Julie Duke21W.749 Documentary Photography

ProjectMay 12, 2014

Odds and Ends at the New England Wildlife Center

Greg Mertz, DVM, is the Chief Executive Officer of New England Wildlife Center and an exotic pet veterinarian. He calls himself the “Odd Pet Vet.”

“Vet refers to the vet, pet refers to the animal, and odd refers to the client,” Mertz said, the hint of a smirk visible beneath his silver mustache. By owning unusual pets, Mertz believes, his clients are “really looking to connect with the biology of the earth.”

For the past 24 years, Mertz has treated animals from water dragons to degus to carpet pythons, and proceeds from his veterinary services go to supporting the rehabilitation efforts of the New England Wildlife Center, which houses his office and sits in a woodsy area of Weymouth, Massachusetts.

“Come discover the beauty of life on earth through caring, curiosity and celebration,” reads a sign on the wall inside the center’s main entrance. People, pets, and wildlife from all over Massachusetts make their way to the center, the only comprehensive wildlife rescue and rehabilitation center in the Boston area. Concerned individuals and organizations such as the Animal Rescue League of Boston bring injured and orphaned animals of all kinds, from rabbits to turtles to foxes, to the center. There, they are treated and released back into the wild.

 

During Mertz’s Odd Pet Vet hours, pet lizards, scorpions, and albino rats file in for treatment and check-ups. Mertz sports a serious, no-nonsense attitude, getting right to business when clients enter his small office. His somber air is tempered by moments of dry humor, and by an amusing assortment of animal pictures, statues, and children’s drawings that cover his office walls. An eight-foot-long snakeskin hangs above his door, and a statue depicting a frog dancing with three chickens sits near the door to the left. A pale, grim-looking toad perches in a black frame on the wall to the right. The corner behind Mertz’s veterinary table, by contrast, is cluttered with drawers and shelves full of medicines, syringes, and medical papers.

 

In just two hours one Saturday morning, Mertz saw a bearded dragon, a parrot, a python, a micropig, and two albino rats. A woman named Cheryl brought in the parrot, an eleven-month-old dusky-headed Conure named Grayson, for a wing-clipping. Armed with a towel, Mertz quickly slipped his hand in the parrot’s cage to grab the bird. Angry squawks soon filled the room as the bird squirmed and bit the towel. “He’s a feisty one,” remarked Mertz calmly.

“He is,” Cheryl said fondly. “And he thinks he’s so handsome, too.”

As Mertz snipped the bird’s green and blue wings with a pair of scissors, Cheryl lovingly described Grayson’s attitude and preferences. She and Grayson shower together every morning, she said; “We’re really bonded.” Once the clipping was over, the bird raced straight to Cheryl’s shoulder. Before leaving, she requested to keep the detached feathers for her feather collection, digging through the trash to retrieve them.

volunteers from throughout the center to come check out the cause of commotion. “I’ve just always wanted a pig,” said Wakeman on her choice to own a micropig. “They’re incredibly smart and love to cuddle…there’s a bit of humor in it too,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe all the pig jokes we make now!” she said, as she packed Phoebe away in her pink carrying case.

Next entered a miniature black pig named Phoebe. Her owner Martica Wakeman brought in the six-week-old mini-micro pig for her first check-up. Procured from a website called Texastinypigs.com, Phoebe was the smallest pig Mertz had ever seen, weighing in at just one and three-quarters of a pound. Though calm and quiet while being held by Wakeman, the diminutive pig released piercing squeals whenever Mertz tried to hold her, causing staff and

Wakeman had called eight different vets before finally finding one who would treat pigs: the Odd Pet Vet. Once the small pig departed, Greg Mertz then removed an object from the eye of a tiny, two-month-old bearded dragon named Roux, and administered medicine to kill potential parasites. Next, he tube-fed a young ball python that had not been eating well. Despite Mertz’s cool, professional demeanor, there doesn’t seem to be a dull day for the Odd Pet Vet. 

While Mertz treats critters with human homes, the rest of the center tends to wild critters from forests, lakes, and city streets. Some of the animals cared for at the center have reputations as common nuisances, such as the opossums that dig through garbage in the night or the abundance of bunnies that demolish freshly planted gardens. These are creatures that people sometimes yearn to kill, much less rescue and release. But Mertz, his staff, the sixty volunteers and fifty interns feel differently.

“I’m a non-speciesist,” said Mertz. In his book, all critters, no matter how common, annoying, or strange they may be, deserve equal treatment and care. “Although I have to say that I prefer treating reptiles to mammals and birds,” he said. “Birds wiggle, hamsters bite. But I treat ‘em all.”

Zak Mertz, Greg Mertz’s son, has worked at the center in some capacity, whether cleaning cages or writing grant proposals, for as long as he can remember. When asked why the center saves animals that many despise, Zak Mertz said, “Every animal plays a role in the overall health of the ecosystem and deserves a fighting chance.”

The center has an extensive internship program, hosting about fifty aspiring wildlife veterinarians from universities all over the world each year. Interns and volunteers spend their days preparing diets, feeding animals, cleaning cages, administering medicines, or helping with veterinary procedures.

Around 2,000 wild animals of about 400 different species receive treatment from the center every year. The most common causes of injury that bring critters to the center are car strikes and attacks by cats or dogs. In the springtime, though, the building fills with young orphans—primarily baby squirrels, rabbits, and raccoons whose parents were likely injured or killed—and rooms are packed with tiny mouths to feed. Baby animals require frequent feedings, and thus the volunteers and interns are constantly preparing diets and making the feeding rounds—and by the time they’re done feeding every mouth, it’s time to start all over again. Squirrels and rabbits are fed solution through syringes, but raccoons must be carefully tube-fed.

The love the interns and volunteers have for their animal charges is palpable. Michelle, a smiling, white-haired volunteer of three years, most enjoys feeding the baby squirrels “because they’re strong, even as babies,” she said; they can grasp the syringe and practically feed themselves. Josh Burke, a high school senior who has volunteered at the center for years, delights in showing visitors around the center. He especially enjoys showing off the educational animals that remain on-site—particularly the reptiles and the goats. “I consider them mine,” he said, affectionately patting the head of Gallop the goat. “They like me best.”

When they aren’t feeding babies, the volunteers and interns head to the medical wards to nurse injured adults. After attending to the small squirrels and rabbits, Emily Ryan, a current undergraduate and intern who plans to apply for veterinary school, readied medications with another intern for a ward full of wounded animals. They treated an aggressive, malnourished opossum with conjunctivitis, a large, spunky mute swan with lead poisoning, and a fluffed-up, quiet cardinal with a lung problem.

Although the majority of his and his staff’s days are spent feeding and treating animals, Greg Mertz does not view veterinary service or wildlife rehabilitation as the primary role of the center. “The role that we play in the community is education,” he said. “I think veterinary businesses have a huge opportunity to educate the public about their own bodies, the bodies of their pets, the biology of the habitats around them, and about the communities they live in.”

Mertz believes that “everybody in the community should be able to identify ten kinds of birds, ten kinds of animals, ten kinds of trees, ten kinds of wildflowers, ten kinds of rocks…if we’re going to live and work in this environment that’s called Earth, then we need to know about it,” Mertz said. “It’s an obligation we have as citizens of Earth.”

The third floor of the New England Wildlife Center is a testament to Mertz’s commitment to education. With tables and drawers full of animal bones, skins, prints, posters and taxidermy, the large room acts as a biology classroom and interactive nature museum where visitors and student groups can learn about nature and wildlife.

The bottom floor hosts most of the center’s permanent residents: turtles, reptiles, and a few tarantulas, which visitors can see and learn about up-close. Steve Martin, the special events coordinator and lead educator, showed the tarantulas to visitors passing by. He held a tarantula in his hand proudly and calmly. “Tarantulas are one of the most misunderstood creatures,” he said in response to their frightened faces.

Every Saturday night, the squawks and squeaks of the animals are overlaid with the sounds of guitars and human song. Locals head to the center to play and listen to music and poetry at the weekly open mic, fulfilling the “celebration” part of the center’s entrance slogan. Martin hosts the event, called Catbird Café, all proceeds from which go toward the center’s wildlife care. “We are here to benefit the wildlife,” he says each week.

In a wooded area of Massachusetts, away from the hustle and bustle of downtown Boston, the building full of animals and people is also full of love—for the odd, the normal, the wild, and the tame. All of these things are, after all, part of the “beauty of life on earth.”