A Day at the Zoo
Mary C. Moore
Copyright 2011 by Mary C. Moore
Smashwords Edition
Welcome to the zoo. Welcome to the place where urban turns wild, where every day becomes exotic, where man meets beast. Here, amongst the cheap popcorn and chattering of pudgy squirrels, you could be lucky enough to see a snow leopard—one of five thousand left in the world—or a hippopotamus (and live to tell the tale). Come forward, bring your strollers, your cameras, your expectations, and keep your eyes open. You might see the elusive dik dik—an antelope the size of a large rabbit—or you may catch a glimpse of the rare cassowary—a six foot tall bird with red eyes and deadly talons. Listen for the screams of the red-ruffed lemurs, the roars of the lions, the screeches of the green-winged macaws, and the hoots of the black howler monkeys.
And please, please do not be disappointed if you do not spy the spotted ocelot cat blending in with the leafy branches or the hairy warthog hiding behind the rockwork. If you do not see these animals, I beg you, no I implore you, do not take it out on the uniformed person you see walking behind the exhibit. I know you believe we—the uniformed zookeepers—have a secret power over our wards and that we know everything there is to know about animals. I know, I know, we zookeepers are the privileged in khaki that walk purposefully throughout the zoo arena, fascinating in our every movement. We are the gatekeepers of the wild. We must have the answers.
“Where are you going?”
“What are you holding?”
“Look, honey, someone’s going to get fed.”
“Follow that person in the uniform.”
But please believe us, our uniform only gives the illusion we are omniscient about the wild and wary world of the creatures we care for. We can answer most questions about an animal’s habitat, diet, or behavior. But we don’t know everything. Each species, no each animal is a unique and strange individual. They do things we do not expect and do not understand. Yet for some reason you always ask us, and expect answers to everything.
Trust me, I know.
Barely out of college, I donned the khaki of the zookeeper. I became the uniform and instantly found I was a supposed expert in a field that is too broad to have expertise in. It didn’t matter how wild the question was, my uniform stated that I had the answer. As I strode through the paths weaving through baboons and tigers and zebras, I was followed by a chorus of voices.
“Do elephants really mourn death?”
“Will the gay penguins stay together for life?”
“Can a giraffe throw up?”
“Will a gorilla adopt a human child?”
“Do you play with the tigers?”
“How long does it take a kangaroo to punch a guy’s lights out?”
If you ever find out the answers to these questions, please, tell me, I would love to know. Sometimes, however, we get caught by a question that sounds crazy, but is actually valid. Let me tell you about my first week working at the zoo. I was taking care of the Chilean Flamingos.
The Chilean Flamingo exhibit is a large open brackish pond next to the zoo restaurant’s plastic outdoor tables. Perfectly at ease with the public, the elongated birds spend hours standing on one leg, head tucked under wing, within an arm’s reach of the cold cement fence. They willfully ignore the public’s presence—kids throwing goldfish crackers, parents yelling at the thieving gulls (who will yank the hotdog right out of your hands), and teenagers giggling and chattering. The birds are oblivious and at peace, they stand there in the center of the ruckus, unmoving, undisturbed.
That is, until a uniform approaches. Upon sensing the person with a shirt of scratchy khaki; feet encased in heavy rubber; and a belt weighted by keys, a two-way radio, and a multipurpose knife, the flamingos promptly begin moving around, mingling and diffusing in a scattered pattern. This is particularly annoying because we zookeepers need to keep track of the flamingos, which includes counting how many there are. Have you ever tried to count a crowd of moving targets? Let me tell you, it is not easy.