Category: Petitions

Investigation: The Murky Truth Behind Hawaii’s Octopus Farm

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Investigations, Petitions, Wildlife

UPDATE — SEPTEMBR 1, 2023: VICTORY! Kanaloa Octopus Farm’s location near Kona on the Big Island has permanently closed! The state of Hawaii has decided not to renew Kanaloa’s lease after months of pressure from animal activists, media exposure, and even a complaint led by Harvard Law School in the wake of our investigation exposing the facility as little more than a petting zoo that collected tourists’ dollars to fund the creation of an octopus factory farming industry. Read on for the groundbreaking exposé that led to this triumph for octopuses everywhere.

UPDATE — JANUARY 28, 2023: Late last year, I published the below investigation into Kanaloa Octopus Farm on the Big Island of Hawaii, which captures wild Hawaiian day octopuses, entrapping them in tiny, isolated tanks and subjecting them to breeding experiments under the guise of “conservation.” This week, the Hawaii Division of Aquatic Resources issued a cease-and-desist letter to Kanaloa for operating without required permits. Owner Jake Conroy has reportedly claimed that these octopuses were not captured in West Hawaii waters—in direct conflict with what I was told on my tour: that Kanaloa pays someone to capture octopuses off-shore. My investigation revealed that, funding itself through petting zoo-like tours and state support, the facility has attempted to breed hundreds of these octopuses, a process that’s always fatal—but as of 2022, babies had only survived up to 13 days. Despite Kanaloa’s public claims that it isn’t interested in farming, government records show plans for supplying octopus and squid to the restaurant industry. For now, the octopus program has been temporarily shut down, and Kanaloa is shifting to bobtail squids, a species it is already profiting off of through breeding and selling (and for which there is insufficient data for Kanaloa to claim they are doing so in the name of conservation).

FULL INVESTIGATIVE STORY BELOW

(October 9, 2022) I stood under the blazing Hawaiian sun, gazing out at the ocean while imagining myself diving in, dancing among the fish, and extending a friendly finger (à la E.T.) to a curious cephalopod—just like the protagonist of My Octopus Teacher had done before me. Instead, I snapped back into reality and glanced down at several rows of white boxes filled with water and lined at their upper edges by spiky green Astroturf. I gingerly plucked off a row of suction cups that had been ascending my forearm, sending their owner, a Hawaiian day octopus, or heʻe mauli, gliding back down into her home, one of those white boxes—no bigger than a bathtub.

I’d always thought my first real encounter with an octopus would occur on their terms, out in the open sea. But when I heard about the 73-million-dollar forthcoming octopus farm that’s making waves in the Canary Islands—and then learned that there was already a dollhouse-sized version of one on the Big Island my family calls home—I knew I had to go. I had to see the reality behind Kanaloa Octopus Farm’s claims on its website, like that it’s “committed to developing green bio-technologies that decrease our demand for ocean resources,” and find out whether they really held water.

On the surface, the small facility on Hawaii’s Kona coast that I visited this past spring seemed akin to a petting zoo of the sea. An exuberant tour guide instructed us to wash our hands and led us over to the small collection of tanks, each holding an individual octopus, who was barred from leaving—as octopuses are wont to do (recall, for instance, Inky, an octopus who slid out of her tank at a New Zealand aquarium, down a drainpipe, and back into the ocean several years ago)—by the aforementioned strips of Astroturf. Guests plunged their hands into the tanks and wriggled their fingers, and one by one, the octopuses emerged from their hideaways to examine the intruders. Attaching their arms to our fingers and wrists, eliciting shrieks of joy from the guests, they used their suckers to taste, smell, and feel us.

Useful appendages—those eight, self-regenerating arms lined with a collective 2,240 suction cups, which help them not only sense their environments, but climb any surface; use tools (like those who hide themselves tightly inside shells like armor, not just in response to danger, but in preparation for future danger); and even ride on a befuddled shark’s back to escape hungry jaws. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. These cephalopods have also been documented opening and closing jars, squeezing through the tiniest cracks to climb a flight of stairs culminating in the kitchen, retrieving lobsters from nearby tanks, changing colors while dreaming in a state similar to REM sleep in humans, and recognizing and holding grudges against a specific researcher (evidenced by their repeated spraying of water at said researcher).

Yet we often find ourselves relying on rudimentary, anthropocentric measures of intelligence to define our spheres of moral consideration, like the so-called “mirror test,” or the ability of animals to recognize their own appearance in a mirror—as though such a device would be of any use to an otherworldly animal who can camouflage herself and disappear into her environment in an instant by shifting her coloration. (Meanwhile, Homo sapiens is relegated to fantasizing about magical Invisibility Cloaks in literature, or investing billions of dollars into developing technologies these animals are simply born with. But, if I must play along, octopuses have indeed taught themselves how to engage “correctly” with a mirror—they enjoy grooming themselves and using it to spot crabs to feast on.)

Ponders Erin Anderssen in a recent thought piece in The Globe and Mail, “Should we assume dominion over an exceptional brain that developed parallel to our own, in a foreign place and against the odds? Do we too often assume that thinking differently means thinking less?”

With the Canary Islands’ massive commercial operation looming on the horizon, projected to kill nearly 300,000 octopuses per year, animal activists worldwide are responding with a resounding “no!”—and fervently campaigning to stop the project through petitions, protests, conferences, tweetstorms, and more. These marine advocates are reminding decisionmakers that we’re only on the cusp of grasping the remarkable capabilities of these alien-like beings, who thrive in their own underwater realms—and that factory farming them will be among this century’s greatest perils inflicted by humanity on sea life.

Has the ship already sailed on thwarting the creation of this entirely new industry? Already, octopus farming—the latest iteration of the 20th century’s destructive brainchild, industrial animal agriculture—has attracted tens of millions in investments, outwardly in the name of reducing pressures on wild octopus populations (while apparently the notion of shifting demand away from these sea beings altogether didn’t seem quite so profitable to said investors). So, to hell with the myriad environmental consequences of aquaculture, such as nitrogen and phosphorous pollution, antibiotic misuse, and, perhaps the linchpin of them all: octopuses are carnivores, eating two to three times their own weight. As such, their captive production will increase pressures on other fisheries—either wild or farmed—to sustain them. According to a Compassion in World Farming (CIWF) report, “[O]ctopus farming would contribute to further food security issues in regions such as West Africa, Southeast Asia and South America where the main industrial fishmeal factories are located.” Facing such a dire picture, activists aren’t relenting in their upstream fight.

But what does a gigantic forthcoming factory farm across the globe have to do with the seemingly innocuous octopus playground in Hawaii, where I stood flanked by tourists gawking over a dozen or so of these creatures playfully throwing rubber duckies? I listened to our guide, clearly enamored by cephalopods herself, extoll their virtues and spout off their individual names and favorite toys. She spoke of how Kanaloa Octopus Farm was not actually a farm at all, but a research facility developed with conservation in mind, just like the website had told me. They did not raise octopuses for consumption, she declared repeatedly throughout the hour.

It would have been easy to grab an octo-plush from the gift store and stroll off to lunch at one of Kona’s oceanside eateries, where I could then type up a Google review over a frozen açaí bowl about how cute and curious and fun those Kanaloa octopuses were, just as hundreds or thousands of visitors before me have done. But something unsettling was washing over me as the tour neared its end.

I couldn’t count how many utterances of the word “conservation” I’d heard, and seen, that day (if only I had a nickel for every time…). So I approached the guide and asked what this meant—what, precisely, was their plan? Were these octopuses endangered?

No, she replied, not in Hawaii, but in other parts of the world, where demand for octopus meat has surged. Kanaloa, though, hoped that through successful research, they could share their findings on breeding octopuses with other countries. All in the name of “replenishing the natural population,” she told me.

Essentially, Hawaii’s octopus farm intended to teach their breeding strategies to other countries, which could then turn around to farm octopuses for food and reduce their own reliance on wild-caught populations. Ah, well, we mustn’t kill the messenger, right?

But I was left wondering: could Kanaloa really be a neutral middleman, laboring all for the good of Planet Earth—or did it stand to benefit from the fruits of its labor? At the time of my visit in March 2022, Kanaloa’s claim-to-fame was that it had gotten the furthest in closing the octopus life cycle by rearing babies to a mere 13 days of age before die-off. According to our guide, “no single person” has ever been able to raise an octopus from baby to adulthood. It seems, though, that Kanaloa staff is overstating their two-week milestone, achieved only with a single species, Hawaii’s day octopus: After all, the Nueva Pescanova Group, the corporation behind the upcoming Canary Islands facility, had successfully bred and reared common octopus, or Octopus vulgaris, larvae to adults by 2019. If that’s the case, perhaps Kanaloa is looking forward to playing a foundational role in a separate, future day octopus farming industry, piggybacking off the lessons of its Spanish predecessor. After all, it’s a vast ocean out there, with plenty of species for every ambitious capitalist to, well, capitalize on.

On Facebook, Kanaloa touts that it “strive[s] to produce a sustainable alternative to wild caught octopus for aquariums, researchers and saltwater aquarium hobbyists,” but by the end of my visit, I already knew this didn’t encompass the full scope of its aims. So, while bedridden with COVID this spring and finally exhausted after days of 18-hour-long sleeps, one night I dove down an internet black hole ‘til sunrise (as one does) to get to the bottom of it all.

Like most small businesses, Kanaloa Octopus Farm’s beginnings in 2015 were meager, with founder and impassioned researcher Jake Conroy sinking his own savings into the commercial aquaculture project after witnessing the cashflow challenges scientific research typically faces. The “petting zoo” front seemed a promising way to fund his altruistic vision at the time, keeping the lights on and the water flowing. He consistently explained in interviews that his plans did not include farming octopus for food, but only gifting the world the tool of breeding octopuses to help wild species survive.

The man was, overtly, a true animal lover. To National Geographic, Conroy declared, “Nine times out of ten we wind up convincing people not to eat octopus. … We’re fine with that.” And in another interview, Conroy explained that the octopuses at Kanaloa were purchased from fishermen who would have used them for bait. “We call them our rescue animals. … Their fate is a little better than what it was.” (Today, according to our tour guide, the farm has graduated to hiring its own octopus-catcher.) But in that same interview, Hawaii Magazine reported that the “goal of Kanaloa is to someday create a viable and sustainable on-land octopus farm.” And to a Hawaiian food writer, Conroy described selling octopus to local restaurants as a “pie-in-the-sky dream” of his.

Then, in the fall of 2021, as the aforementioned CIWF report condemned the budding octopus farming industry and accused Kanaloa of harvesting young octopuses to fatten them up in tanks, Conroy fired back: “They’re claiming we’re the only octopus farm in the U.S. and that’s not true — there are no octopus farms in the U.S. … We market ourselves as an octopus farm, it’s a fun thing for tourists to hear, but we’re not farming anything for meat.”

That month he also appeared on Hawaii Public Radio and launched into a slew of defenses, first by downplaying octopus intelligence (“I don’t see a lot of evidence of them being more intelligent,” said Conroy, while accusing activists of anthropomorphizing the animals—a bold claim from a businessowner whose captives are endowed with names like Stretch and Shrek). Then, he cast doubt on the economic viability of pursuing octopus farming (I know some Spanish executives who’d beg to differ), as though hoping to quietly excuse himself from this fight and swim back under the radar. Had Conroy already forgotten his 2019 remarks about his plans to scale up to become an exclusive supplier of octopus to Hawaii’s gourmet restaurants?

Kanaloa’s inconsistencies and flip-flopping are arguably a simple battle over semantics, or perhaps over its present and future. But public records and currency flows don’t lie, so I dug deeper. I discovered that Kanaloa was founded as a partnership between both a non-profit research foundation and a for-profit company, Fatfish Farms, LLC, operating off its ticket sales. Through tours, the business grew its revenue by 273 percent over just two years, landing it recognition as Hawaii’s 5th fastest growing company. The first red flag I uncovered was a revelation in 2018 by Environment Hawaii that as a tenants of the Natural Energy Laboratory of Hawaii Authority (NELHA), the rapidly growing for-profit arm of Kanaloa Octopus Farm, “like all other tenants of state-owned lands, [should be] expected to pay property taxes based on the assessed value of the land and improvements they occupy,” yet as an occupant of NELHA’s “research campus,” the farm has never been billed. The executive director of NELHA at the time claimed that such “pre-commercial or research projects” are “considered short-term,” but there’s no end in sight for Kanaloa. The company has not only been granted a front-row, tax-free plot of land, but also its own supply of deep-sea water channeled up by NELHA from 3,000 feet below sea level to be distributed at a rate of up to 100,000 gallons per minute throughout the state-funded (to the tune of $130 million) research park.

And then, buried in 2019 NELHA meeting minutes, I stumbled upon an expansion proposal from Kanaloa which, though eventually sidelined by the pandemic, was telling. Planned growth areas included not only research, but also “ink for food products, ornamental trade and octopus meat for local restaurants,” accompanied by the note: “see confidential proposal in Attachment 3.” (I’ve yet to obtain the full proposal.) Further, the document revealed that Kanaloa had already begun selling aquaculture products the prior year—not from octopuses, but from bobtail squids, whom they’d apparently already successfully bred. “If Kanaloa starts selling [bobtail squids] in mass [sic],” it read, “they would be the only supplier in the world.” And although publicly describing itself as fully funded by its tours, Kanaloa claimed in its proposal that it had secured over $600 thousand from investors, including Marissa Meyer, former CEO of Yahoo, to pursue its commercial aspirations.

As sunlight began to creep through my bedroom window, interrupting my research frenzy long enough for me to seek out more tissues, I began to reflect on my findings. Could a few tanks on a palm-lined seashore really be as dangerous to cephalopods as the mammoth Canary Islands operation slated to slaughter millions of them within the next several years? I’m sure that Kanaloa will continue to split hairs over its business model and intentions—conservation, partnering with gourmet restaurants, or even entertaining smiling children—but in the early morning haze, it dawned on me that none of that mattered. In the business of raising and killing sea creatures on land, away from their homes, there is no impartial researcher, supplier, or middleman—only individual, critical cogs in the machine.

I realized that, for a wild octopus yearning to stretch her arms beyond impassable blades of Astroturf and glide off into the depths of the Pacific, any farm is a factory farm.

And by positing itself as an octo-friend, a champion of the seas, an environmental savior, Kanaloa obscures its role in building this new industrial machine and setting us on an uncharted course we can’t ever come back from, using a species never before raised entirely in captivity. Its marketing is, then, a greenwashing and humanewashing front to lure in dollars, and support, from captivated tourists who might be otherwise appalled at the colossal venture under construction across the Atlantic.

In the weeks before I visited Kanaloa Octopus Farm, my dad had just returned home to the Big Island from a seven-month-long, gut-wrenching stay in the hospital and a rehabilitation facility in Honolulu after a failed coronary bypass operation nearly killed him. As every single second dragged by, day after day, he was reminded of his predicament, confined to a single bed within a single room. And even as his body progressively healed, his mind, deprived of stimulation and disconnected from the outside world, was stuck in a state of delirium until he finally could return home and reestablish his bearings.

On the farm, as I observed our tour guide scurrying about reminding guests over and over to pry any wandering octopus arms off the top edges of the tanks and return them to their confinement, I recalled the most harrowing part of my dad’s experience, which still haunts him today: month after month, lying there, he was prevented from even touching his toes to the ground before a team of nurses rushed in to hoist them back into bed.

Given the profound anguish that being trapped, with no control over one’s surroundings, provokes, it’s no wonder that octopuses forced into cramped conditions are prone to fighting and cannibalism. In nature, these highly sensitive beings are already extremely particular about their homes and social lives. In two octopus communities, Octopolis and Octlantis, in Australia, the creatures have built complex cities, complete with their own version of evictions. Within Octopolis, males protect their territories, meticulously etched out to the square meter, by “throwing debris at one another and boxing,” according to Science Alert. In concocting an octopus factory farm, the author of that article argues, we will essentially be engineering an entirely novel octopus culture, one that scales up Octopolis’ “battleground of boxing octopuses” by the thousands. Like other species we’ve domesticated before them, this new society of octopuses will be utterly dependent on us—and we, thus far, have woefully underestimated their labyrinth of both physical and psychological needs.

When you fight factory farming for a living as I have for the better part of 15 years, you spend a lot of time focusing on the most blatant ills: the chopping off of beaks and tails, the forced impregnation, the genetic manipulation for rapid growth. But my research into octopuses has reminded me that for some animals, and especially for cephalopods, the psychological agony we inflict on other animals through confined farming can be even more excruciating than the physical horrors.

Kanaloa Octopus Farm might be small, but its impact on the octopus psyche will run deep.

Beyond its benevolent façade, the farm’s money-making work, at its core, hinges upon controlling the reproductive cycle of female octopuses. At the finale of My Octopus Teacher (SPOILER), I erupted into hysterical sobs as the titular character finally met her destiny: laying her eggs and then fiercely protecting her brood as she withered away without food, encircled by hungry predators. Researchers in 2014 made an astonishing announcement: they’d documented, over the course of 4.5 years, a mother octopus clinging to a rock to protect her growing clutch, all the while rejecting food, before finally perishing.

Without this ultimate sacrifice made by mother octopuses for their young, their species would not continue. And so at Kanaloa, month after month, the team repeatedly induces this always-fatal reproductive stage, within the confines of the farms’ tiny, foreign enclosures and at their own whim, to generate hundreds of thousands of eggs, none of which—as of March of this year—had yet survived into adulthood.

In its quest to crack octopus reproduction, Kanaloa is not only helping to spawn the octopus factory farming industry—it is, like a ship’s sail, a core part of it.

WATCH MY INVESTIGATIVE FOOTAGE

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Medicine Must Evolve Away from Prehistoric Crabs’ Blue Blood—Before the Next Pandemic

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Investigations, Petitions, Wildlife

UPDATE (August 1, 2024): Two years after our investigative piece, and due to campaigning by major environmental organizations like Center for Biological Diversity, the U.S. Pharmacopeia has finally issued new guidance to push U.S. biomedical companies toward synthetic alternatives to horseshoe crab blood! As we previously exposed, a half million of these sentient, prehistoric animals have their blood drained and are left weak and dying each year for the medical industry, despite alternatives being available! This historic step will finally give these animals a chance to rebuild their dwindling populations and live in peace. But we must remain vigilant to ensure that the industry continues moving in the right direction over the coming months, and continue to urge regulators to make the shift mandatory. Thank you to everyone who has taken action to speak out for these remarkable sea animals!

Original story posted July 31, 2022

If you got a COVID vaccine, or any vaccine—or really any medical intervention over the past several decades—you can be sure that the blue blood of 450-million-year-old prehistoric arthropods known as horseshoe crabs was used to keep you safe. But in the U.S., lurking behind this magic potion is a fragile industry stubbornly dependent upon the traumatic bloodletting of a vulnerable species, compounded by a sea of red tape thwarting the widespread adoption of a viable alternative.

I have a bundle of murky memories of visiting the Baltimore Aquarium periodically with my grandparents as a youngster, but vividly I remember two things: laughing with glee while being splashed by a wall of water at the end of a dolphin show (which I now, regretfully, reflect upon much differently: from the dolphins’ perspective of perpetual captivity); and being horrorstruck when a horseshoe crab in a touch tank was flipped over, revealing what appeared, to my 7-year-old self, to be hundreds of sharp robotic claws.

My grandparents told me to go on and touch him. So I extended a finger slowly like E.T., just barely making contact with the shiny surface, and then recoiled with a shriek. Thus marked the beginning and end of my childhood foray into hands-on horseshoe crab encounters.

Until this year, at age 34. I was planning to visit a friend in New Jersey this past June and remembered having read recently that these crabs (who are really more closely related to spiders than actual crabs) congregate annually on the shores of the Delaware Bay, home to their largest population in the world, to spawn and continue on their ancient species. Google Maps told me my friend’s place was just under an hour from the nearest hotspot. I had also read of the role these living fossils’ blood had played in concocting vaccines during the COVID-19 pandemic, a fact that plunged me into an ethical quandary: I knew we desperately needed the shot, but I also knew that the “bleeding” of horseshoe crabs left me feeling oddly seasick. Ultimately, then, I knew I had to make it there to witness them, the beings to whom we owed our life-saving intervention, in order to process my inner tsunami.

In advance of my trip, I dove into researching just how, exactly, to maximize my chances of spotting horseshoe crabs in this pivotal act that has kept them surviving, without evolving, for eons. They aren’t just hanging out on any beach at any given moment. Each May and June, these magnificent beings appear in vast numbers on the shores of the Bay only at the evening high tide, and most abundantly during the full and new moons. Thus, the best time to spot their gatherings with enough daylight is on the few days of the month when sunset and high tide collide, within a few days of a full or new moon. It took my human brain an entire hour of matching up tide, sunset, and moon charts to pinpoint that sweet spot. I have no idea how these creatures make all of these calculations themselves, except that they must have unlocked some sort of ancient wisdom unbeknownst to our species.

After wrapping up a fun weekend with friends, I chomped down a vegan cupcake from Wildflower Vegan Café in Millville, New Jersey, and set off. As I drove down the lengthy road toward the East Point Lighthouse, a popular crab destination, I noticed my cell phone losing signal. My battery was hovering around 7 percent, the GPS sucking up all the juice my car charger had to offer. The sun was sinking lower into the sky. I knew I had mere minutes to arrive with enough light and enough cell phone battery to capture the spectacle. The road suddenly came to an end almost at the water’s edge, and I slid to a stop. I scampered over the dune, clasping my Canon camera and cell phone in each hand, hoping at least one would succeed in documenting the magical moment. There were several other people dotted about, lured by the vibrant hues of the sunset against the lighthouse. But I looked downward.

Immediately, I saw them, a group of greyish brown helmets playing bumper cars in a relatively calm pocket of water by the shore. I knelt down and, fingers shaking, started snapping photos furiously between my phone and camera, aware that it was the only chance I would have for the remainder of the season when sunset, high tide, and the eve of the full moon would all align. Through my lenses, I watched as the crabs tangoed together, males sliding up on females’ backs for their chance to pass on their 450-million-year-old, virtually unchanged DNA. Then a wave would pass, separating the pairs and leaving them to swim in circles again to resume the act.

I bent down for a clearer look. The entirety of their visible, above-water bodies, or carapace, comprised two connected, smooth structures, bending at the middle joint—plus a rigid tail jutting out of the rear end. Bordering this tail, on each side of the posterior shell, was a row of spikes. And seamlessly embedded into the round front shell were two deep brown, hard pearls—their eyes. They did not blink or move; there were no corneas or pupils. Yet, somehow, they stared back at me. As I moved my lens toward them, they’d slowly steer away.

The sunlight retreated as I walked along the shoreline atop a geotube. The Bay waves crashed with more fervor here. Clumps of horseshoe crabs attempting to spawn were knocked about, flipped around, and jettied back and forth. They were at the mercy of the sea, carried by its unrelenting movement. Were they relying on luck to eventually float them into less violent waters? Somehow, this strange methodology has worked without modifications for hundreds of millions of years. Despite eroding shorelines and rising temperatures, these crabs resist change, century after century, millennium after millennium. They stagnate in an apparently already impeccable state; it’s only the world around them, our world, that has evolved, unleashing troubled waters.

I reached a tiny inlet, where water had dug a channel into the sea grass, and the stench of rotten seafood met my nostrils. Upon their retreat back to low tide, the Bay had left dozens of flipped-over horseshoe crabs behind to die. I took in the sight over their undersides, the complex joints and appendages that were normally hidden underneath their sturdy shells. Their legs, wielding those alien-like pincers that had intimidated me as a child, pointed upwards, motionless. Here, they now fascinated me, a relic of a time long before I, or any of us, had ever been conceived. Plus, as an adult, I now knew they posed no threat. Alien as they seemed, these “claws” do not pinch; they simply swim and dig, the instruments that carry the crabs through their underwater realm.

I carefully stepped around the upside-down crabs and poked their bodies with my toes, one after another. All dead. Then, one began to move her legs like a claw game in an arcade. I reached down and carefully flipped her over just before the next wave approached. Slowly, she pushed herself back into the water and was joined by one of her peers. There was no time to reflect on her near-death experience; only to complete that singular mission of carrying on the species.

I sat on the geotube, filming as the final rays of sun were overtaken by moonlight. In those 30 minutes, I saw dozens, maybe hundreds, of crabs flipped around by the waves. Any who were left on land flung their rigid tails up and down, bucking their bodies and waving their legs frantically. Through this series of motions, most were able to right themselves without help. Their peculiar methods, again, worked.

By the time I packed up to leave, everyone else who’d come for the sun’s glorious exit was long gone. I drove back up the dirt road with 4 percent left on my phone battery, begging my signal to return and chart my course home. But the surrealness of the experience lingered; awe rushed over me and calmed my nerves. I’d just seen a process that originated long before humankind, and that somehow persisted, just as it always was, through the birth and death of the dinosaurs, alternating ice ages and interglacials, and the rise and fall of emperors and dynasties.

But now, their species will either sink or swim in response to perhaps their greatest threat yet: modern man.

The decline of the American horseshoe crab, also known as the Atlantic horseshoe crab, began decades ago, first spawned by the roundup of millions of crabs to be ground up into fertilizer in the early 1900s, and then exacerbated by overfishing for bait (used to catch other fishes and sea snails), as well as strandings on man-made structures. By 2002, there remained only just over 300,000 individuals left in the Delaware Bay, down from over 1 million in 1990.

The most calculated, organized, and enduring assault on horseshoe crabs in the 21st century, though, has been that thing that propelled my visit to the Delaware Bay in the first place: horseshoe crab bleeding for human medicine. Scientifically (or at least pharmaceutically) speaking, their blue blood is pure gold—to the tune of about $60,000 per gallon. The clotting agent unique to horseshoe crab blood is used to create Limulus amoebocyte lysate (LAL), which is instrumental in modern medicine because it detects endotoxins—deadly poisons to the human bloodstream. Today in the United States, crab-derived LAL is the nearly universal tool used to protect vaccines and other medical equipment from these toxins. Every single childhood shot, every intravenous drug, dialysis equipment, insulin, medical implants, and yes, every single American COVID vaccine, were brought to you by horseshoe crabs. All in all, LAL has evolved into an approximately $100 million industry in this country alone.

Among the Atlantic horseshoe crab’s cousins, the Chinese horseshoe crab was recently classified as “endangered” on the International Union for Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources (IUCN) Red List, owing to intensive harvesting by the medical industry in Asia, and now conservationists worry that the American species isn’t far behind. Here, since their crash in the early 2000s, populations of the American species had somewhat stabilized, thanks both to nonprofit programs like reTURN the Favor, whose volunteers patrol beaches and flip over thousands of stranded crabs, as well as legal protections, like bans on the capture of female crabs for fishing bait. Such regulations, promulgated by the Atlantic States Marine Fisheries Commission (ASMFC), were designed not for the crabs’ sake, but to protect migrating shorebirds like the red knot, who feast on horseshoe crab eggs each summer.

Despite these efforts, though, by 2013, red knot population levels had dropped by 80 percent over the course of 10 years, earning the bird a designation of “threatened” under the Endangered Species Act (ESA). Yet that didn’t faze the ASMFC earlier this year when it voted to lift horseshoe crab harvesting restrictions in blatant defiance of the ESA in a move Defenders of Wildlife blasted as “hastening the [red knot] species’ march toward extinction.” Environmentalists further warn that horseshoe crab numbers correspondingly remain at historically low numbers, and the IUCN still lists the American crab as “vulnerable to extinction.” (It should be noted that IUCN classifications carry no legal mandate, and although some countries have implemented protective measures at a national scale, the United States has missed the boat.)

Each year, the American biomedical industry uses 500,000 horseshoe crabs, a figure that has likely surged with the rush to deliver a COVID vaccine to billions worldwide. The so-called “harvesting” process is as follows: “Collectors” wade through the waters, grabbing crabs who come ashore to spawn. South Carolinian crabs in particular have fared prolonged disturbances, as they’re rounded up into ponds for days or weeks by the $22-billion Charles River Laboratories (aided and abetted by the state’s lax policies) before it extracts up to half of the crabs’ entire blood volume. (Update: As I was finalizing this story for publication, I learned of a monumental legal victory for crabs who were being poached by the thousands in the dead of night by Charles River contractors in South Carolina’s Cape Romain National Wildlife Refuge. Thanks to Defenders of Wildlife and the Southern Environmental Law Center, this region is now protected.)

At the lab, crabs are fastened into what looks like a stationary assembly line, and a needle inserted into the middle of their backs, in the highly sensitive area containing their heart between the two sections of their shell, siphons their pale blue blood into glass bottles reminiscent of milk jugs. They are bled just enough to be weakened, but not enough to die. About 30 percent perish anyway. The remainder are released, exhausted, to attempt to recover in the wilderness. Many don’t, succumbing to the effects of blood loss compounded by water deprivation and temperature changes. Piles of dead horseshoe crab bodies have been documented on the shoreline in the aftermath of these harvests. After studying these consequences, researchers from Plymouth State University declared that “it is critical that their role in medical research does not disrupt their natural role as a keystone species.”

In the midst of a catastrophe like COVID, where a robust vaccine supply is crucial to our own species, we especially should not be relying on the blood of such a vulnerable animal to ensure our safe supply of medical tools. For the past 20 years, an effective, man-made alternative has been at the ready, in which a horseshoe crab gene is cloned, and cells grown from it are cultured in a lab to produce commercial-grade recombinant factor (rFC). rFC is already displacing horseshoe crab blood across Europe and trickling into Asia. In the United States, though, our revolving-door bureaucracy, like the crabs themselves, appears steadfastly opposed to evolution.

The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA), which regulates LAL, has excused itself from governing rFC, so, technically, biomedical companies may make the shift—with a small catch. According to U.S. Pharmacopeia (USP), which sets standards for the medical industry that are then enforced by the FDA, they must undertake time-consuming and costly steps to document that rFC is performing just as well as its animal-based predecessor. Plus, in the U.S., rFC has been patented by a single company (at least, until it expires later this year), which can fix its prices and make it less attractive to vaccine and device makers. In this foaming mess of red tape, only one maker, Eli Lilly, has set sail on a more humane trajectory with rFC, while the rest of the industry tightly clings to their billions. (As I publish this, news has just broken that the aforementioned foe, Charles River Laboratories, not to be thwarted by its South Carolina defeat, has expanded its crab harvesting operations into Cape Cod—rather than shift to rFC.)

In mid-2020, as the pandemic floodgates opened, USP, which had been considering changes to its standards to recommend rFC, abruptly reversed course, citing “comments” it received (perhaps by the industry itself, which stood to turn immediate profits amidst the calamity) requesting further research on the alternative’s efficacy. The move cemented the use of Atlantic horseshoe crabs in hundreds of millions of COVID vaccines and will likely stall a widespread transition to rFC for another four years—despite the European Pharmacopeia already embracing it, and existing scientific research touting its success.

If I’ve learned anything from my encounters with horseshoe crabs—once marked by horror, now by marvel—it’s that human beings, unlike them, are imperfect but have an infinite capacity for transformation of thought and behavior. And, unlike theirs, our 300,000-year presence has been but a mere blip on this 4.5-billion-year-old rock. We must turn the tides on our destructive conquest of sea life before the next global health crisis drives horseshoe crabs, and with them, shorebirds like red knots, to extinction. Or, if not for them, let’s do it to ensure a stable supply of our own life-saving innovations, lest we, like t-rex and brontosaurus before us, become just another visitor on the horseshoe crab’s 450-million-year journey.

Thank you to Tina Marie Johnson of Blue Mountain Poetry Salon for the coaching behind this piece.

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Need a Breath of Fresh Air? Two Words: Sea Puppies.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Petitions, Wildlife

It’s been a rough week–hell, it’s been a rough year. Fellow humans are fighting for their lives, both in hospitals and on the streets in the wake of the brutal murder of George Floyd. And we’ve gotten our first glimpse inside a factory farm that was forced to mass-exterminate pigs because of slaughterhouse shutdowns due to workers contracting COVID-19.

I’ve spent the week trudging through the desolate headlines, taking action for our Black family and friends where I can, and soaking up tips to become a better ally. As an animal advocate, I must also be a human advocate. Animal oppression is rooted in the same oppressive system that kills Black and Brown people, and our work won’t be done until we’ve addressed all of it.

Over the last few months as the world seems to be topping down around me–and especially now–it’s been hard to find a time to write an inspiring story about animals that feels meaningful. So I’ve stagnated in my writing while waging on with other forms of social justice activism.

The truth is that there’s not going to be that perfect moment, as the flaws in our society keep bubbling up to the surface: cruel factory farms and slaughterhouses that serve as breeding grounds for disease and keep farmers and workers trapped in an exploitative cycle, systemic racism etched into the fabric of the very force that’s supposed to protect citizens of all skin colors, and constant reminders that the powers-that-be care more about profits and economic activity than immigrant, elderly, non-white, poor, and animal lives.

At some point, though, I have to take a breather and find comfort in the world–if only to help refuel me to get back into battle. So, during those brief minutes, I figured we could all use a dose of snuggly puppies.

And these very special puppies happen to live in the sea.

Photo credit: Jonathan Rosenberry

Back when cruises were a thing, my friends Jonathan Rosenberry and Maureen Cohen Harrington had the opportunity to hop aboard the Holistic Holiday at Sea, an all-vegan Caribbean cruise centered on plant-based eating and wellness.

There, in the glittering teal waters, they encountered soft, cuddly beings eager to embrace them with their massive flapping wings. These beings can only be described accurately as floppy, curious, silly puppies–of the sea.

Photo credit: Maureen Cohen Harrington

Their actual name is, of course, rays, a group of cartilaginous fish comprising more than 600 species. Unfortunately, more than 500 of these species are on the IUCN Red List, threatened by human fishing.

Like all fishes, rays are remarkably intelligent, adaptable, and innovative. The behemoth manta ray, whose wingspan can reach nearly 30 feet, was documented in a 2016 study to use a mirror to check out body parts that this animal normally can’t see. Individuals were also fixated by their reflection as they furled and unfurled their horn-shaped mouth fins repeatedly. While we should take care not to use such anthropocentric measures like the use of mirrors as definitive metrics of animal intelligence, we can at least appreciate these results as fascinating yet limited glimpses into complex minds we are barely beginning to understand.

Despite their clear sentience and complexity, though, these fish are violently killed by the thousands for human food and medicine–often even being cut apart into pieces while still conscious because their enormous bodies don’t fit onto boats.

But perhaps such research can lead us to reassess our propensity for ripping these rays–and other fish–en masse from their oceanic homes. In response to the 2016 study, a student blogger at the University of Washington wrote, “If manta rays are self-aware, what about other fish and shark species? Have we been underestimating them all along? For years humans vainly believed we were the only ones with higher-order intelligence. Maybe it is time to take a step back and give our wild counterparts more credit.”

Photo credit: Jonathan Rosenberry

Close to my home, another fight has been unfolding for the past several years over the much smaller cownose ray. Every May, these gentle rays migrate to the Chesapeake Bay in Maryland, where females give birth to a single live pup after an 11-month-long gestation period.

As the rays arrive to labor over their long-awaited newborns, fishermen armed with arrows lurk, preparing for an annual killing contest. They don’t discriminate, often shooting pregnant rays and babies alike. Until three years ago.

In 2017, Maryland Governor Larry Hogan signed a bill into law placing a moratorium on the savage killing contests through July 2019, during which time the Maryland Department of Natural Resources (DNR) was to develop a ray management plan.

Yet the DNR failed to do so in time, necessitating further protection for cownose rays upon the expiration of the moratorium. Thus, activists from the Save the Rays Coalition banded together and successfully achieved an extension on the moratorium until a management plan is created.

But it’s been a full year, and there’s still no sign of a more permanent ban on cruel ray killing contests. It’s time to demand that cownose rays are shielded once and for all from being mercilessly hunted as part of a twisted competition.

Even amidst multiple national crises, sea puppies have managed to warm my heart ever so slightly. Join me in making sure they’ll have a safe harbor in the waters of our Bay for years to come.

Petition closed with 226 signatures.

Here’s Why Trademarked Glowing Fish Aren’t Such a Bright Idea

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions

Saltwater aquariums, though prized for their glorious colors and living reefs, are a massive undertaking. And the havoc the exotic fish trade wreaks on tropical sea life is no secret. But for people who are itching to adorn their homes with vibrant fish, science came up with an easy solution: fluorescent freshwater fish. And the pet industry lapped it up–but at what cost?

A couple years ago I stumbled upon the GloFish® website–yes, trademark and all–and I was transfixed by the words: “GloFish® fluorescent fish are born brilliant! They are not painted, injected or dyed. They inherit their harmless, lifelong color from their parents. They get their stunning color from a fluorescence gene and are best viewed under a blue light.”

I was floored. It read like an advertisement for a new car. Toying with living beings this way hardly seemed harmless. I needed to know more.

These fish were among the first genetically modified animals to have been made available on a commercial scale. But their journey to pet store shelves was not quite intentional. At the turn of the 21st century, scientists from Singapore were attempting to engineer fish who could glow in the presence of certain environmental toxins as a biomarker for pollutants. They inserted fluorescent jellyfish genes into zebrafish, creating the first iteration of glowing freshwater fish.

The patented technology eventually caught the eye of the company that would ultimately create and trademark the GloFish, available now in zebrafish, tetras, danios, sharks, and barbs. As I write this, the brand is currently marketing its “Mardi Gras collection” on its website, comprising two Moonrise Pink tetras, two Galactic Purple tetras, and two Sunburst Orange tetras, to commemorate the festive occasion.

Video captured at a Virginia Petco store

Despite opposition from groups like the Center for Food Safety, the glowing fish made their way to American store shelves with a stamp of approval from officials who claimed that the captive fish posed no threat to wildlife or the food supply. (And a study later attempted to back that up, documenting that non-GMO male fish out-competed GloFish with female mates, which would eventually lead to the disappearance of the fluorescent trait in a population–should a stray GloFish ever make his way into the natural environment, that is.)

The GloFish line, from a commercial perspective, has been a massive success. The company’s sales now comprise about 10 percent of the entire aquarium industry.

And it’s easy to see why: Many people don’t want the hassle of setting up and maintaining a saltwater aquarium just to enjoy brilliantly colored fish in their living rooms. Freshwater is (relatively) easy. Plus, more and more consumers are becoming aware of the death and destruction caused by the saltwater fish trade, which pulls over 20 million fish from the waters of places like the Philippines and Hawaii every year and results in six fish deaths per live fish sold due to dangerous and cruel capture and shipping methods. And let’s not get started on the extensive coral reef damage.

Breeding fish in a captive, contained environment seemingly circumvents most of those issues.

But I was still left wondering if, throughout these past two decades of tinkering with the genetics of these tiny beings in a lab, anyone ever stopped to consider a fundamental question: What’s in it for the fish themselves? Admittedly, apart from making them the life of a house party, the modification doesn’t seem to inflict any other known physical changes on them. They eat, swim, and live just like regular zebrafish, tetras, and barbs. The process of breeding fish from already modified fish is not inherently invasive (unlike chemically dyeing or injecting inks into fish–two common, but undoubtedly cruel, practices in the aquarium industry that lead to illness and high mortality).

Yet, clearly, fluorescence won’t provide an average tetra with an evolutionary advantage, either. (Imagine a neon orange freshwater fish trying to hide from a predator behind a few strands of seaweed or a pile of grey rocks.)

So are we left with net result of zero in our cost-benefit analysis of GloFish welfare? Not quite.

The moment that Yorktown Technologies, the original company behind the GloFish, entered the picture, this genetic manipulation in the name of science became a gimmick.

The goal: Make the look and feel of saltwater tanks more accessible. Make freshwater fish prettier, more enticing, more consumable. Like a vacuum, a new car, or a frozen burrito, these fish needed to be branded.

The aquarium industry has turned these fishes’ genetics into a commodity that it markets to us as an innovative way to spruce up our home decor. After all, like any industry, it has to churn out fresh products to keep us interested. And, so far, it’s worked: There are over 9 million fish sold by this multi-billion-dollar industry living in American homes, from an endless array of Betta fish varieties to the dainty angelfish and the goldfish brought home after a carnival game victory.

For many years, I was one of the millions of consumers lured in by the appeal of having my very own fish tank. In college, I was gifted with a tetra who looked remarkably like the “Moonrise Pink” variety of GloFish–with one major exception: He didn’t glow.

Miraculously, I loved this fish, whom I named Clapper, just the same, regardless of his slightly less lustrous hue. Clapper traveled with me from dorm room to dorm room, to my first house after graduation, and to my apartment after my relationship with my boyfriend at the time fell apart.

We shared many memories, including one that made my heart skip a beat: Midway through a thorough tank cleaning, I noticed that Clapper was missing from the jug I’d temporarily placed him in. Within a few seconds, I found him–on the floor, wedged between the washing machine and the wall. Somehow, I managed to slowly slide the machine out enough–without crushing the tiny being–and scoop him back into the water before suffocation set in.

I spent every day for months silently apologizing to him. Because I loved him.

I was diligent with his care, and Clapper remained physically healthy up until a couple of days before he passed. He met his expected lifespan of five years–and then some.

Yes, we shared many memories: memories of me crying; memories of me laughing; and, most often, memories of me leaving and coming back again, sometimes with a friend, or a new love, or a new painting.

Every day, though, Clapper stayed there, swimming in circles, silently watching me from behind his glass wall.

I didn’t know the inner toll captivity was taking on this social being for much of his life. I didn’t realize that he was lonely and isolated because tetras need schools to thrive. Or that with only a few artificial plants and rocks to enrich his environment, his life was just a slow, drawn-out death.

Today, most of us have started to question the ethics of confining magnificent mammals like dolphins and whales to the equivalent of a bathtub at marine parks for guests to gawk over. As the Animal Welfare Institute (AWI) explains, films like Blackfish have “challenged people to recognize the cruelty of keeping large, intelligent, and sentient animals in such small tanks.” However, AWI continues, fish are also “sentient—showing far more cognitive abilities than they are given credit for—and few, if any, spend their entire lives in the wild in the volume of water contained in a standard fish tank.”

Remember the fish who used a rock as a tool to crack open his meal? Or the pufferfish who builds an intricate sand sculpture to attract a mate? Fish scientist Dr. Culum Brown states that “it would be impossible for fish to survive as the cognitively and behaviorally complex animals they are without a capacity to feel pain.”  The scientific research for fish complexity and sentience abounds, and in 2018, Smithsonian Magazine (finally) declared, “It’s official: Fish feel pain.”

Gaining traction for the notion of fish as individuals worthy of ethical consideration is an uphill battle, though, especially with outfits like Amazon offering up 1-gallon aquariums (a volume infinitely too small to house any fish species long-term) accompanied by descriptions like, “Compact design fits almost anywhere – perfect for dorm, office or home.”

As my fellow animal advocates and I try to rewrite the public discourse on how we ought to think about our relationships with fish, such captions continue hammering home the message: Fish are decorations, trinkets, objects. We don’t maximize their space for their well-being; we minimize it for our convenience.

And, in the case of our genetically engineered friends: We don’t have to settle for dull fish when we can have spectacularly striking GloFish.

It’s time to embrace fish for who, not what, they are. And we can start by letting them keep their natural colors.

 Petition closed with 499 signatures.

Our Cockatoo Died Flying Cargo. Don’t Let This Happen Again.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions

He was supposed to live 70 years. Instead, as he traveled to his forever home in paradise, a series of mistakes and, ultimately, negligence killed him.

When I was about 11 years old, my family adopted an umbrella cockatoo. Instead of resembling the mighty white birds with towering head crests soaring through the forests of Indonesia, though, he was skinny, trembling, and rather naked when I first laid eyes on him.

His pale grey torso reminded me of a turkey corpse, plucked bare before Thanksgiving dinner. But he had inflicted this damage all on his own. Before my family took him in, his first guardian, who’d had him since he first hatched, gave birth to a human child, who soon consumed all her attention. The bird was often relegated to his cage, and there, languishing in boredom and isolation, he grew neurotic and angry, quite possibly jealous of the newborn stealing away all his mom’s affection.

So this bird turned on his own flesh, plucking feathers from his chest and dancing anxiously to and fro just to release some energy.

Such behavior is all too common in the captive population of parrots worldwide. Because of captive breeding and the illegal wildlife trade, tens of millions of parrots now occupy US homes and facilities–and thousands of them end up homeless every year as they become too rambunctious and under-stimulated in a caged environment or they outlive their human caretakers.

This particular cockatoo was one such bird–but, fortunately, my mom was ready and willing to jump to his rescue.

He came into our home with the name Lilah. But at the first vet visit, we learned that Lilah was indeed a he, not a she. Yet the name remained, as it was the primary tool from the English language he’d clung to for communication with our species. We couldn’t take that from him.

“Lilah?” he’d often ask in a quivering voice, as though pleading for food, affection, anything at all.

And those things, he soon learned, he would receive in abundance. At the offset, he became my cuddlebug. We were, more or less, around the same age. As an only child, I began to see him as a bit of a younger, talkative brother–like a toddler, first learning about the world and expressing his thoughts via a series of babbles and chuckles.

One evening, I approached his cage wearing a bright red tank top and reached in for some snuggle time, as I had done dozens of times before. But this time was different. This time, he rewarded me with a sharp, deep bite to my finger. Blood immediately pooled, and I wailed in response and ran away.

At that time, I was a loud, boisterous preteen with an opinion about everything. And the vivid red hue of my shirt was like a blaring “danger” sign. I’d scared him, and he reacted the only way he knew how.

But the incident scarred me enough to keep a healthy distance from him from then forward. And in my sulky teenage years, I found myself increasingly annoyed by his calls and shrieks, natural vocalizations that are used freely by flocks of wild parrots inhabiting the jungle, but are often found to be a nuisance by those attempting to confine these exuberant birds indoors.

I’ve always loved animals, but with Lilah, I could only love him from afar.

My mom, though, never wavered in her bond with him. Despite the handful of times he’d hauled off and pierced her nose with his beak upon being frightened by a man in a baseball cap or the vacuum cleaner, she adored him.

So, naturally, as my parents planned their big move to the Big Island of Hawaii in 2014, Lilah was coming with them. My mom plotted out the magnificent habitat she’d build for him in paradise, where he could soak in the sunlight, watch the flittering yellow finches, and eat exotic tropical fruits for decades to come.

But Lilah never made it there.

Hawaii has a host of complex requirements for importing animals, and birds specifically, to prevent the spread of disease–and my mom mastered them backwards and forwards.

A quarantine for 7 days at our local vet and a mountain of paperwork: check.

As my parents prepared to depart, leaving their two dogs and Lilah at the animal intake area of the airport, I bid farewell to the bird who’d once felt a little like my nemesis during my darkest periods of teenage angst, but now, cowering in his carrier, was like a fearful little child once again.

I didn’t know then that it would be our final goodbye, but it felt peaceful, like a long-awaited truce.

“I love you,” I said.

“Lilah?” he replied.

Later that night, my mom called me from California. Unfortunately, the vet had incorrectly completed the quarantine paperwork necessary for Lilah to enter Hawaii, so he had to redo his 7-day quarantine at a vet there. My parents opted to continue on to the islands with their two dogs and pay an animal transport company a hefty sum of money to handle Lilah’s trip a week later.

He would be in good hands, they were promised. He’d be given the utmost care.

A week later, I received another call.

“Laura, Lilah’s dying. He’s dying!” My mom’s blubbering voice could hardly make out the words.

He was in her lap, having just been picked up from the airport, and was listless, lethargic, barely hanging on.

“Can’t you find an emergency vet?” I begged over the phone.

But they were in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from anyone who could help. He died there, in her lap, moments later, after suffering a seizure.

To this day, my mom has trouble speaking about this tragedy. The sadness, the overwhelming guilt of putting her beloved companion in the hands of someone who was supposed to provide for his safety. I know it so well–I’ve been there myself.

But what happened was a string of errors my mom never could have anticipated or prevented, starting with the vet’s quarantine paperwork, which led to another crucial error: the animal transporter, who was paid to see Lilah directly onto his inter-island flight between Honolulu (the only port of entry for animals) and Kona on the Big Island.

Instead, to save money, she’d checked him into a cargo flight and left him there, where he sat for hours without water or food before being boarded up. Then, the transporter went dark, failing to answer my mom’s texts or calls. My parents didn’t even know his flight number. They had nothing.

Thus, when Lilah arrived in the cargo hold of the Kona airport, my parents had no idea of his whereabouts and couldn’t reach anyone who knew anything at all.

By the time my mom was finally contacted to pick him up, he’d gone over 24 hours without water–and likely without being checked on at all. That neglect, compounded by the stress of flying cargo, ultimately killed him.

And so my family was left to grieve in their paradise, Lilah’s empty cage on their front porch a forever reminder of what could have been.

Flying animals in cargo is always risky. Every year, animal companions die. In 2018, a report revealed that there had been 85 animal deaths in the last 3 years on flights in the US, with nearly half occurring on United Airlines. And just a few weeks ago, in the wake of two cats’ deaths on a Russian airline, guardians took to social media with photos of their dogs and cats to tell the airline that animals aren’t cargo–they’re passengers–in hopes of changing in-flight policy.

As for Hawaii, the state requires that all animals coming into the islands be taken immediately to the quarantine holding facility in Honolulu for inspection–but it doesn’t prescribe how these animals must enter, which is up to the individual airlines. While many of them will allow companions to fly in-cabin between islands, only a couple allow this for flights from the mainland to the state, leaving thousands of cherished companions relegated to the cargo hold. Or, even worse, they’re put onto a cargo-only airline that deals mostly with inanimate shipments, leaving actual live animals with very little to no care or oversight.

Why? Because the logistics of ensuring that animals flying in-cabin make it over to the quarantine hold facility for inspection would take time. And time is money.

It’s been over five years, but it’s time for Lilah’s story to become more than a black cloud over my family. It’s time for me to share it with the world and help other dogs, cats, and birds from suffering the same fate.

It’s time for the major airlines from the mainland U.S. to the Hawaiian Islands to apply, at a bare minimum, the same rules they use for flights within the lower 48 states–which allow small animals in carriers to stay in the cabin with their families.

And for animals who are only given the option to travel in cargo either into or between the islands, these carriers must implement rigid standards for animal companions, including constant tracking of animals’ whereabouts, hourly monitoring in holding facilities, and provision of water at regular intervals.

Please join me in calling on these airlines to protect our beloved animals who are entrusted into their care by signing my petition below.

Petition to be delivered to: Hawaiian Airlines, Alaska Airlines, American Airlines, United Airlines, Delta Airlines, and Aloha Air Cargo.

Petition count: 1,439 signatures

All She Had Was This Plastic Cage and Some Pebbles

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Companions, Petitions, Rescue, Wildlife

At the door of a Maryland townhouse, I stood in the rain as a man thrust a plastic container into my hands. I ran back to the car, dripping, and hopped in. There, we opened the lid—and we were immediately floored by a pungent odor much like that of a fishing pier. I was pretty certain that there wasn’t anyone alive in there.

But, sure enough, there was someone. Clinging tightly to the inside of the white shell in the middle of this cage was Molasses, a petrified wild Caribbean hermit crab.

We’d found her on Craigslist, being offered up for free, and immediately decided to make the 8-hour round trip to bring her home. She’d never make it without swift intervention, we knew. With summer shriveling into fall and the outdoor humidity levels plunging day by day, time wasn’t on this tropical creature’s side. Her modified gills would already be struggling desperately to breathe in the crisp Mid-Atlantic air.

Molasses had been bought earlier that summer by a family visiting a souvenir shop at the beach, but was quickly set aside when boredom crept into their children, whose curious fingers were hungry for their next interactive toy.

For Molasses, though, there was no relief from the boredom in that plastic prison—the isolation, the gloom. There were no branches, no hideaways, no sandy beaches. Nothing for her to do but sit, curled up inside her shell, and rot.

When we first took her in, Molasses was so weak that she could hardly lift up her shell to walk around. We immediately moved her into a much larger tank, filled with stimulating objects, proper food, sea water, high humidity, and warmth—the closest possible habitat we could provide to her natural home, the tropical seashore.

Her rescue was bittersweet. We saw her come out of her shell, figuratively and literally, and begin to explore her surroundings. Her strength grew. Her antennae perked up. But we knew she’d never see the waves on the beach again, or feel the wind blowing through her shell, because, once captured, hermit crabs can never be set free again. Their odds of survival when being stranded on an unfamiliar beach, much like our own, are quite low. So we were simply resigned to do our best.

She was one of five hermit crabs my wife and I rescued between 2011 and 2013, a hodgepodge of characters, all female, who surely had their disagreements and growing pains—marked by rounds of intense clicking—but eventually meshed together like the Brady Bunch. Molasses, or Mo, was the largest of the gang, and she didn’t have any trouble striding in and staking out her own space alongside Stevia, Splenda, Truvia, and Agave.

Hermit crabs like Molasses are complex wild animals who can live for over 30 years in their natural habitat, the tropical seashore. These social beings thrive in large colonies and often sleep piled up together. They enjoy climbing, foraging, and exploring and even work in teams to find food. Once a troupe of hermit crabs was observed stacked on top of one another to orchestrate a heist from a bag of dog food. Those on top were responsible for nabbing the goods and sending them down the line. These clever, sensitive animals will also rub and nurse their wounds when they’re injured—evidence that they, in fact, feel pain like we do.

And hermit crabs have unique personalities, just like Fido. Molasses, the bold adventurer, seemed to calculate each move. She was deliberate, on a mission. Agave, on the other hand, was reserved, cautious, a follower. They complemented one another like yin and yang.

Every single land hermit crab sold in souvenir shops—hundreds of thousands every year—has been caught from the wild, as these animals do not breed readily in captivity. And investigative footage has revealed that to the souvenir industry, hermit crabs are nothing more than disposable trinkets. A shocking investigation of one hermit crab supplier in Florida, for example, recently revealed what happens to many hermit crabs after being ripped from the seashore, before they reach store shelves: They are confined in filthy, crowded warehouses by the thousands and tossed in bags with hundreds of others to be shipped to retailers. Hermit crabs depend on their natural shells for protection, yet in another video, these delicate animals are shown being forcibly shoved into painted shells to be sold to tourists.

Once at the boardwalk, hermit crabs are sold to tourists in tiny, barren cages with some pebbles and maybe a plastic palm tree, if they’re lucky. Deprived of everything natural to them, they are destined to die in mere months. They often spend their short captive lives slowly perishing from suffocation because their modified gills require high humidity to breathe. These crabs also need deep substrate to molt and grow; without it, their bodies will halt the molting process until their death.

If their miserable captive environment doesn’t do them in, their own shells—their basic means of protection—can very well kill them in captivity. Many hermit crabs are slowly poisoned by the toxic paint adorning their shells. They don’t care if they’re pink or purple, but they pay with their lives because we do.

Molasses, Stevia, Agave, Splenda, and Truvia should have lived to be my age: 30 years old. But they didn’t make it more than a fraction of that time. Despite our best efforts, our tank suddenly collapsed in late 2014 for no explicable reason, leaving no survivors—but leaving us behind, absolutely devastated.

I wanted to, but I didn’t falter through my despair. Instead, I decided to turn their plight into a movement: The Plight of the Hermies. Over the last four years, through this project, my community and I have made some incredible strides: Over 50,000 people have signed our petition to get beach chain Sunsations to stop selling hermit crabs. We saw the end of the Mid-Atlantic Hermit Crab Challenge, a terrifying annual “race” marked by crowds and blasting music in Virginia Beach. We’ve gotten media coverage in The Virginian-Pilot and Lady Freethinker and an op-ed in One Green Planet. We helped PETA release the first undercover investigation of this cruel industry, opening millions of eyes.

We’ve shown countless people around the world that crustaceans are sentient, intelligent animals—not souvenirs.

So onward I march, for them. And I will continue to fight for their freedom, year after year, in memory of Molasses and of countless others like her, so that someday their descendants can be left in peace at the seashore instead of the store shelf.

Visit PlightoftheHermies.org to get involved in this important work for hermit crabs everywhere.

This Slaughterhouse Kills a Pig Every 5 Seconds. Soon, Many More Could Follow Suit.

by Laura Lee Cascada, posted in Farmed Animals, Investigations, Petitions

Photos courtesy of Compassion Over Killing

His name is Scott David. But in 2015, when millions laid eyes on the footage he collected inside Quality Pork Processors (QPP), one of the fastest pig-killing facilities in the country, he was known to the public only as “Jay,” an anonymous undercover investigator for Compassion Over Killing (COK).

QPP is a pilot plant for the United States Department of Agriculture’s (USDA) proposed New Swine Slaughter Inspection System, which essentially allows plants to kill pigs as fast as they want and replaces government inspectors on the kill line with employees of plants themselves–who have a vested interest in keeping the line running as fast as possible in the name of profit.

If the USDA has its way, this program will be rolled out nationwide–and we only have until May 2 to stop that from happening.

Inside QPP, Scott had a name. But they–the pigs–didn’t. And the suffering he saw is haunting: Workers, rushing to keep up with the fast pace, often dragged, prodded, and hit the terrified animals. Many weren’t stunned properly–and Scott even saw pigs regain consciousness after having their throats cut open. Yet they still moved down the slaughter line–without it ever stopping.

QPP’s Animal Welfare Supervisor even acknowledged that these pigs sometimes regained consciousness after stunning: “You want to stick them as soon as possible, otherwise they have the risk of returning …. Sometimes they come back, like zombies.”

Not much seems to have changed at QPP since Scott’s investigation. According to 2017 USDA records, this same high-speed slaughter plant was found to repeatedly be forcing pigs to move faster than normal walking speeds. The records note that the plant had even received multiple warnings about this issue during weekly management meetings.

And late last year, a Clemens Food Group slaughterhouse in Coldwater, Michigan, was quietly granted a waiver by the USDA to become the newest plant operating under this program–without the opportunity for public comment. Industry publications projected that the plant could kill 1,500 pigs every hour, but government records reveal that not even two weeks after the plant increased its line speeds, it lost “process control” and had to slow down.

Opposition to the program has even come from within the USDA itself. According to a USDA inspector who worked inside one of these plants: “On numerous occasions, I witnessed [plant employees] fail to spot abscesses, lesions, fecal matter, and other defects that would render an animal unsafe or unwholesome.” The inspector further explained that without incentive, these plant workers “don’t actually want to shut off the line to deal with problems they spot on the job. … Obviously their employer will terminate them if they do it too many times.”

And a 2013 report by the USDA’s own Office of the Inspector General stated that these “plants may have a higher potential for food safety risks,” and concluded that the “program has shown no measurable improvement to the inspection process.

After watching Scott’s footage, the USDA’s Office of Investigation, Enforcement, and Audit concluded that “evidence collected illustrated that the establishment was not in compliance with the regulations,” and stated that if the agency’s inspectors had witnessed these actions, “they would have resulted in immediate regulatory action against the plant.”

The government’s own words reinforce the need for increased government oversight of slaughter plants instead of important duties being shifted to these plants’ employees.

In 2016, 60 members of Congress wrote to the USDA, stating that the agency “has not demonstrated that its hog slaughter pilot program actually reduces contamination, and therefore illness, rates. To the contrary, the available evidence suggests the [pilot program] will undermine food safety.” 

Unfortunately, even workers are not immune to suffering in this high-speed hell. The congressional letter also highlighted a Human Rights Watch report that cited high line speeds as the greatest contributor to worker injuries in slaughter plants, already widely recognized as one of the most dangerous workplaces in America.

In a recent piece in The Guardian, Scott David appealed to the USDA: “Halting the expansion of the dangerous pilot program and bringing it to an immediate end is the only conscientious and compassionate choice for the USDA, a federal agency that has the opportunity, and the responsibility, to put animals, consumers, and workers above powerful pork industry interests.”

And this week, Scott visited the USDA in person to deliver the more than a quarter million signatures that his petition has collected against this program.

We only have one week left to stop this nationwide threat to millions of American consumers, pigs, and workers. But you can help drive home the message to the USDA that a slaughter rate of more than one pig every 5 seconds is simply dangerous and inhumane: Submit your comment by May 2!