Wildlife Carers Are First Responders Too—So Where’s Our Support?
The Emotional Toll
Wildlife carers don’t just rescue. They grieve. They hold dying animals in their arms. They make impossible decisions. They pay out of pocket for vet bills, formula, fuel, and fencing. They do it because no one else will. And they do it without government support.
When a kangaroo is hit on the highway, it’s not the police or ambulance who arrive first. It’s a wildlife carer.
When a joey is found clinging to its dead mother, it’s not SES or fire services who cradle it. It’s a wildlife carer.
We are the first responders to trauma that no one else sees. We work in isolation, without sirens or uniforms, but we face the same emotional toll—grief, helplessness, burnout. And unlike other emergency services, we do it without formal recognition, without trauma support, and without funding.
In WA, emergency services receive hundreds of millions annually through the Emergency Services Levy. This funds:
Trauma counselling and psychological services
PTSD recovery programs
Peer support and mental health initiatives
These are vital investments. But they highlight a glaring omission: wildlife carers are emergency responders too, and we deserve the same care.
There is no dedicated funding for counselling, debriefing, or mental health support for wildlife responders. No hotline. No peer support network funded by government. And yet, we witness death daily. We make life-and-death decisions. We carry the weight of cruelty, neglect, and systemic failure.
Bushfires: We Are There First
When bushfires rip through the landscape, wildlife doesn’t run to safety—it burns, hides, suffers. And when the flames die down, it’s wildlife carers who walk into the ash.
We are there—before the media, before the recovery teams. We are the ones who find kangaroos with scorched feet, possums with blistered eyes, birds too weak to fly. We comfort. We give pain relief. We euthanise when there is no hope.
But where is our training to work alongside rangers in real time? Where is our access to emergency zones before suffering stretches into days? Where is our trauma support after holding a joey whose skin has melted from its body?
We are not just responders. We are witnesses. And we carry those images forever.
Floods: We Drag the Dead from the Water
In floods, wildlife doesn’t get rescued. It drowns. It washes up. It decays.
We drag sodden, broken bodies from floodwaters—joeys tangled in fencing, wombats bloated from days underwater, birds limp in the reeds. We search for survivors in the muck, knowing most won’t make it. We do it because no one else will.
But where is our training in disaster response? Where is our PPE, our debriefing, our mental health care? Where is the recognition that this is trauma work—not just rescue?
We are soaked in grief. And we are expected to carry on.
PTSD Is Not Just for Uniformed Services
Wildlife carers suffer PTSD. We have flashbacks. We cry in silence. We burn out. We leave the work we love because the cost becomes too high.
And yet, we are not counted. We are not funded. We are not supported.
If police, paramedics, firefighters, and SES volunteers receive trauma care—and they should—then so should we.
We are first responders. We are trauma workers. We are carers. And we are tired of being invisible.
What We’re Asking For
Formal recognition of wildlife carers as emergency responders
Access to funded counselling, debriefing, and PTSD support
Training and inclusion in disaster response frameworks
Emergency access protocols for carers during bushfires and floods
Peer support networks and mental health initiatives
We don’t need medals. We need care. We need to be seen. And we need to be supported—because the animals aren’t the only ones who suffer.
This joey, affectionately named Bernie, was rescued during the devastating Stirling Ranges bushfires in 2019. (Supplied: Ryan Pollock) If wildlife carers had been granted early access to the fire zone, Bernie’s suffering might have been eased sooner. He was found with severe burns to his feet—alone, in pain, and clinging to life. Thankfully, a dedicated carer nursed him through the trauma, offering comfort, treatment, and hope. Bernie has since been released back into the wild. His survival is a testament to what’s possible when compassion meets courage—but it should never have come so late.