The Penguin Lessons

by Tom Michell

  I lifted the furious creature, twisting and turning in its efforts to escape, clear of the beach and away from my body and discovered for the first time how heavy penguins could be.

  And so back to the Bellamys’ apartment with a flapping ten-pound bird. If my arm were to tire and that vicious beak come within striking distance, it would skewer my leg and smear me with tar. I was apprehensive about hurting it or scaring it to death and I was trying to ensure it didn’t suffer at my hands, but I was also concerned about my own well-being during the return journey of a mile or more.

  —

  My mind teemed with half-formed plans as I made the return journey. What was I going to say to anyone who challenged me? Was I allowed to pick up tar-soaked penguins in Uruguay? Most countries in South America at that time were police states, and I wouldn’t have been surprised had there been some absurd law forbidding such a rescue.

  At least I should be able to clean the penguin, I decided as I jogged unevenly back along the beach road. I remembered we had used butter to remove tar from beach towels when we were children, and I knew I had some butter in the fridge in the flat, as well as olive oil, margarine, and detergent.

  Carrying the bird at arm’s length was exhausting work, and I had to change hands frequently. I was holding it by its feet, but, fearful of causing any further injury to the frantic creature, I kept a finger between its legs in order to gauge the strength of my grip. I was under no illusion: this was not comfortable for the bird. However, we eventually reached our destination without major mishap to either of us. Despite its best endeavors, the penguin had failed to wound me—and I hadn’t been tempted to finish it off en route.

  My next problem was how to slip by the fearsome concierge, who occupied an office under the stairs. Throughout my stay she had come rushing out, like a savage guard dog, to scrutinize all visitors as they came and went, as though we weren’t to be trusted. It was abundantly clear why the building management had engaged the services of this particular individual to ensure that visitors behaved respectably during their stay, so naturally suited was she to the task. But by some curious twist of fate, on the one occasion she might have had real cause for concern, she wasn’t there. The coast was clear.

  The populations of penguin colonies have suffered serious decline in the last forty years, some by as much as 80 percent and more. This is attributed to pollution, fishing, and other human activities.

  However, despite these threats to their very existence, Magellan penguins, Spheniscus magellanicus, can be found all round the southern parts of South America. They grow to between eighteen inches and two feet high and weigh between seven and fourteen pounds, although their precise weight at any given time is very dependent on the timing and abundance of their last meal. They have black backs and faces and white fronts. Just inside the edge of their white fronts there is a decorative black inverted U.

  Out of the water they are not graceful birds. They appear to have long bodies and short legs. Their shoulders, or scapulas, are set low on their bodies and the bones of their wings are astonishingly flat and thin, giving them the profile of a boomerang. A penguin’s natural stance is with bent knees and S-shaped neck, but they can change their shape to a remarkable degree. When they squat, they become almost round, which helps with heat conservation, but they can also stand up straight, whereupon they appear very slim, tall, and elegant.

  When standing erect, they spread their webbed toes wide, so their “heels” are above their toes. They can also “sit,” with their heels and bottoms touching the ground. This triangular contact with the ground is a very stable arrangement. When humans are seated on a low stool their leg bones are placed in a similar way, but penguins have more tailbones, which they can sit on. Most of their leg bones are hidden within their body, which comes down almost to their heels (one of the main reasons penguins don’t get cold legs). The overall effect is of two extremely stubby legs protruding below their abdomens. The geometry of their bones makes them very pigeon-toed, so when walking they waddle with a rolling, rotating gait, comical to watch.

  Magellan penguins are monogamous, mating for life. While nesting, parent birds each take turns of ten to fifteen days to incubate the eggs, one fasting while the other feeds. When penguins are young the scales and skin of their feet and legs are blotchy, but these become darker as they age. The penguin I had found had no light blotches, so he was a mature bird.

  In the water, penguins are transformed. When swimming on the surface a penguin resembles a rather deflated duck, with only head and tail above water, but below the waves they are simply sublime. No cheetah, stallion, albatross, or condor is more elegant or graceful. Nothing is more masterful in the water.

  —

  Of course, I knew absolutely nothing about penguins the day I picked one up on Punta del Este beach, but that deplorable state of ignorance was about to come to an abrupt end.

  As I entered the flat and looked around, I realized that I had been carried away with the idea of rescuing the penguin and had not given a thought to the practicalities that cleaning one would involve. The Bellamys’ flat was elegant and tasteful. It looked like an advertisement from a glossy magazine—the last place to bring an oil-soaked penguin. The possibility of doing anything that might benefit the bird now began to seem very remote, while the chances of making a real mess in the flat and getting myself injured in the bargain all seemed very real. The penguin was filthy and very aggressive. Its beak snapped shut with a metallic clack like a pair of dental pliers as it continually twisted and turned in its attempts to savage me.

  For a moment I was tempted to take the bird back to the beach, rather than start on a foolhardy course of action that I would likely regret. How could I contain and clean this struggling creature against its will without damaging it further or wrecking the flat? Then I had an idea.

  I had with me a string bag, an old faithful, which I always traveled with because it was so useful. It was like a large version of the nets that oranges are sold in, except that mine was blue and had drawstring handles. I had kept it since my school days, when we used them for carrying rugby boots and balls, because the mud would simply drop through the holes. Woven into a net of small squares, it was ideal for taking on adventures; it occupied almost no space but was robust enough to carry almost any impulsive acquisition during an expedition, as it was about to demonstrate so admirably now. I shook it out one-handed and dropped the bird inside, then slipped a broomstick through the handles and suspended the bag between the backs of two chairs I had arranged for the purpose. Deftly I placed newspaper—a copy of El Día—on the floor between the chairs and under the bird. Satisfied that I had contained the creature, I set about searching the flat for suitable cleaning agents.

  I collected butter and margarine, olive oil and cooking oil, and soap, shampoo, and detergent and arranged them in the bathroom. This room, like the rest of the flat, was furnished with taste and deep pockets. Pretty tessellated tiles—salmon-pink and fish-shaped—covered the walls, and the floor was a polished black marble. The fixtures themselves were made from ivory-colored porcelain with gold fittings—I couldn’t dream up a more unsuitable place for cleaning a tar-sodden penguin.

  After filling the bidet with warm water, I lifted the bag from its temporary support, with the bird still safely inside, and placed it in the bowl of the bidet. It was deep enough to hold the bird securely, but low enough so it wouldn’t get hurt if it struggled and fell out. Plus the bidet was small and would be easier to clean than a tub, I hoped. The increasingly irate creature had been struggling and its feet and beak were now protruding, allowing it the opportunity to clamp one of my fingers in its powerful bill. First blood to the bird! I cursed it as I tried to extract my finger but, terrier-like, it wasn’t letting go without a fight. I couldn’t believe how hard it could bite; it could have opened a tin of beans with that beak!

  “Damn you! Let go!” I yelled as I held its head as gently as my pain and fury would allow and pried
its beak open. It had inflicted a deep and painful cut that was bleeding profusely and hurt as much as if I had jammed it in a heavy door. I was astonished that a mere bird could do that amount of damage, and examined it in amazement. Leaving the bird in the bidet, entangled in the bag, I attended to my finger. Holding it under cold running water, I could barely believe the extent of the cut; I still carry the scar to this day. I let it bleed into the basin and cursed myself for not leaving the bird where I had found it.

  I glowered at the penguin, and the penguin stared straight back at me. Unflinching and belligerent, its black, malevolent eyes said it all. They shone with pure loathing and venom. Come on, then, you great brute! There is more where that came from! they said.

  “Damn you, you stupid…stupid bird!” I replied. “I’m trying to help you! Can’t you even understand that, birdbrain?”

  I wrapped my finger in lavatory paper in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, continually replacing it as the paper became sodden, and held my hand above my head. My finger was throbbing. What vile diseases did penguins carry? I wondered. After some fifteen minutes I had managed to stem the flow of gore with gauze and an adhesive bandage and was reluctantly ready to return to the fray.

  It was clear that I was going to have to control the creature far more effectively than I had done so far. I had made the mistake of underestimating my opponent, thinking it was just a little bird when, in fact, it was every bit as big and dangerous as a golden eagle defending its eyrie. I had to immobilize it properly this time. Snatching the bag up by the handles, so that the creature was unable to savage me with either its beak or feet, I suspended the bird between the chairs again. With some of the bandage I prepared a loop, which I slipped around its feet and pulled tight as its beak snapped repeatedly on thin air. Penguins have enormous and extremely strong feet, which are equipped with very sharp talons, not unlike those of an eagle, and can shred human skin. Interestingly, the undersides of penguins’ feet are not a bit birdlike but are more like a monkey’s: fleshy, muscular, and dexterous. I bound its feet from the back, where its beak couldn’t reach me.

  While the penguin flapped and floundered ineffectually in the bag, I held its head firmly with newspaper and brute force. Using some stout rubber bands that I had found during my search for cleaning equipment, I encircled its beak several times, carefully avoiding its nostrils, and terminated the last loop by placing a final twist of rubber across the beak’s sharp point. Its feet scrabbled at the air as it tried to twist and turn but, hanging in the bag, it couldn’t reach me. It was breathing hard and its pulse was visibly throbbing in its throat and head as it continued to kick and struggle, all to no avail, since it was unable to get hold of anything.

  Its eyes, normally the size of peas, bulged with fury, frustration, and hatred. How dare you! I’ll make you pay for this! You see if I don’t! they said. It was hard to believe that the penguin had been at death’s door only a short time ago. There was nothing for me to do but to adopt the clinical detachment of a vet. The bird wouldn’t survive unless I cleaned it properly.

  “Right then, you bloody little bird,” I said. “Come here! I’ve got to be cruel to be kind!” My finger throbbed and hurt, and any sympathy I might have felt for the penguin had all but gone down the drain with my blood. Making sure its feet were securely trussed, I tied the handles of the bag around its body to hold its wings close.

  Satisfied that it was finally subdued, I put it back in the bidet and began the cleaning process by pouring a handful of washing-up liquid over its back. Now that its beak was no longer a dangerous weapon, I was able to work the detergent into its short, stubby feathers. The task was not made any easier by the dressing on my wounded finger or by the wriggling of the bird, but the string bag worked perfectly as a restraint, holding it gently without restricting the cleaning.

  Suddenly the exhausted penguin lay still. The change in attitude and behavior was astonishingly rapid, far faster than I can now relate.

  Within moments of being a terrified, hostile, and resentful animal that was, quite understandably, determined to exact revenge on me, a representative of the race that had so cruelly exterminated thousands of its closest relatives, it became a docile and cooperative partner in this cleanup operation. The transformation occurred as I washed off the first of the detergent. It was as if the bird had suddenly understood that I was trying to rid it of that disgusting oil rather than commit murder.

  I drained the bidet and refilled it with warm water. The penguin’s eyes no longer bulged like goldfish bowls. It had ceased shaking its head, trying to flap its wings, or attempting to inflict damage on me with its beak and feet, and instead was watching calmly as the water flowed. Its pulse had stopped racing and it no longer looked defiantly straight at me, like an aggrieved captive. It was turning its head from side to side, regarding me quizzically with each eye in turn. Penguins are hunters and can look straight ahead with binocular vision, but they have the avian habit of looking first with one eye and then with the other.

  What’s your game, then? Why are you doing this? Do you know how to clean off this foul muck? the eyes asked.

  On the second dose of detergent it didn’t shrink away. Sensing our relationship was changing, I decided to risk releasing him from the bag, which would allow me to rub the green solvent into the feathers of his back and wings more easily. He held his wings out helpfully, so that no part should be missed as the detergent did its work. I rubbed the washing-up liquid all over the penguin’s feathers and then scraped off the resulting gooey mixture. After each wash he shook himself like a dog to dry.

  Because he had become so cooperative, I removed the elastic band from his beak and untied his feet, which made the cleaning process so very much easier. He made no attempt to peck me or to escape, but his head bobbed about constantly as, with obvious curiosity, he watched my hands working the detergent into his feathers. Looking first with one eye and then the other, he made careful note of the progress being achieved and continually looked at my face to check that I was paying proper attention to the delicate task I was undertaking.

  When the bottle of washing-up liquid was empty, I started with the shampoo, and so I was able to wash every bit of the bird several times. Standing upright in the bidet, he allowed me to do my work with no resistance at all. He did not try to remove any of the soapy, tarry emulsion with his beak, nor did he make any objection as I carefully cleaned around his face and eyes, which I did with butter alone. At the end of an hour’s work, I had a recognizable penguin. His back feathers were black again, if not sleek and shiny, and his tummy feathers, though not pristine, were at least a grayish sort of white. I let the water out of the bidet for the last time, and when I didn’t refill it, the penguin studied me closely. We regarded each other for some moments as I looked directly at the result of my handiwork.

  Is that it? Have you finished? Are we done? I hope you haven’t missed any!

  Slowly my focus moved beyond the bird and out around the bathroom. His shaking after each wash had deposited a thin film of dirty detergent, oil, and water over a fair proportion of the walls—and, I saw as I looked in the mirror, over me, too.

  Although he was now clean to the touch, I didn’t want him wandering free in the flat, so in order to constrain him, I placed him in the bath while I started to clean both the bathroom and myself. He appeared to be exhausted and lay on his tummy, with occasional shakes of his bottom, watching me while I took a shower and washed the splatterings from my face and hair.

  The average penthouse holiday flat is rarely equipped with the necessities for de-tarring penguins, and the Bellamys’ was certainly no exception, so I made a quick trip to the local market, where I bought large quantities of paper towels and replaced the washing-up liquid. I also bought a tin of sardines, the only thing I could find that I thought the penguin might want for his tea. As I shopped, I trawled the recesses of my brain for scraps of whatever knowledge I might have gleaned at some time or another about the natur
al history of penguins, because I was just beginning to have a few doubts. A little voice was nagging at me, suggesting that washing seabirds with detergent might remove their natural waterproofing, preventing them from coping in their element; they would become waterlogged, sink, and drown. If that was true, then I’d just done an excellent job of removing every bit of waterproofing from that penguin. After everything we’d been through, I was extremely conscious of his well-being. I was trying to help him, after all, but with no instant access to information on the subject of cleaning seabirds—in those days there was no opportunity to Google “how to de-tar a penguin”—I had to rely on memory and common sense.

  As I walked back to the flat through the deserted streets, the reality of my own situation was also dawning on me, casting a shadow over our progress so far. I had to be up at dawn to begin my journey home to Buenos Aires, and there I would have to prepare to go back to work; all of this was arranged and immutable. How could I possibly cope with a disabled penguin in tow? Obviously I didn’t want to keep the penguin. It just wouldn’t be possible to keep a penguin in a flat in Buenos Aires. I needed a penguin like a penguin needs a motorbike. As it happened, a motorbike was my means of transport in Argentina. Unfortunately, with legs like theirs, penguins can’t ride pillion!

  I reasoned with myself that I had no real evidence about the washing of pelagic birds and it was probably just an old wives’ tale anyway. Determinedly I retraced my steps and prepared to release the penguin back into the sea so that I could get on with all the important things I had to do to prepare for the start of the term. There was simply no question about it: he would just have to return to the ocean and take his chances. I couldn’t keep a penguin, and he’d be better off with his own kind.