This an axolotl:
They are a type of salamander that grows into adulthood without ever leaving the larval stage, this type of development is called neoteny, and because of this axolotls have gills instead of lungs. When they're pets you keep them in tanks filled with rather cold water.
I was at OMSI (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) volunteering in the life science lab and feeding the axolotls their lunch of earthworms, which I didn't find appetizing but the axolotls were enjoying them.
Except for one axolotl. Lets call him Bob.
Bob snatched his earthworm and gulped it down whole, like a proper axolotl. A little family was watching me and their daughter asked me:
"Do they chew the worms when they eat them?"
"I'm not sure," I replied, when Bob dramatically answered her question. The worm he had so recently swallowed was bravely making an escape through one of his gills and was trailing behind him like a fleshy windsock.
If you have ever snorted milk or soda or an invertebrate through your nose then you can empathize with Bob's discomfort. He began thrashing and rolling in the water (the axolotl equivalent of hacking and spluttering I'm guessing) and furiously clawing at his gills. I was going to let him deal with it but then I was bombarded by the two little girls watching me:
"Oh wow! Poor axolotl! Is he hurting? What happened to his worm? How is he going to eat it? What if he chokes? What if it kills him? How are you going to get it out?" Their queries alternated between alarm and eagerness. They were feeling sympathy towards Bob but they were obviously thrilled that they were going to witness my axolotl Heimlich maneuver, or perhaps some variation thereof. Obviously I had extensive training in axolotl rescue maneuvers or I wouldn't be wearing the red vest and sticking my hand in the tank now would I?
I turned back to Bob and his now stoic suffering and my only idea was to reach in and pull the worm out of his gill. Bob wasn't thrilled about the giant hand descending on him trying to grab his worm. And the still-living (they're impossible to kill) earthworm wasn't eager to be yanked out of anything. My two helpers in the back were undaunted by my lack of success and appropriately cheered and groaned whenever my hand touched and missed the worm.
I finally decided that maybe I should grab Bob and then pull out the still-firmly lodged worm. But Bob's answer to this tactic was to hide under a rock. This confirmed my original hypothesis that he didn't want or need my assistance. I decided to leave him alone. I clearly wasn't helping and surely there was some animal instinct for when you have food lodged in an orifice? I wasn't too worried. I pulled my hand out and, turning to reassure my cheerleaders, was confronted with about 15 people who had been witnessing this little drama. All very intrigued in my pathetic attempts at catching the salamander.
I had planned on saying something like "dang it he's hiding under the rock, I'll just try later," but the expectant crowd obviously wanted a more conclusive ending to the show. Maybe they thought it was some type of demonstration? Something like:
2:00, Rat Mazes
2:15, Snake Feeding
2:30, Catching a Slimy Axolotl and Pulling an Equally Slimy Earthworm Out of Its Gill While Hand is Immersed in Numbingly Cold Water
At any rate, I needed to sound scientific, or at the very least like I knew what I was doing and had developed some stratagem while flailing around in the tank. (In actuality I had been wondering how much of the worm was lodged in Bob's throat and if the worm was at all conscious of being partially digested, yet almost free. But these thoughts didn't seem appropriate for the mixed crowd before me. Besides, I hadn't been planning on discussing the emotional well-being of earthworms so I just bypassed the whole subject.)
I smiled at the crowd, "Well he still has the worm in there but the best course of action is really to just let him work this out on his own."
If that's true why was my hand numb and dripping? I can only assume it was peer pressure. I resisted my first impulse, wiping my hand on my vest, in order to appear professional. Most of the adults must have realized I was NOT an expert in axolotl first-aid procedures, but some of the kids obviously regarded me as a true biologist so I tried to fit the role. I continued to nod sagely while trying to think of some fact about axolotls that would cement my authority on the subject. Sadly nothing came to mind.
"Will the axolotl be OK?" My helpers asked.
"Oh he'll be fine. Animals are usually best left to their own devices anyway." I fake-chuckled and all the adults chuckled knowingly with me. After all, they knew about animals, they were adults. The kids all nodded seriously and informed each other that animals are best left to their own devices and assured their parents that the axolotl would be fine.
I picked up my worm dish and strode confidently through the crowd to the back office. I was a biologist after all. I calmly encountered animal conundrums on a daily basis. Or at least that was the aura I was trying to create.
Bob did eventually get the worm worked out. I know this because I checked on him about 20 times. Despite the fact that I KNOW animals really are capable of solving their own problems, and I really do think hands-off is the best policy, I was panicked that I would find Bob floating like a dead goldfish at the top of the tank, asphyxiated by my lack of care and his own freedom-loving, over-zealous lunch.
