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Even with an open window and a fan blowing, it's warm in the small room, warm enough that beads of sweat are forming on the visitor's forehead. The crowd doesn't help, even though they're in cages, except for a pesky blue jay that causes the visitor to duck with every flyby. Rondi Large, director of the WildCare Foundation in Noble, seems oblivious to the distractions as she dispenses food among the hungry patients. And they aren't ordinary patients. They're wild creatures that would be in the wild if not for some misfortune. Their fortune was in ending up at the one place that gets them back where they belong. WildCare is a rehabilitation center, and Large is licensed, on the state and federal level, to care for the sick and injured. Some are storm victims. Many lost confrontations with the human world–from cars to fences, power lines, traps, guns, pollution. Not that there isn't a need and a place for technology, but Large sees the toll on wildlife. "I've always been attracted to wildlife, and I have a soft spot for all animals," she says. "I feel sorry that their habitat is decreasing. Terrible things happen to them, usually technology induced, that they can't control. Sometimes, when I look at what we've done to the planet, I feel apologetic for being human. We cause a lot of damage. I don't get cottontails in here that have been half caught by a hawk. The hawk gets them, which is fine. That's the way it's supposed to be in the natural world. But we've created a lot of obstacles for wild animals, and the least we can do is pick up the pieces. This is my way of saying I'm sorry, but let me help." And she does. This year, the organization has taken in 2,600 animals. At present, the population is about 400, including deer, bobcats, raccoons, prairie dogs, a fox, beaver and all manner of birds. When one sees the scope of the operation she's undertaken, the question arises, why? Her answer comes quickly and simply. "There's nowhere else for them to go." Where they go is 20 wooded acres owned by Large and her husband O.T. Down winding trails are numerous outdoor enclosures with trees and underbrush in them. They provide a natural setting, and the animals feel safer when they can hide. The room Large works in is part of their house, which also serves as a nursery and office. In one corner, a group of baby squirrels snuggles in slumber. Motionless, big-eyed owls inhabit other cages. Overhead, the blue jay flutters. And prancing back and forth in another cage, a cute little fella demands a double take. His name (a privilege few get) is Roady, and he looks like any roadrunner, except the top part of his beak points east while the bottom half points west. Roady presents an interesting challenge. The goal is getting animals in and out, but he's taken a liking to the place–or is it the director? And he's not cooperating with the beak. Large brushes back long strands of her blond hair while giving him a stern look. "Roadrunners can be aggressive, and he nails things pretty hard with that beak," she says. "It's been set twice. It can't be fixed again, so he's staying in here. Problem is, when we released him before, he came back. Roadrunners bring gifts, usually to other roadrunners, to prove they're good providers–flowers, leaves, sticks, but also snakes, lizards, mice." She forces a pained smile. "I didn't appreciate the snake." Well, maybe O.T. has some competition. Large leaves the house, suggesting a tour of the grounds. The general public shouldn't expect the same. They're welcomed and encouraged to bring injured animals, but human contact is restricted as much as possible. "That's hard to do because we have to attend to the animals' needs," she says. "But we do limit exposure. There's no petting or cuddling. That's difficult when you want to get close to some of them, but it's not in their best interest. We have to think of what's right for them after they're released." She points to a pen. "See those raccoons. They're good release candidates, because they really don't like us. We don't have to worry about them approaching people or trying to get into someone's house. A lot of it is getting them to the right release site. It can make a difference in their survival." Large has been licensed since 1984, and her knowledge is self-taught through study and experience. The state license, which covers mammals, is from the wildlife department. It requires an inspection by a ranger and a letter stating the rehabilitator and facility are qualified, and a letter from a veterinarian, stating his assistance is available. Large has several vets working with her. The federal license, which covers birds, is more complicated. "The application is 20 pages long," she says. "They want a lot of detail about your experience and capabilities. And you have to provide photos of the enclosures." She admits the experience was rough at first. "The first time a baby squirrel came in, we hit the books and called experts for advice. After that, you're prepared. I mean, you pretty much know your way around a possum after you've seen a few hundred. But we started slowly, which was good, because it gave us time to learn how to handle each animal–the medical needs, the diets, how to stabilize those requiring surgery and restraints. That's important, because they don't want you working on their wounds or giving them vaccines, deworming them or setting legs and wings. They bite, and it can be painful for the person, physically and emotionally. "On the emotional level, we had to reach the point where we could do what we do and still be able to sleep at night. We see some horrible injuries, and, of course, there are those we can't save. At first, I'd call the ranger and say come get the animal, take my license, I can't do this. But, wisely, he'd wait a couple of days, and by then, I'd be okay and back in go mode." The majority of animals at WildCare are birds, ranging from the mighty eagle to the blue jay. Large points out it's against state law for anyone to take any wild animal for any reason and confine it. And all birds, except house sparrows, pigeons and starlings, are protected by the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, making it a federal crime to keep them. "You can't take an eagle home or that blue jay," she says. "It protects them against people doing the wrong thing, even if they're trying to do the right thing. For instance, the blue jay. People will find a baby hopping around and squawking in their yard. They don't see the mother, so they grab it. Blue jays are very inquisitive. When they get old enough, even though they can't fly yet, they won't stay in the nest. That's when they start exploring. If you put them back in the tree, they'll hop right out again. Put them in the shrubs where they can hide. But, you say, I've got a dog back there. Well, put them in the front yard. Birds don't recognize property lines." Large appreciates it when people are well-intentioned, but says they often lack the necessary knowledge and experience. "A lot of small animals get what amounts to kidnapped during baby season, fawns for example. They spend two weeks just sitting on the ground while the mother is nowhere in sight. She's big, has an odor and doesn't want to attract predators. The fawn doesn't have an odor, and he sits very still with his head down and hides. A coyote can walk right by and not spot him. But here come the humans. They don't see the mother, think it's abandoned and bring it home. Two days later, they've got a fawn that's terrified by all this; it has diarrhea, won't drink. Then they call us, asking what to do." Call first, she emphasizes. "Not a few days later when it's too late. By all means, if you see an animal in trouble, get it out of harm's way. But then call and get it to a licensed rehab." WildCare is a non-profit. The foundation offers memberships, but it depends on donations and volunteers, and there's always room for more. "We have a core of 30 volunteers to count on for help once a week," says Large. "That sounds like a lot, but it's not, especially during baby season or when something extraordinary happens like the big wind storm last summer or the tornado last year. Talk about havoc. People were lined up down the drive, bringing in animals. We were calling in volunteers, doing triage." Large asks volunteers for a minimum of three hours a week for at least three months. "It takes a while to train them, and there's so much to be done. Food preparation alone is a six hour job for one person. We do try to split up duties, so they get a little bit of that and a little of cleaning and a little of feeding." Obviously, it takes a lot of food and a lot of money. "We go through 20,000 mealworms in two weeks and spend several thousand on them every year," she says. "And we spend several thousand on meat items for the predators. Specialty milks are very expensive. Each mammal's milk is different. The public can get puppy or kitten milk, but that's nowhere near adequate for all the species we have." It's an ever present problem, but Large maintains a sense of humor. "I can't go to the grocery and say I need a bird of prey diet for a great horned owl, or 300 pounds of mice or bobcat milk. We have to wholesale them in. We buy the milk wholesale in 20 gallon buckets and go through it like water. Actually, there is a grocery that helps. Country Boy in Norman donates produce, and Walmart helps us. Hospitals and nursing homes contribute some medical supplies, like packages of bandages that have been opened but not used. They have to dispose of them." Large heads toward the house, satisfied that her residents are comfortable, but not too comfortable. Her affection is apparent, but she knows it's a one-way street, and her hospitality is temporary. One leaves today, another comes tomorrow. She pauses, hands on hips, and looks back over the grounds. "We cry a lot at releases. I know that's not professional," she says with a shrug. "But there's something about taking animals that are so beaten up, usually by us, healing them and giving their freedom back. You worry about them, wish they'd write home. But they don't come back...except for Roady." She smiles. "We love to do releases where you open the crate and all you see is a streak. We don't want an animal milling around our feet. He isn't ready for his freedom. We want him to just book it and not look back. Emotionally, that's hard, but then we know we've done our job well, and he stands a chance of surviving." Back to OKC Animal Welfare        Back to Top

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