for Sam if I can carry him myself. You can help if my arms give out.”

Across the field we headed, Ralph gently carrying the injured swan. Three quarters of the way to the car, Ralph’s right arm weakened. Coming up beside him, I propped up the arm supporting Sam’s body weight with my hand. I was shocked to see that blood had seeped through the sheet and covered Ralph’s clothes. So much blood covered Sam, the sheet and Ralph. How much blood could Sam lose before it would endanger his life?

As we hastened on our way, we silently prayed this was a night the animal hospital was open. Reaching the car, I quickly opened the tailgate of the station wagon and climbed in. Ralph gently placed the injured swan beside me. I peeked under the sheet to see how Sam was doing. His bill was resting on his chest, and a dejected eye stared at me. I reached under the sheet and stroked his chest. Sam did not move. Silently, without a sharp honk of protest, he endured his predicament.

Arriving at the Marion Animal Hospital, we found cars in the parking lot and the lights on inside. Ralph went in to see when the vet could see the swan. A few minutes later, he was carrying Sam into the brightly-lit examining room.

Dr. Tremblay immediately diagnosed the extent of Sam’s injury. The swan had sustained a cut, perhaps from stepping on a piece of broken glass. Although the wound was small, it was deep. However, to our great relief, the vet said Sam would recover. While he performed the needed medical services, I lovingly stroked the still sheet-covered Sam and told him it was going to hurt for a moment or two.

I remembered comforting our small children years ago when an injury caused a quick trip to the pediatrician’s office. I wondered if Sam received any comfort upon hearing my voice. All during the procedure he lay quietly on the cold hard examining table, only shaking his injured foot when the doctor cauterized the wound. A quick dab of ointment completed the procedure. Dr. Tremblay advised us to keep Sam’s injured foot dry overnight if possible.

“No problem,” we said. “We’ll keep him at home for the night.” Where in the house does one keep an injured thirty-pound swan? The cellar was the logical place but it was unacceptable to us. The new laundry room was the appropriate place for such an honored guest.

“You stay with Sam,” Ralph suggested when we arrived home. “I’ll empty the laundry room and spread papers on the floor.”

“Be sure to remove the small items on the lower shelves.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Just keep Sam quiet. If he thrashes about, he might reopen the wound.” Noticing Sam’s head poking out from under the sheet Ralph asked, “Should we cover him up again?”

“No, he’ll be all right.” I answered as Sam calmly looked out the car windows as if it was something he did every day.

Before I knew it, Ralph was opening the tailgate. Again, we draped the sheet over Sam’s head to keep him from becoming alarmed. I ran up the stairs and opened the door. As the door chimes rang, I wondered what Sam thought of that strange sound.

Ralph placed the swan on the laundry room floor and for the second time that evening, Sam found himself in new surroundings. First his head turned in one direction and then the other. Soon he tilted his head to the side, eyeing the things on the upper shelves. Sam calmly accepted this new location.

To make Sam feel at ease Ralph placed his dish in front of him. Quickly, I added the water and cracked corn. However, the favored cornbread seemed to reassure Sam he was among friends, although in an unfamiliar place. He certainly was a pathetic looking swan with all that blood on his feathers. Sam faced a major cleanup task once he returned to the harbor. I knew how meticulous he was in keeping himself clean but I doubted that Sam could ever clean those bloodstained feathers to glistening white again.

In the past, when the winter weather was at its worst, Ralph and I often wished our special swan could be snug at home with us instead of sleeping on the windswept ice. Having Sam as a houseguest was a dream come true.

Many times during the evening one of us walked down the hallway, now cluttered with laundry room items, to check on Sam. We found him sitting down, intently looking to see who or what was opening the creaking door. Whenever either of us entered the kitchen making noises that would seem strange to Sam, we called out ‘Good Morning, Sam’ to reassure him.

Our cat Holly, planning to use the litter box, got the surprise of his life when he poked his head through the small swinging door he used to enter the laundry room. Quickly, he backed away and bumped into the boxes on the floor behind him. His eyes were as round as silver dollars and his presence silently stated, `What was that? Maybe I don’t need to use the litter box after all,’ and promptly relieved himself on the carpet.

The next morning there was no evidence of blood seeping from Sam’s wound; it was time to return him to the harbor. “We’ll feed him first,” Ralph said. “We know from our Hurricane Gloria experience that once he sees the water, food will be the last thing on his mind.”

Sadly, I prepared Sam’s breakfast. Our honored guest had to leave. I knew, deep down, that Sam belonged in the harbor with the bright blue sky above and the warm sun shining on him. However, I have never been very good at saying goodbye to people, and now I was heavy-hearted over Sam’s approaching departure.

It was when Ralph backed the car up to the boat ramp at the Old Landing that Sam knew he was home. He repeatedly bumped his bill against the back window, trying to reach the water.

Ralph opened the tailgate, picked up Sam and started to carry him down the beach. The closer Sam got to the water, the more he looked like a canine pointer with his long neck pointing straight to the water.

Soon the large black feet were walking through the air as they escaped the retaining sheet.

Ralph placed Sam on the beach at the water’s edge and removed the sheet. Without a backward glance, he entered the water and swam towards the middle of the inner harbor. A hundred feet from shore he fastidiously began bathing, obviously happy to be back where he belonged.

It was time to return Sam to the harbor

“That injured leg is bothering Sam,” Ralph said five days later. Sam seemed to be favoring it. Most of the time, he held it up out of the water, resting it straight back over his tail. We had seen him do that many times in the past. In fact, it is quite common to see swans slowly gliding on the water with a foot resting fully extended over their tail. However, when Sam tried to stand on the injured foot, he quickly took his weight off it, suggesting he felt pain. Although the wound had healed, the injured leg appeared swollen.

“I’ll visit the vet again,” I decided, “and see what he advises.”

Dr. Tremblay gave me ten tetracycline capsules with the instructions to give Sam one capsule morning and night, but he did not tell me how I was to accomplish this feat. Whenever one of our cats needed medication, I gently held the cat between my knees, opened its mouth, and placed the capsule on the back of the tongue. Then I stroked the cat’s neck to make her swallow the pill. I knew this would not work with Sam. If I was to get the medication into Sam, I must use the favored cornbread as the route. Ralph suggested placing the whole capsule in a piece of cornbread.

“It won’t work. Once Sam feels the capsule in his mouth he’ll spit it out,” I said, remembering how quickly Sam would eject a piece of unwanted food from his mouth. “I know; we can spike his cornbread with the medication,” I suggested. “I can use a drinking straw to drill a small hole in the middle of a small piece of cornbread. I’ll pour the contents from one capsule into the hole, and then gently tap the piece to settle the powder. Then I’ll use the cornbread from the straw as a plug to keep the medication in place.”

“That seems feasible.”

“What if he senses something different about the spiked cornbread?” I asked.

“Give Sam a couple of pieces of unadulterated cornbread before offering him a spiked piece,” Ralph suggested. “He’ll eat it so fast he won’t have time to taste it.”

“I’ll fix a couple of pieces of the spiked cornbread. There’s a good chance that the first piece may crumble in the feeding dish before it’s eaten.”

At the Old Landing, we found Sam across the water lying on a favorite grassy bank. Although we signaled to him, Sam did not make any effort to come. “His foot must be too painful to use,” I commented. “We’ll have to feed him over there tonight.”

Since I was the one who usually fed Sam, we decided I should approach him alone. Ralph drove me to where I could walk the eastern shore to reach Sam. He then returned to the Old Landing to observe the impending procedure through the binoculars.

Entering the open marsh, I called to Sam, wanting him to know he had nothing to fear. Sam watched my progress without getting up on his feet. I decided to approach Sam from the water-side, cutting off his escape route. I walked cautiously and slowly towards the injured swan. Sam showed no signs of fear or panic. From this, I assumed Sam’s foot was too painful to support his weight. As I got closer, I crouched down so my height would not threaten him.

Reaching the swan, I set the familiar feeding dish with its polystyrene collar down on the grass in front of him, quickly adding the cracked corn, water, and some cornbread. Without hesitation Sam ate, gulping down the two pieces of unadulterated cornbread. With a silent prayer, I offered Sam the spiked cornbread. Quickly, Sam took it into his bill and swallowed. I observed its progress down his long neck, watching the movement of the lump that marked its location on the inside. Slowly it rippled downward. Sam had not noticed anything different about that piece of cornbread. I quickly fed him two more pieces of ‘normal’ cornbread. Sam had taken his first dose of the antibiotic. One down, only nine more to go, I noted silently.

When Sam finished eating and the gnats decided to have me for their evening meal, I decided to leave. I realized Sam had not stood during the feeding; another sure sign the injured foot had infection festering within.

As I gathered the feeding dish and food, Sam lay quietly and watched. Slowly, I backed away from him on my hands and knees, sliding the food supplies noiselessly over the grass. When I was twenty feet away from him, I slowly rose to my feet as I continued to talk to the swan. Sam did not move an inch. With a final goodbye to Sam I continued on my way.

Back home, Ralph and I worried about Sam’s safety there on the marsh grass. The injury put him at a disadvantage. However, we had done all we could. Now we had to let go and trust in something beyond ourselves to keep him safe during the night. I thought it was like parenting; there comes a time when you must let your child go beyond your safe, loving reach. We reassured ourselves that Sam did know how to take care of himself.

The next morning we joyfully saw Sam swimming. He came to the water’s edge at the boat ramp to eat. I gave him two normal pieces of cornbread before I fed him the medicated one. The second dose of medication was administered successfully. Although Sam would not stand on the injured foot yet, we knew he’d recover completely in a few days.

During this time, I fed Sam by myself until he had taken the medication, and then Ralph joined us on the beach.

A short five days later, Sam was almost back to normal. Again the foot propelled him swiftly through the water and supported his hefty body as he stood to preen and oil his feathers.

Since that medical emergency, we have said many prayers of thanks for Dr. Tremblay’s medical care. Once again, our feathered friend swam proudly about his harbor home.