On the frontlines of animal rescue

Animals and birds in urban settings face many threats — from getting trapped in electric wires to plunging into borewells. NGOs and shelters work with skill and compassion to save them. Puja Goyal follows two rescue teams up close in Bengaluru

A distress call crackles through the Animal Rescue and Rehabilitation Centre (ARRC) helpline in Bengaluru’s Horamavu. In Halasuru, 12 km away, an adult kite is entangled in manja — the sharp glass-coated string used in competitive kite flying — 40 feet up on a tree in a temple compound. Subiksha Venkatesh R from ARRC alerts me, and I rush from my apartment near Bannerghatta Road to witness the rescue. By the time I get close to the location, the bird has been struggling for nearly an hour. Emmanuel Anthony, wildlife rescuer with ARRC, calls me to ask if he should wait for me. I tell him not to. Within minutes, the rescue is over, and the kite is en route to ARRC for medical care.

Later, I learn the bird’s wingtip was wrapped in manja. The more it flapped, the tighter the string wound around it, trapping it in a cruel grip. The rescue tool was ingenious: a tree-cutting pole with its sickle replaced by a spring mechanism designed to release the manja. With calm precision, Vijay Gowda, one of the rescuers, worked the spring inch by inch, loosening the thread binding the bird. Finally, the bird dropped gently into a bedsheet stretched open by a bystander.

For me, the rescue highlighted a truth: while I was caught in traffic, the rescuers had reached the spot, equipped, alert, and without delay.

The next morning, I get an alert to shadow Venkatesh Ramakrishna from Charlie’s Animal Rescue Centre (CARE), Kogilu Post. A
maggot-infested dog has been reported in Malleswaram. Traffic stretches my 13 km drive into an hour and a half. I arrive before the rescuers, winding through lanes blocked by a shamiana pitched for a puja. People have gathered around two strays. One, lethargic but not visibly injured, is lounging on the pavement. The real emergency — the infested dog — is nowhere in sight.

The municipal van arrives. Raju Bhargav, their rescuer, nets the healthy dog first, slipping it easily into the vehicle while a bystander shuts a gate to prevent its escape. Concerned neighbours ask if the dog will return. Bhargav reassures them: “Once treated, we will release him back here.”

Then comes the stench. A resident whispers, “It’s under my stairs.” We follow her to a dark stairwell where the second dog lies curled, its neck eaten away by infection. The smell is overpowering. Ramakrishna and fellow rescuer Hemanth Kumar move quickly. Expecting aggression, they muzzle the dog, but it offers no resistance. Then they lift the canine by its scruff and hindquarters, carrying it carefully to their van. The crowd spreads out, recoiling from the sight and smell as the dog emerges. The team secures it in a steel cage for transport.

That morning, Bhargav, Ramakrishna, and Kumar, three rescuers from different organisations who had never met, showed the essence of frontline rescue: urgency, cooperation, and the courage to confront suffering most of us cannot bear to witness.

Fear factor

According to Keerthan R P, operations manager at CARE, domestic rescues, often involving animals accustomed to human environments, are more challenging than wildlife rescues in isolated natural habitats. “A crocodile rescue might take 20 minutes, but every domestic rescue is situational. We have to deal with traffic, crowds, and distressed callers,” he says.

Clearing the crowd is often the hardest part, but the first step. A perimeter is established to keep laypersons out. Col Dr Navaz Shariff, chief wildlife veterinarian and veteran rescuer at the PFA Wildlife Hospital, Uttarahalli Main Road, explains, “Honking, shouting, crowding — it escalates danger. The animal is already terrified. If we panic, it panics. If we stay calm, it calms down.”

Keerthan recalls a man who hacked a Russell’s Viper into three pieces while help was en route — his family was scared and wanted a quick solution. Snakes are vital to the ecosystem, but people often kill them out of fear and ignorance. “Until this changes, our work will always be half about rescue, and half about creating awareness,” says Keerthan.

Thirumalesh S, also an ARRC rescuer, believes people should be educated on animal care and rescue, just like fire drills are taught in schools. He recalls someone caring for a squirrel with a broken leg. He fed it milk and fruit for five days before contacting ARRC. By the time the team arrived, the squirrel was barely breathing, but survived.

Some well-meaning interventions can harm. Milk or water given to distressed animals can choke their lungs. The advice to first responders is clear: stay calm, avoid home remedies like applying turmeric and red soil, keep a safe distance in case of snakes, and relay correct information. Keerthan says people often give inaccurate locations, fearing rescuers will charge them a fee. “These services are pro bono. Without clear information, tracking the animal later becomes impossible,” he says.

CARE receives 15-20 calls a day but can respond to only 5-10. Though NGOs have support from the forest department, Animal Welfare Board, and central zoo authorities, they are often limited by funds. Misconceptions about shelters add to their strain. Many believe shelters accept abandoned or unwanted animals, but in reality, they only take in sick, injured, and infected ones.

A story Keerthan shares illustrates the stakes: “A wealthy couple once brought us five stray puppies in a box. We asked them to
vaccinate the puppies first and return after 10 days. They refused and left them. The pups carried parvovirus, which spreads before symptoms show. Within days, about 40 puppies in our shelter died.”

For rescuers, every animal brought in is a judgement call — admit a sick animal and risk infecting dozens of others, wiping out weeks of work, or refuse and face public anger.

But emotions can cut both ways. He recalls a kitten that had fallen 800 feet into a borewell in Banaswadi. “The rescue operation took six to seven hours. We borrowed equipment from a man who tests groundwater, used a camera with a loop leash, and pulled the kitten out. The family’s patience made it possible. Ninety-nine times out of a 100, the crowd supports us. They offer us food, help, even a ride home,” Keerthan says with a smile.

Suffocation risk

Once the rescue site is secured, a series of contingency plans are set into motion. Keerthan explains: “If a dog has fallen into a well, Plan A is what we do if the dog is active. Plan B is what we do if it is injured. Plan C is when oxygen is low or the crowd is exerting pressure to act fast. Plan D is if something goes wrong — say a rescuer faints, or gets bitten by the dog. But these are just benchmarks; we adapt at the scene.”

If rescuers follow protocols, stay calm, and work together, the success rate is said to be 99%.

But even experience has limits. Keerthan recalls a cat trapped 25 feet down a narrow well in Girinagar. “Our coordinator Anil was suspended for an hour and a half. I volunteered to help, but within 30 seconds I had to be pulled out. I was suffocating,” he says. In the end, they got the cat out.

Animal rescue is about days of immense satisfaction and days of crushing lows. Shariff’s team once rescued a pregnant macaque in R R Nagar, struggling to give birth as she leapt from the trees to the walls. They sedated her, assisted the delivery, and after a month of recovery, released the mother and baby near the same apartment where she was found.

However, Keerthan’s heart grows heavy when he recalls an indie dog tied to an electric pole, a wire cutting into its throat, and an abandoned Great Dane who died of kidney failure at a veterinary campus. Abandonment hurts the most. “Shih Tzus are the most dumped breed among pets. People buy them to breed for money, hoping each puppy will fetch Rs 15,000-20,000,” he says. 

According to Girish A, founder of Animal Rescue Centre, Kengeri, abandoned pets rarely survive city streets. They are unable to navigate traffic or compete for food.

Despite the joy and heartbreak the job brings them, the rescuers maintain professional detachment. “If you get emotionally attached to every case, it can break you. We do multiple rescues every day,” says Keerthan.

Turning point

For many rescuers, a formative encounter with injured animals sparked a lifelong commitment to their welfare. As a boy, Shariff saw a street dog hit by a car and vowed to help. Keerthan began at 13, carrying a crushed puppy for treatment. Anthony recalls rescuing baby mynas with a senior at ARRC. Thirumalesh remembers guiding the safe capture of a shikra struck by a ceiling fan, and Subiksha recounts rescuing Russell’s Viper hatchlings thrown from a third-floor bedroom.

Rescuers come from varied backgrounds. Shariff, a retired Army officer, once trained dogs for military use. Keerthan studied psychology and journalism before volunteering with a forest cell. Anthony trained in computer science but followed his fascination with wildlife, inspired by Australian conservationist Steve Irwin. Thirumalesh holds a bachelor’s degree in arts. Subiksha, with a master’s in wildlife sciences, turned her academic training into hands-on rehabilitation.

Then there are psychologists, trekkers, and climbers. At shelters, interns in their 20s work alongside veterans in their 60s. What unites them is training, patience, and a firm belief in animal rights.

Animal rescue isn’t learned in a classroom — it begins at the shelter. Newcomers start by handling animals, understanding their needs, and assisting rehabilitation. Once familiar, they shadow a senior rescuer in the field before working independently. The first rule is simple but non-negotiable: keep yourself safe while protecting the animal and bystanders. Safety boots, gloves, hooks, and helmets are standard, and every rescuer is insured. While men dominate field rescues, women usually handle neonatal care and rehabilitation.

Passion drives rescuers; money rarely does. Salaries in India range from Rs 26,000 to Rs 35,000 a month — barely enough for long-term sustainability. “Our monthly expenses are around Rs 15 lakh to Rs 20 lakh. It is difficult to sustain our work without donors,” says Shariff. And compassion fuels it. “A retired BMTC bus driver once brought us a broken-legged stray. He returned every week with food and money for its care,” says Keerthan.

Ready to improvise

Teams work in shifts, with a rescue van always on standby. The vans can carry interlocking poles, snake hooks, soft-fiber nets, climbing harnesses, kennels, PPE kits, first-aid supplies, ladders, night vision glasses, head torches, and makeshift tools like bedsheets. Anthony assesses each case from the photos and locations sent by first informants, and then decides on the right equipment and personnel.

Rescues require improvisation as much as courage. Thirumalesh has used cranes to reach a black kite 120 feet up a tree, and worked with installation technicians to free a pigeon trapped in a signage banner. Subiksha says rescuers try to avoid damaging property but sometimes they have to slash through building nets, garden nets, or fishing nets to free snakes and birds. Occasionally, soil testers, plumbers, engineers, and electricians are called in to assist. 

Vehicles can be barriers too. Animals have been found trapped in car engines and two-wheelers. In a rare case, Keerthan’s team broke down an eight-foot wall to save a cow wedged between two buildings. “The owner was understanding and supportive,” he says. As a rescuer with the municipality, Bhargav says cattle rescues are routed to the City Cattle Centre.“We rescue, treat, and return animals whenever possible,” he notes, illustrating the intersection of civic responsibility and rescue work.

Intensive rehab

Saving animals is only half the battle. Rehabilitation is critical. An aeronautical engineer once helped Shariff’s team create a 3D-printed prosthetic leg for a rescued peacock, which now lives in a sanctuary. In contrast, a cobra, whom they named Scarface, was released into the wild after a year of intensive care, following a complex reconstructive surgery, done by Shariff and Dr Madhav H V, an in-house vet with PFA. Construction machinery had severely crushed its face, trachea, oesophagus, and fangs. Its rehabilitation cost about Rs 75,000.

One of Shariff’s most dangerous rescues involved a leopard struck by a two-wheeler. “It was taking refuge under a bus near the battery compartment. Choosing not to sedate the leopard, our team extracted it at close quarters, sustaining minor scratches and claw injuries in the process. Subsequent X-rays and scans showed no head trauma. The leopard was released at the injury site,” he recalls.

Quiet lessons

In a world where one is too busy to notice a myna in flight, a sparrow sing, or a dog basking in the sun, rescuers watch out for them. They are caretakers of the voiceless. And they find the work rewarding in more ways than one. Anthony says it has sharpened his problem-solving skills. “I have learned to approach crises calmly. First, I ask ‘What can I do?’, then ‘What should I do?’,” he shares. For  Subiksha, teamwork, communication, and self-awareness have been the biggest takeaways. “This work constantly challenges me to grow,” she says. Above all, it gives the vulnerable another shot at life.

When I ask Subiksha about the kite freed from its manja trap a week later, she says, “The wing was luxated (dislocated) from the entanglement. We strapped it to support healing. The kite will be moved to an outdoor aviary soon to help it practise flight.” Though battered, the dog at CARE remains resilient and is on the road to recovery. These quiet victories, often unseen, are proof that patience, expertise, and empathy can restore life, one wing, one paw, one heart at a time.

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