by Simon Cowell
‘How could people be so horrible to animals?’ she exclaimed.
I was smiling on the other end of the line, not because I took any pleasure in the thought of an animal in discomfort but because I knew what had happened.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ I told her calmly. ‘It is mating season and it sounds to me that they have been a little too vigorous in their activity. The male is stuck.’
I could sense her face reddening as I explained tactfully that foxes and dogs are prone to a situation called ‘dog locking’, which happens during mating when the male’s swollen penis gets stuck inside the female. I can only imagine how painful that must be for the male and how inconvenient for the female but the best thing to do in the situation is to let nature take its course.
We are not always able to solve problems over the telephone, however, and sometimes questionable call-outs get through the system. Jim and I attended one such ‘emergency’ soon after he started when an elderly lady called in because a bird was trapped in her loft. Loft rescues always provided good footage because I hated heights and I hated climbing up ladders. There was also the real prospect that at some point, if I was bounding around in someone’s loft, I might fall through the ceiling, which would have added to our tally on It’ll Be Alright on the Night.
When we arrived at the house the lady explained that she could hear the bird chirping loudly and that it had done so all the previous night, keeping her awake. As she showed us up the stairs and onto the landing I could indeed hear a loud noise, but it wasn’t a bird.
‘Madam, are you sure your smoke-alarm battery doesn’t need changing?’ I asked.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘is that what it is?’
The alarm was beeping a low-battery warning and after she’d apologized profusely for wasting our time I went out to the car, got a nine-volt battery and changed it for her, at which point the noise stopped.
Some people have mental-health difficulties and I find that, with them, it is often best to go along with whatever delusion they are suffering. Often they are just lonely, troubled people who want a bit of contact, like the guy who rang up and said he lived next to a school and there were snakes in his garden. Now, snakes are the one thing that I do have a bit of a phobia about and, although I have handled several and would not hesitate to rescue one, I derive little pleasure from them. I was apprehensive on the drive to the call but felt compelled to have a look just in case. When we arrived the gentleman was standing in his garden looking around frantically. He was only young, probably in his thirties.
‘What seems to be the problem, sir?’ I asked as I walked up his garden path.
‘Look at all these snakes,’ he said.
There were no snakes but he was completely serious.
‘There’s a bird with a coat-hanger in its mouth, can’t you see it?’ he added.
I could see he was clearly troubled and instead of walking away I pretended to look around and helped him pick the imaginary snakes up off the lawn. He really believed they were there and I didn’t think it would help him to argue they were not.
Another time, a man came in looking very upset and carrying a shoebox.
‘It’s a worm,’ he explained to the receptionist. ‘I cut it in half by accident when I was mowing the lawn.’
She didn’t know what to do or say so she called me. I came out and inspected the worm, which was indeed in two halves.
‘We’ll be able to save at least one of them, sir,’ I explained. ‘We’ll bury the other one respectfully in the earth – it’s what he would have wanted.’
In fact, with such a large volume of work, inevitably some animals don’t make it. As I mentioned, where it is appropriate – if there is no disease and drugs have not been used – we keep some of the dead as food for other patients. We can’t bury the rest because there are too many, and there are also health and safety rules to abide by. To deal with the issue I made an arrangement with a nearby animal cemetery and crematorium, which kindly offered to incinerate them for nothing. Subsequently, one regular job for a volunteer is to deliver the sad cargo of dead animals to this establishment. Sometimes, if there were no volunteers available, the job fell to Jim or a cameraman I employed later, Phil Broadhurst.
We also set up two big incinerators at the top of the garden to dispose of the muck from the pens. Each day there were barrows full of poo and bedding. The ash from the incinerator was used on the fields as compost and any clinical waste from the hospital was taken away by a specialist disposal company. As we expanded it became a struggle to comply with all the rules and regulations but, because we were on television, we had to be doubly careful to do everything right. Applying for our public liability insurance alone was like writing a book. As our volunteers were dealing with wild animals the policy had to have special clauses in case they got scratched by something or bitten by something else.
Over the years I witnessed so many hard-to-stomach situations that, like every paramedic, police officer and doctor I knew, I started to develop a gallows humour as a defence mechanism. I saw death every day and tragically over the years had to put to sleep many, many animals. On countless occasions we did everything to try and save an animal, spent time and resources giving our all to heal it and it died. If you let all that sadness build up with nowhere to go it would finish you off. That is why anyone who does a similar job where life and death is often in the balance always has a dark sense of humour.
Even the horror of being called out to shoot an animal that has been mortally injured in a road accident sometimes provides moments of surreal laughter. One night, I was in the office with Jim when someone from Surrey Police called to inform me that on a road there was an injured deer that was still alive but had sustained several broken legs and was in pain. It was likely that I would have to shoot the animal. A handgun is better than a bolt gun and more practical than a rifle. I would put it to the head between the eyes and fire. As soon as the first shot rang out, the animal would be dead. The cameramen were always shocked when they saw me shoot for the first time – it was never a pleasant thing to witness and I always felt grotty afterwards but I would know that I had done the right thing.
On the night in question Jim and I had both had a few glasses of wine so I explained to the police officer that, while I was happy to help and capable of performing the task, I wasn’t in a fit state to drive. They sent a car for me and Jim and I sat in the back, with my pistol in its case. When we got to the scene I got out the car and was getting the gun ready. The deer was on the ground in front of me and the copper in charge was standing in front of the deer. As I pushed the rounds in I explained to the police officer who was in the line of fire that he might not want to stand where he was. I slurred my words ever so slightly for comic effect and Jim started giggling, which then set me off too. The policeman very quickly moved out of the way and got behind me.
I once took one of Lou’s boyfriends along with me on another shoot request. His name was Angus – a musician with dreadlocks. I wasn’t overly keen on him and when we arrived at the stricken animal I asked him to steady its head by holding its antler while I did what needed to be done. He was white as a sheet afterwards and didn’t say much on the way back. It was a Godfather-type warning.
SOS continued and I employed an American editor called Jason to make a team of four. Jim, Phil and Jason were all in their early twenties and were all dedicated and professional. We made a good team and also tried to have fun when we could because the workload was incredibly demanding. Sometimes the boys, as I affectionately called them, would try and add a bit of inappropriate humour to the edits we sent off to the channel and in their downtime would edit together some of the unusable footage. In one episode we were filming a peculiar condition that some hedgehogs suffer called subcutaneous oedema, or balloon syndrome. If a hedgehog sustains a certain type of injury the cavity under their skin can fill with air and they inflate. It can be caused by respiratory damage or by gases produced by a deep woun
d. The hedgehog can inflate to the size of a football and, like a puffer fish, go completely spherical, which looks slightly ridiculous when they roll around and flap their legs. The only way to deflate them is to insert a catheter and squeeze out the air. We filmed an example for the show and Jason found it so funny that he put a comic sound effect of a deflating balloon over the top and a tiny, soft voice in the background saying ‘pleeeease kill me’. It was almost imperceptible and he forgot to take it off when he sent it to the channel, who missed it and broadcast it.
With the television show, the volume of work and the general madness I rarely had the chance to step back and reflect on the impact Wildlife Aid was having. I loved seeing the wonder on children’s faces during the open days and I started to do public speaking and school visits in an effort to spread the word and raise awareness of the importance of wildlife. My mental age is probably around seven so I was happy talking to seven-year-olds! I loved talking to kids in schools because I knew I could walk away from them and I didn’t have to look after them for the next fifteen years. And children get inspired by wildlife. I started to realize that if I could get to kids between the ages of seven and fourteen and make them interested in nature and wildlife then perhaps I could make a difference. I saw how important education was. By the time we get older most of us are brainwashed to go out to work and make money with no regard for what our lifestyle is doing to the planet we inhabit.
It isn’t only children who gain a sense of wonder from wildlife. One day a representative from a charity for the blind based in Surrey called and asked if it would be possible for some service users to come to the centre. One of their staff was a fan of the show and thought it would be beneficial for the people. I couldn’t see the point initially and was probably quite blunt with them but agreed anyway and we decided to film the visit. A small group arrived, all visually impaired and some completely blind. One chap had a stick with a bell on it. They were all excited and we lined up a selection of animals for them the encounter and feel. I was a little worried that something might nip a finger or they might get pricked by a hedgehog spine but they were all incredibly dextrous and seemed to sense the animal in their hands. It was wonderful to watch and any cynicism melted away.
One man pulled me aside and said, ‘I have never seen an owl’, which was an interesting use of language. So I went and got Fleur from her aviary and held her up for the man to touch, guiding his hand towards her. He started gently stroking her and I put her on his arm so he could feel how light she was. The look of wonder on his face was unforgettable. It was a new experience for him and thankfully he couldn’t see my reaction because I was choked with emotion. When the boys edited the footage they faded the scene to black just with sound, which made it even more poignant.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Goodbye, Dad
AS EVERYTHING CHANGED there was always one reliable constant. In the background there was Dad who quietly went about the place, helping people and animals and fixing the stuff that needed fixing without ever needing to be asked. Dad’s DNA was in the centre just as much as mine and Jill’s, and he guided us from a distance. He always had time for everyone. He was the most gracious and selfless man I knew and I probably didn’t tell him enough how appreciated he was. He was there to help us rebuild after the fire and felt the loss as keenly as any of us but never made a fuss about it. He watched proudly as we set about making our television show. He helped the volunteers and built new pens and enclosures as we expanded. On sunny days he liked nothing more than to sit by the pond and watch the geese and ducks. He had a special bond with Percy, who was his favourite creature.
In many ways Dad was my shadow. We were close and he had been the guiding influence in my life, teaching me to think around problems and to be self-sufficient. I loved him, he loved me and we never needed to talk about it. He had always been the most amazing support. In the late nineties, nearly twenty years after we started the centre, Dad was still there, slowing slightly in his old age but as helpful as ever. And then he got ill. It started with a persistent cough that got worse. He got tired easily and he started to look frail. I knew early on when we went to the Marsden that he had lung cancer. It took six months, which in a way was a blessing because he didn’t suffer for years, but it was still too long and the last weeks were awful. My dad died in 1998. He was seventy-eight and I still miss him.
You may have worked out by now that I am not prone to mawkishness when it comes to human relationships. I can cry my eyes out when I release an animal and often do but with people it gets complicated. Dad and I didn’t discuss our emotions but as he neared the end of his life I wrote him a letter because I wanted him to know what I felt and what I thought of him and how grateful I was for what he did for me. The letter wasn’t discussed but at least Dad died knowing how loved he was.
At the end of his illness we brought him home and he spent his last months at Randalls Farm, the place he loved and the place he built. It was a very fast deterioration and the last week was horrendous. The only saving grace was that the cancer had spread to his brain and he wasn’t aware of what was going on. For those of us who loved him it was hard to watch. My dad had been about 67 kilograms, all bone and muscle, very fit and wiry – he could lift things that I couldn’t – but he became a ghost shuffling around, exhausted and burdened with an illness that weighed him down. It chokes me when I think of it.
He was in bed at home at the end. It was tough. When he finally slipped away there was a Macmillan nurse with us. She came up to me to put her arms around me but I threw her off. It wasn’t the nicest thing to do but I needed to deal with it myself, in my own way. If ever I am troubled or sad I go off somewhere, deal with it alone and tell everyone later. After Dad died I got on with things, I tried to punch through to the other side but every day something would happen that reminded me of him and I would get blindsided by emotion. I kept thinking about it, about him, about his last months and about how the farm and the centre were never quite the same after he had gone. I hunkered down and dealt with it because that’s the preservation instinct I have. My mother also suffered and I didn’t ask for support.
I used to be terrified of dying when I was young. I would get myself in a state if I let myself think too much about death and what comes after because I couldn’t handle the grim reality of mortality. Over the years my attitude changed; if you are going to die, you are going to die; it is going to happen at some time or other and there is nothing you can do about it. I was never religious when I was growing up, even though I was in the choir. However, later in life I started to formulate ideas. I am sort of religious now but it’s my own version of religion. My church is going out and doing a rescue at night, which is when I am at peace. I believe something created everything. It may not have started with Adam and Eve, but something started this off, some universal force out there that makes it all happen. In the early nineties I started to look for things to make me less scared of death and I discovered reiki. I did a course and in the end I became a reiki master. I will use it on people if I am asked to. I don’t talk about it much but I believe as a healer you are a funnel with the ability to channel energy into someone and give them the belief and ability to heal. The human brain and body are an amazing, self-healing bit of kit.
By the time Dad was cremated I’d sorted things out in my mind. I had said my goodbyes and I didn’t want to do it again so when his ashes came home to be scattered on the pond I took a step back. Mum took him up to the pond to do what she had to do. She tipped his ashes into the water and they spread across the surface. As they did Percy jumped in, thinking that it was feeding time, and started to peck at the remains.
‘Stop eating Michael,’ Mum was calling.
As I said, I am not prone to mawkishness but in a way it was fitting. Things that died were sometimes used to nourish things that lived; it was the natural cycle of life and Dad really loved those birds anyway.
My relationships with people were always more compli
cated than my relationships with animals. I had lots of personal friends but many were colleagues and I never had quite the same relationship I have had with animals, particularly my dogs. Don’t get me wrong: I’d do anything for my friends and family and am loyal to the end. If one of our staff or volunteers rang me up at two in the morning and said something awful had happened, I would be there in a flash.
But if you asked me about the most significant relationships in my life, aside from family and girlfriends, I would say that my rescue dog Sam was my soulmate. I’ve loved all my dogs over the years but Sam was a kindred spirit. After I got him it took me a year to calm him down because he was psychologically damaged from the situation he’d been in. I had been looking for a dog and, through a rescue and rehoming service, I heard about a couple who were getting divorced and were looking for a home for their golden retriever. I arranged to see him. He’d obviously witnessed rows and was very nervous because when I went into the garden I lifted my arm as if to scratch my head – I did it on purpose to test his reaction and gauge his temperament – and he hit the deck. It was a sure sign that he was scared of humans. I knew he needed to get out of the environment he was in, and I was calm and measured with him. We connected. Animals are very instinctive and Sam could sense that I was not going to do him any harm – he came with me and got in the car without a problem.
I was renting a house in Leatherhead with Paula at the time and Sam had adjustment issues when I took him to his new home. He tried to kill other dogs quite regularly for the first year and he bit Paula on the arm, which turned out to be the turning point for him. He went for her when we were together, teeth gnashing, showing the whites of his eyes. We were in the lounge and quick as a flash I grabbed two cushions from the sofa and went towards him, using them as a barrier. He backed off and I hit him with them, not hard but firm enough to get him into a corner where I kept him until he calmed down. He wasn’t happy and was snarling at me but it was a defining moment because he realized I was the alpha. From then on he was much better for the rest of his life. With troubled dogs sometimes there is a defining moment where their brain kicks into place and they realize where they are in the pecking order.