Zookeepers often put their own welfare at risk to attend the primal needs of the predatory and unpredictable tendencies of the animals in their care. Such injuries that I personally observed the end products of were severed fingers from monkey and tapir bites, a paralyzed arm inflicted by a pygmy hippopotamus, and a hand amputated by the bite of a giant panda. Occasionally, this jeopardy costs them their very lives. Unfortunately, over the years, keepers of bears, leopards, and elephants have lost their lives in the pursuit of animal care at the San Diego Zoo and San Diego Wild Animal Park. According to a 1997 report from the Bureau of Labor Statistics, elephant keepers have the highest risk for fatalities of any other profession in the United States, averaging two deaths per 660 employees.
A recent job announcement for a keeper position in an American safari park is a fair indication of the mental and physical agility expected of a tiger handler: “Seeking an individual to work as a Tiger Trainer. Must be mentally alert and be able to pay attention to all daily duties. Must have quick reflexes and be able to react quickly to changing animal situations. Must be able to walk and run quickly as needed. Will require close contact with large, wild animals. We offer a competitive salary with outstanding medical benefits.”
Some of these keeper deaths had the same fundamental dynamic, one that has played out similarly in fatalities in zoos around the world. With dangerous carnivores such as bears and big cats, a weak link in the work routine occurs when one keeper goes off for his or her weekend and another follows the next day to care for their animals. As with aviation accidents, where pilot error accounts for most of the fatalities, so do keeper errors incite most animal-caused injuries. The routine with most dangerous animals is kept standardized for safety reasons, and animals are always, without fail, to be moved between locked cages to maintain a security buffer between people and predators. When the carnivore exhibit area is entered and cleaned, it is critical that the keepers ascertain that no predator is still present and that every single animal is accounted for in locked areas. In San Diego, and in other widely removed zoos, keepers who arrived on their Monday to clean a dangerous cat exhibit failed to confirm visually the location of all animals, only to be ambushed after entering the exhibit enclosure. Even though the routine may be to lock all animals into bedroom cages at night—“animal bedroom” is zoo terminology for the sleeping/resting space into which animals are typically confined at night—occasionally an animal refuses to return to the bedroom or holding area, posing a potential danger for the keeper who follows the next day.
All large carnivore exhibits in zoos are built with “safety cages,” intermediate, secure spaces at the entry to the exhibit that are to be entered before proceeding into the area nearest to the animals. The typical routine is to unlock the outside door to the safety cage, enter and latch the door behind, and then proceed into the next space after making a conclusive visual inspection to be sure that all is safe and clear. Except when entering or departing, both door entries to a safety cage are expected to be closed at all times. Numerous accidents around carnivores have resulted when an attendant’s attention is diverted, allowing the critical opportunity for an animal to reach between or under door frames and bars or through feeding chutes and seize their caretaker, resulting in severe lacerations, limb amputations, and worse.
In 2002, a 350-pound African lion at Busch Gardens near Tampa, Florida, ripped off the arm of a zookeeper standing next to the lion’s cage while she was giving a private tour to her family. The attack occurred shortly after the zookeeper had fed the lion pieces of meat during training exercises. In the same year, a twenty-one-year-old female keeper at the Vienna Zoo entered a big cat cage, expecting it to be empty. Within seconds a jaguar lunged at her. Onlookers included the zoo’s director, Helmut Pechlaner, who was badly mauled when he went to her rescue. Officials at the zoo said they did not yet know how the accident occurred, but they suspected that the three jaguars had burst into the cage through a hatch that had not been locked correctly.
Typical carnivore exhibit layout
Nearly all facilities with dangerous animals have explicit rules instructing departing keepers to leave concise notes for their relief keeper—always with the caveat that each person must insure his or her own safety by visual confirmation of the location of all animals. A San Diego keeper failed to detect the presence of a leopard one fateful Sunday morning and was surprised from behind as he entered the exhibit area to clean. Quickly, surgically, the leopard seized him by the neck, killing him by severing his carotid artery and spinal cord. In parallel circumstances, a female tiger keeper at the New York Bronx Zoo was also killed in an exhibit area, unaware that an unsecured tiger lay in wait for her.
For years after the San Diego leopard killing, the public inquired about which exhibit and leopard was involved. It was impossible to work with animals on the leopard string without the shadow of this event hanging there like a cloud. For some time after the event, visitors walked past the exhibit pointing fingers and gesturing to their companions to illustrate their recollections of the accounts they had read in the newspapers.
Animals that require sedation for examination or treatment may be darted with sedatives from either the public exhibit side (usually before the public arrives) or when the animal is more closely confined in the service area behind. Better-designed holding areas for carnivores have the capability of crating and transporting animals without chemical immobilization, but many zoo exhibits still lack efficient catching facilities. A “crush” or “squeeze” device involves a moving wall, mechanically or hydraulically operated, that forces an animal along a narrowed space and into a holding crate or against a barred area to allow injection with a hand syringe. Naive and calmer animals may allow an experienced person to approach close enough to permit a hand injection, but there still exists the risk that comes with close proximity.
Not all zoos have accepted safety as a fundamental characteristic of employment. The following news report, excerpted from the London Telegraph, summarizes the serial mishaps in a private English zoo:
An experienced zoo keeper was killed by an elephant yesterday at an animal park owned by the millionaire John Aspinall. The park has a policy of not putting down animals that kill humans.
It is the fifth time in 20 years that animals belonging to Mr. Aspinall have killed staff at one of his wildlife parks, where keepers are encouraged to ‘bond’ with the animals and to mingle at close quarters with even the most dangerous creatures. The elephant, called La Petite, had arrived at the zoo in October from an Austrian safari park. A spokesperson said, “It seems Mr. Cockrill may have trusted La Petite to be as reliable and friendly as the other cows which had been in his care and known to him for seven years.” Police and local health and safety officers are investigating whether the elephant killed Mr. Cockrill by accident or intentionally. Mr. Aspinall’s wildlife parks have experienced a number of accidents in recent years. Three years ago he went to the High Court to stop Canterbury city council preventing staff entering enclosures in which tigers roamed freely at Howletts Zoo, his other wildlife park, after a keeper was killed.
The keeper was mauled to death in 1994 by a Siberian tiger. Visitors saw the animal pick up Trevor Smith, 32, by the neck and head and carry him in its mouth to a shed in the compound. In 1993, Louise Aspinall, 30, Mr. Aspinall’s daughter-in-law, needed 15 stitches after being bitten by a tiger cub at the same park.
Ten years ago, two-year-old Matthew McDaid had his arm ripped off by a chimpanzee at Port Lympne. He was awarded £132,000 damages at the High Court. Four years later, the same animal bit off the finger and thumb of Angelique Todd, 25, a student working at the park.
In 1984, Mark Aitken, 22, a keeper at Port Lympne, was killed when an Indian elephant crushed him against railings. In 1980, keepers Brian Stocks and Bob Wilson were both mauled to death by a tigress named Zeya in separate incidents at Howletts. Zeya was later shot by Mr. Aspinall.
Apparently, the Aspinall zoo had a less l
enient policy for serial killers. But, fortunately, most injuries are minor by comparison. One keeper at the Los Angeles Zoo was described as “The Tastiest Zookeeper in America” because of his greater than average propensity to sustain various animal-related injuries, such as those described in these official accident reports:
I collected the feeding pans from the previous day and was exiting the bobcat enclosure when the female bobcat in the far corner of the exhibit jumped on my back from the side and dug her claws in to my left arm, shoulder and back. The animal ran off immediately after the attack and I was able to get out of the exhibit without additional injuries.
Bitten by a coatimundi on the left thumb while providing behavioral enrichment.
Scratched while carrying and weighing a koala.
Meanwhile, his keeper colleagues were having encounters with other creatures:
After tube feeding a scarlet ibis, the ibis jammed his beak up my right nostril, causing bleeding for about 20 min. and slightly throughout the day. . . . Bird beaks are dirty, and he jammed it way up into my nostril—I was afraid of infection or sinus injury.
I was feeding a medicated cantaloupe to a tortoise and my hand got too close to the animal’s mouth and the turtle bit my finger.
I was feeding the Jamaica boa with tongs and the snake missed and bit my wrist.
I was wearing bright orange rain gear and held a metal trash can lid up over my head. While talking to the bird pair, I picked up one egg from the ground and the Kookaburra flew under the lid, landed on my head, pecked me on my head and flew away.
One of our longtime elephant keepers at the San Diego Zoo, who several unenlightened coworkers sometimes made sport of, possessed more natural rapport with pachyderms than anyone else in the zoo. Some thought that he was a little slow, but I always believed that he was just unusually sincere and humble. Bob was an old-time elephant handler in traveling circuses for years before coming to the zoo. A big, quiet, gentle soul, he had several faded carnie tattoos on his massive, hairy arms. His calloused hands seemed the size of baseball mitts, and he wore black rubber boots to navigate the day’s puddles of elephant urine and hose water. His habit was to talk to you with his eyes wandering in and out of eye contact, all in a slow, modest manner. Bob seemed to live more for elephants than anything else in his life. Several employees remarked that regular passengers on his city bus route kept their distance from him on his evening ride home in order to avoid the strong essence of eau de éléphante that followed him around like a little gray cloud.
Bob told me a story about a performing circus elephant that he had cared for at their winter quarters in Florida. As he reminisced about his old circus days, I could nearly smell the roasted peanuts and hear a calliope playing as he lapsed into a flashback of his life and times with the big top elephants. The look in his eyes grew distant as he began to describe what had happened to his pachyderm friend.
In the winter quarters, the public was allowed to visit for an admission fee and see the animals up close. A young boy who had strayed from his parents crossed a rope barrier and made his way over to one of the cow elephants, which was chained by a leg in a holding area. No one actually saw what happened next. People came running to where the boy’s thoroughly trampled body was discovered. Emergency personnel and a large contingent of sheriff deputies soon descended upon the scene, with blaring sirens and flashing red lights. They worked furiously on the boy, although he was obviously dead. As they finally loaded his remains into an ambulance, a troubled discussion was under way between the deputies and the circus manager about the hopeless state of the victim and the uncertain fate of the big-eared perpetrator.
Tears came to Bob’s eyes as he spoke fondly of his affection for his elephant friend, who he had fed, watered, bathed and talked to daily for years. Struggling not to choke up, he continued. “Later, they were talking about what they oughta do with her. The word had spread and more police arrived.” He paused. “The police talked for awhile in a huddle with the circus manager. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it wasn’t long before they made a decision. When they came back to carry out their plan they opened up the trunks of their patrol cars and brought out the rifles. They had brought in a bulldozer and carved out a big pit. Because she trusted me to handle her, they had me walk her into the pit and fasten her leg chain to a steel post that they had driven into the ground.”
I could tell by his breathing that these memories were wracked with pain and guilt. With his voice barely audible, he explained how he lost count of the number of bullets that it took before his old friend breathed no more. A bulldozer covered up the remains and it was all over. Bob fell silent and sat down on a straw bale, while his mind seemed to slip off completely to circus memories. It was impossibly sad. Then he finally got up, and said, “Doc, if you don’t mind, my elephants are hungry and I have to go feed them now before I catch my bus to go home.” Bob picked up a bucket of apples and carrots and shuffled off to greet his big gray friends.
Years later, during the writing of this book, I watched the 1952 circus movie The Greatest Show on Earth for the first time. Much of the movie, which starred Charlton Heston, Betty Hutton, and Jimmy Stewart, was filmed at the Ringling Brothers winter quarters in Sarasota, Florida, using circus workers as extras. I was stunned to see a short scene near the beginning of the film in which our keeper Bob, much younger, was gently bathing an elephant cow with a hose and a scrub brush as the circus manager, played by Heston, recommended giving her a dose of gin for a stomach ailment. Bob never mentioned that he had ever been in the movie, but I have a haunting feeling that I now know why.
Elephants have met similar fates throughout their history in captivity. In 1825, Chuny the elephant, the central attraction of Cross’s Menagerie in London, became unmanageable. As he attempted to break out of his fortress-like cage, a civilian firing squad was hastily assembled and killed him by using a small canon and 152 balls of ammunition. Male elephants are notorious for the difficulties they eventually pose in captivity.
The daily animal care routine in the zoo involves the completion of a keeper report after the first check of the animals each morning. Each zoo keeper is in charge of a “string,” a distinct group of animals and exhibits. The head keepers then gather these reports and confer with the veterinarian and curator to determine which animals need to be looked at and evaluated. Any out-of-the-ordinary findings, such as births, breeding, deaths, lameness, diarrhea, lack of appetite, or facilities problems, are expected to be recorded on the report. When possible, animals are mentioned by name.
The attempted escape of Chuny the elephant at Cross’s menagerie, London, 1825
Keeper reports can be short or long, poignant or humorous. These are some actual samples from the San Diego Zoo:
Keeper Report, Monkey Yard—The Douc Langur Monkeys have diarrhea again. They are eating it like shrimp dip.
Keeper Report, Great Apes—Commissary: This is the third day in a row that we have not received bananas. What’s the problem? Did the banana factory burn down?
Keeper Report, Great Apes—Linda the Pygmy Chimp will only let Kakowet breed her if he gives her all of his apples and bananas first. We need to increase the fruit order again.
Keeper Report, Bear Canyon—If the plumber doesn’t get down here soon to unplug these drains, the bear and I are going to surf over and get his tools ourselves.
Keeper Report, Giraffe String—“Checkers” in heat—“Topper” in “Checkers.”
Some keepers are more astute than others in detecting health problems. I always hoped that keepers would err on the side of overreporting concerns rather than ignoring them. In the beginning of my work at the zoo it seemed that some keepers would avoid bringing up certain problems, for fear that the veterinarian would want to drag a cherished specimen off to the hospital for “risky” diagnostic prodding and poking. Before the advent of improved anesthetic procedures, there was a much higher likelihood of injury or death for animals in routine proce
dures. It took time to build up confidence in the capabilities of the new veterinary medicine in zoos. Once we had the drugs and a near-perfect anesthesia batting record, however, we were the ones who had to tone down the new zeal of the curators and keepers for drug immobilizations.
The San Diego Zoo hospital had its own animal holding areas and its own elite group of animal keepers. This crew was among the most experienced in the zoo and had developed a wide range of skills required to medicate, crate, net, handle, and restrain the full scope of animals in the zoo. Hospital keepers had to be more creative than average, and masters at outwitting animals that would otherwise avoid eating food with medications in it. Handpicked for their skills and ingenuity, hospital keepers were expected to make their own handling nets, housing devices, and creative solutions for managing a wide variety of zoo patients. On several occasions this creative license caused some alarm in the hospital wards.
Murray, our most senior hospital keeper, prided himself on his ingenuity, and rightfully so. He would go to extraordinary lengths to solve animal housing and handling problems. One day, however, his initiative got the best of him when he went to move a Siberian tiger between cages on opposite sides of the outdoor hospital compound. Murray was very fond of this nearly grown female tiger, who vocalized to him through the bars every morning as he scratched her neck and fed her chunks of horsemeat. Murray was in love with this cat. As I was walking back to the hospital compound, from the adjacent research building, I glanced through a window and was jolted by the sight of Murray and the tiger outside of the cage in the central compound. This enclosed area was entirely roofed with chain link fabric and was, in effect, a safety cage large enough to hold a dump truck; it was entered directly from the zoo grounds through an electronically controlled sliding gate. Large carnivore cages capable of holding big cats and bears lined both sides of the compound. To avoid souring his pet tiger’s sweet demeanor, he had decided to move her, gently, fraternally, by placing a trail of meatballs on the ground from her present cage to the destination cage some fifty feet away. “Things were going just as planned,” as he later described, except that several of us bystanders simultaneously thought that a big cat escape was in progress. We were within a second of activating our zoowide emergency alarm on the radios. Just as I shouted to Murray to learn what he was doing, the tiger stepped into her new cage and he slid the door shut behind her. As far as I know, that was the first and last time the meatball transfer method was ever used at the hospital.
Life at the Zoo Page 6