by Paul Kmiotek
4
April Showers
I
Donald was perplexed by what he was seeing. His first thought, looking through the leafless trees in the gray early morning light, was that the prairie dog exhibit was covered in foam. He was still several yards from rounding the bend and having an unobstructed view of the exhibit. Now it seemed to him as though an army of giant caterpillars had encased the exhibit and the surrounding trees and shrubbery in a massive silk cocoon. He turned the corner and what he saw before him was only slightly less improbable than his initial impressions. He unclipped his radio from his belt.
“Keeper Donald to animal supervisor.” Ron put down his fork. He was working on his second meal of the day – scrambled eggs, sausage, and home fries, all suspended in a Styrofoam take-out container filled with slowly congealing grease. His first meal of the day, consumed just fifteen minutes prior, was virtually identical. He wiped the grease from his chin with his sleeve and picked up his radio.
“Go ahead,” he said, suppressing a belch.
“Um. . . go to three?” As a rule, the animal department radios were kept on channel five. If the caller wanted to conduct a semi-private conversation, they would ask the callee to switch to channel three. At that moment, throughout the zoo, dozens of radios were being switched to channel three, as was Ron’s.
“What’s up?”
“Can you come to prairie dog? You need to see this.”
“Why? What’s goin’ on?”
“Um . . . I’m not sure I can describe this. At least not over the radio. You really need to come over.”
“Awright.” The rotund manager sighed, “I’ll be right there.” His heroic effort to heft his XXXL frame from his desk chair was aided considerably by a massive blast of flatulence, which acted like a miniature rocket booster strapped to his ass.
He joined Donald several minutes later, closely trailed by his faithful companions, Boris and Bela. He was breathing much more heavily than the short walk warranted, and immediately collapsed onto a nearby bench. His feathered friends hopped up onto the seat of the bench and then onto the back, one perched behind each of Ron’s shoulders.
“It’s . . . huh . . . almost . . . huh . . . biblical,” he wheezed, stunned by the sight.
They sat, the four of them, together in silence, side-by-side, taking in the scene for several minutes before Ron said, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later he returned with a camera. If Donald hadn’t already comprehended the significance of what he saw, he certainly did now. Just the fact that Ron, normally strongly averse to movement of any kind, had made the effort to get a camera, confirmed that this was an event of enormous magnitude.
II
Muffy was bothered. The wedding was only a month away and they still hadn’t heard from most of Antonio’s side. If they didn’t respond soon, she wouldn’t have time to invite more of her friends. Yesterday another package arrived from the Dominican Republic. It was a sculpture of the Last Supper skillfully carved from a coconut by a talented island craftsman. That was the third one so far. She threw it in a box with seven 11” tall crucifixes for over the bed, also carved by talented island craftsmen, which they had also received from Antonio’s relatives. None of these beautiful, thoughtful gifts would ever again see the light of day. Why didn’t they just send the five dollars? At least they could use that to decorate the house that daddy had bought for them.
She continued to spread the wild flower seed, which she’d just gotten from Mike, around the exhibit. She hoped he hadn’t inadvertently given her the wrong seed. It sure would be embarrassing if, a week from now, little cannabis plants started to sprout from the ground. She smiled at her little joke and started to gather the gardening implements she’d been using.
III
“So, whattaya wanna do about the prairie dogs?” Donald asked Ron. They were standing in front of the exhibit looking at the most breathtakingly beautiful scene of mass carnage that either of them had ever seen. Several attendants were milling around, chattering cheerfully in Spanish, laughing, and taking turns photographing each other in front of the horrible sight.
“Go get an ice chopper. See if you can chip them from the ground.”
If Waterford had ever contemplated creating miniature crystal sculptures of zoo exhibits, the prairie dog version would probably very closely resemble the image before them. To say that the exhibit was covered in ice would be an understatement. Every branch of every tree and shrub, in and surrounding the exhibit, was encrusted with the frozen liquid. Several of the neighboring trees had fallen into the enclosure, due to the added weight. Icicles hung from the graphics, the rockwork, and the bench and garbage can in the public area. The viewing glass was completely frosted over, adding to the magical quality of the scene within. And in the center of the exhibit were eight prairie dogs. They stood, sat, and reclined, literally frozen in space for at least the last seven or eight hours, entombed in the lovely, crystal clear casing, like something from a ghastly version of Disney on Ice.
The zoo had weathered plenty of ice storms before. There had been one just a couple of months previous. What made this one special was its utter and complete localization. Only the exhibit and adjacent viewing area were covered. Thirty feet in any direction, from the center of the mound, was just as ice-free as it had been the day before.
IV
Muffy hummed mindlessly as she carefully composed the note to her weekend relief. She was sitting at the crooked, rusty metal desk in the Elk Building. Behind her were the rows of cages where the coyotes spent their nights. In front of her was a wall a shade of green which had not been seen on the planet since Linda Blair showered a Jesuit Priest in it in 1971. It was covered with pictures cut from old calendars. They showed cute and fuzzy baby animals doing all sorts of cute and fuzzy things. Apparently they were there to constantly remind her that animals outside of the institution did more than just eat, sleep, and shit.
It is imperative (she underlined the word for emphasis) that the prairie dog exhibit be watered every night. Failure to do so will be reported to the supervisor.
Muffy was pleased by the authoritative tone of the note.
She was still pondering her impending wedding to Antonio. Last night he had told her that he thought it might be nice for his relatives if they performed parts of the ceremony in whatever language it was that they spoke down there. What the fuck was he thinking? The ceremony was being held in Connecticut the U.S.A., not some backward little shit-hole island, and they spoke American in Connecticut. She was just going to have to put her foot down. She was marrying him, not his whole goddamn tribe. She left the elk building for the prairie dog exhibit to turn the water sprinklers on before she left for the weekend.
V
“Didn’t Muffy know it was going down to 28 degrees last night?” Donald was still awestruck by the sight.
“Isn’t it your job to post the weather every day?” Ron answered Donald’s query with one of his own.
“Uh . . . yeah . . . I guess.”
“I just looked. It says ‘sunny – mid-nineties.’ It hasn’t hit the nineties in at least six months.”
“I got too much work to do. I don’t have time to do everything. I can’t . . .”
“Shut-up. We’ll finish this later.”
Three weeks later, Donald was sitting in the lounge when he noticed a new memo on the bulletin board. It read:
To: All staff
Re: Zoo beautification
The Director, the Curator, and I would like to congratulate Muffy Chambers for her efforts to enhance the quality of our zoo. Thanks to her tireless work, the prairie dog exhibit is now among the most beautiful sights in the park. I’m sure the animal staff joins us in saying ‘Kudos, Muffy, keep up the good work’.
It was signed at the bottom by Ron.
“You shoulda seen it three weeks ago,” Do
nald muttered to himself. He threw another wad of nicotine gum into his frowning mouth and went to his “thinking log” for a smoke.
End of Book One
About the Author
Paul is a former zookeeper. He lives in Upstate New York with his wife and two children. He’s won numerous awards for his artwork but has never won a thing for his writing. He can’t decide whether Matt Damon or Kevin James should play Donald in the movie version of the book. Actually Kevin James might be better as Dexter.
If you liked this book, odds are you’ll also enjoy these other books available for purchase (very reasonably priced), by the author:
Gathering of Imbeciles, Book Two
Gathering of Imbeciles, Book Three