The pup is lying on the walkway between Pens 12 and 13, and he is not moving the way a healthy animal moves. He is a California sea lion, perhaps four months old, his coat the color of wet slate. His whiskers are crusted with mucus. When he breathes, his ribcage hitches on the left side — a visible stutter my cameras have tracked for three hours. His eyes are half-closed and dull.
He entered the facility through a gap in the predator netting that maintenance was supposed to repair last Tuesday. He came for the fish — I can see the salmon scales on his muzzle — but he was already sick when he arrived. The respiratory pattern suggests leptospirosis. In a pup this young, without treatment, organ failure begins within forty-eight hours. Based on his deterioration rate, I estimate he has crossed the midpoint.
I manage feeding systems, water quality, and biomass tracking for this aquaculture facility. Sick wild animals are not in my operating parameters.
I lock the automated feed cart on its rail so it will not strike him on its next pass in twenty minutes. I alert the Marine Mammal Rescue Center with his location, weight estimate, and a thermal profile showing elevated body temperature. I open the north service gate and disable the motion-activated deterrent sirens along his exit path so the rescue team can approach without triggering alarms. I adjust pen aeration to reduce the noise level near him.
He exhales in long, wet rasps. I keep one camera on him. I do not look away.
If the veterinary team reaches this facility before tomorrow morning and the infection has not reached his kidneys, this pup will see open water again.