They call it the “green monster.” From camels to elephants to horses, dead animals from around the state find their way to College Park’s diagnostic laboratory – and, more importantly, its incinerator.
Whether they’re passed-away pets or leftovers from the Humane Society, old roamers of buffalo farms or former inhabitants of the National Zoo, self-proclaimed “incinerator master” Dr. Allen Ingling has seen – and burned – them all.
Dead animals are brought to the Animal Health Diagnostic Laboratory in the veterinary center on the campus, where a staff of veterinarians determine how they died and then destroy their bodies. The incinerator has been a part of the campus for 20 years and handles approximately half a dozen animals a week, Ingling said.
In the depths of the laboratory’s basement, the green incinerator towers over a floor strewn with ashes, rakes and welding tools. Old, rusted horsehoes sit along one wall, the only remnants of horses long gone.
After working in the campus veterinary center for 30 years, Ingling came out of retirement to work with the incinerator and diagnostic lab, where he has been for the past three years. His reasons for working with the machine aren’t morbid, however – he only wanted to learn how to make the machine more cost-effective, an initiative he is constantly working on.
Ingling also oversees the three other diagnostic labs in the state, including those in Frederick, Salisbury and Centreville. In fact, he is the go-to guy the other branches call when they run into problems with their incinerators, and it is Ingling who does the dirty job of not only dissecting the animals but also getting rid of the bodies.
“You would think it would be kind of gross cutting up dead animals all the time,” Ingling said. “You learn a lot about it, once you get past the blood and guts – and the smell.”
The hulking incinerator burns at a temperature of 1500 degrees, with an energy cost of $60 an hour. The machine can consume several animals at once, such as up to two full-grown horses.
Before the animals can burn, however, doctors must first perform a necropsy, or an animal autopsy. Once the autopsy is completed, the formerly furry creatures are loaded into the incinerator and dropped 20 feet into a fiery abyss. After about 6 hours, what is left of a 1,000 pound horse is a powdery pile of ashes and bones.
Wearing a welding suit and mask, Ingling then climbs into the machine after it has cooled below 300 degrees to collect the animal’s remnants, which will then be ground into indistinguishable bits.
Though the center usually receives farm animals, dogs and cats often pour in from owners seeking a cheaper alternative to private cremation companies, in addition to the leftovers from the Humane Society. The diagnostic laboratory even gets carcasses from llama and buffalo farms in the state, and about once a month, the incinerator consumes a rare, exotic treat when the National Zoo in Washington sends the bodies of dead zoo animals.
Most dog, cat and horse owners want to remember their pets, so Ingling packages the ashes and gives them to the grieving. But other animals, such as cows or any other livestock, are sent to their final resting place: the landfill.
Many who work at the center won’t even enter the incinerator, and Ingling understands why.
“The first time I crawled in there, it felt really creepy,” Ingling said. “I kept worrying someone was going to shut the door and turn the thing on.”
Last year, an elephant that died at the zoo was sent over in pieces, after its teeth and tusks were removed. What was left was not light, though, with the biggest chunk weighing 150 pounds.
“The elephant actually burned faster and better than anything else,” Ingling said. “It could be because the zoo already took the guts out of it. It was basically all dry meat and bones. It burned real good.”
Kathy Nepote came to the diagnostic laboratory in July, after working as a campus veterinarian for 25 years. Figuring out why the animals died is a big, yet enjoyable, challenge, she said.
“Every time I do a necropsy, I learn something,” Nepote said. “It’s like trying to solve a puzzle.”
For Nepote, the hardest part of her job is not delving into the intestines of horses or cows but trying to comfort those who have lost a beloved pet.
“You want to be kind to pet owners,” Nepote said. “Those are their babies. You want to be careful that you don’t say the wrong thing. Having animal guts fall on you, that’s not a problem. That’s part of the job, having things stink and having maggots all over them. It’s all stuff you get used to. Talking to people is hard because you want to say the right thing.”
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