Cartwright's Texas
Saving Cupid
Visiting a sea-mammal rescue team in Galveston, I learned about the puzzling phenomenon of stranding—and flipped for a dolphin in rehab.
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Cupid had been in rehab long enough that Cowan could rule out meningitis. The epilepsylike episodes, however, were probably permanent. In the meantime, it was the network's task to condition him for life among humans. Cupid's current home is a 32- by 17-foot tank at the back of a shabby pavilion whose roof was partly ripped off by Hurricane Claudette earlier in the summer. The pavilion is part of TMMSN headquarters, which also includes a storage area and two cramped offices on the grounds of the National Marine Fisheries Service complex behind Fort Crockett, a block north of the seawall.
Celeste Weimer, a senior marine biology major at Texas A&M at Galveston and the network's Galveston regional coordinator, is Cupid's trainer—and his playmate. "Dolphins are extremely social and tactile," she explained. "They rely on touch with one another. We can at least give him a sense of companionship." From an observation platform above the tank, I watched as Weimer slipped into her wet suit and put Cupid through his behavioral-conditioning paces. Sometimes she used hand signals. Other times she guided him with a target stick, signaling him to move in different directions or holding the stick a few feet above the surface so he had to leap to touch it with his nose. When he did what she wanted, she showed her approval with a whistle. These play sessions build trust between dolphin and trainer and keep Cupid trim and mentally alert. They also teach him to offer up a flipper when staffers need to check it and to stay calm when they ease him onto a stretcher for a weight check—or for a trip far away, where he will meet other dolphins for whom life in the wild is a distant memory.
Cupid reminded me of a large puppy, and I couldn't wait to get my hands on him. He wore the dolphin's trademark grin but with a sardonic twist, as if he knew all my secrets. Puppies love to rub their razor-sharp teeth along your shin, without actually biting down, and Cupid was similarly inclined, the difference being that his teeth and jaws are strong enough to snap a two-by-four. At feeding time, Weimer tossed fish, one at a time, in such a way that Cupid had to chase down his meal, as he would in the wild. Cupid attacked his dinner like a terrier on a rat, holding it in his teeth and shaking it violently.
Though the staff strongly discourages treating Cupid as a pet, the temptation was irresistible. Ignoring signs warning volunteers to stay at least two feet from the edge of the tank, I leaned over the side, hoping he would swim close enough for me to pet him. Instead, he cruised in my direction and flicked his tail, soaking me with seawater. "He's being sedate today," Weimer told me. "Usually he's more rambunctious."
The pool resembled a child's playpen; floating on the surface were small yellow rings, hula hoops, colored balls, a plastic dolphin, a yellow duck. They were there for Cupid's amusement, to keep him occupied and out of trouble. In the wild, young dolphins get their kicks by tossing cabbagehead jellyfish, harassing grouper, and playing with sea grass. Dolphins in captivity treat their toys much the way kids treat dolls that "misbehave." Cupid showed his displeasure with a toy by "chuffing"—blowing gusts of air through his blowhole. Dolphins sometimes adopt a favorite toy, and Cupid is especially fond of the yellow rings, trying to see how many he can get on his nose at one time. Late one night, Weimer was awakened by a phone call from a volunteer reporting that Cupid had so many rings on his nose he couldn't open his mouth to eat. "When I got there and tried to take them off," Weimer recalled, "he got really pissed. After that we had to take the rings out of the tank a couple of hours before feeding time."
My swim with Cupid was brief but memorable. Actually, Cupid did all the swimming while I stood very still, Weimer a few feet away, just in case. Sensing fresh meat, he made a couple of quick passes, bumping against me with rather more force than I'd expected. This is no friggin' puppy, a small voice warned; this is a wild beast who can break your leg with a flick of his tail. On his third pass, Cupid swam between my legs, prompting me to tuck myself into the fetal position lest he toss me over the side. The dolphin paused and popped his head above the surface, permitting Weimer to stroke his forehead, but he watched me out of the corner of his eye. "Take this," Weimer said, handing me a stiff-bristled brush. "He loves to be brushed." The brush worked like a charm. I discovered that I could hold him against my hip for eight or ten seconds, as long as I kept brushing. He rolled over so that I could brush his tummy, squawking with pleasure. When I climbed out of the tank after about ten minutes, my legs were trembling. "It's a challenge staying one step ahead of this dolphin," Weimer told me as we were drying off. "We think we're training him, but he thinks it's the other way around."
Cupid's future is uncertain. As a subject for research, he is extremely valuable, and Cowan is looking for a permanent home where he can get a good neurological evaluation. The University of Hawaii is one possibility. How will he fit in with other dolphins? Will they accept his impairment and protect him? Will they reject him? Only time will tell.
The network, which operates on a shoestring, has stretched its meager resources to get Cupid this far. Almost all of its equipment is begged or borrowed. With just three paid and four unpaid staffers, it depends on the dedication of its four hundred active volunteers, who are on call 24-7. Della Phillips, the volunteer who counted forty dolphins from the ferry, gets up at five o'clock two mornings a week for the nearly-three-hour drive from her home in Lumberton, in eastern Hardin County. Funds dribble in. Experts such as Cowan donate both time and money. A large part of the network's mission is research, but it has to make do with a tiny lab down the hall from Cowan's office. "There are no marine research facilities on the Texas coast like Woods Hole in Massachusetts or Mote Marine in Florida," Cowan told me. The TMMSN needs permanent rehab pools, diagnostic equipment, a lab, and many other things. But its potential is great. For instance, state operations coordinator Tammy Renaud, a psychologist and an occupational therapist, believes that dolphins could be invaluable assistants in therapy for emotionally disturbed children.
What the network needs most is a wealthy patron, a Texas Monthly subscriber, perhaps. Just phone the hotline and say Cupid sent you.
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