by Ralph Helfer
The meat had run out, so to feed the big cats we had to kill laying chickens from the roost. Feeding a two-or three-pound chicken to a lion is like feeding an apple to an elephant, but at least their stomachs wouldn’t be totally empty.
When the sun set that evening on the cold, isolated valley, Maria refused to come up to the house, insisting on staying with Midnight. I left her enough wood to keep a fire going all night. We went to bed early, knowing that we’d need our energy, but no one slept very well.
Dawn broke cold and gray. I threw on an old army jacket and headed outside. The crunch of the snow under my feet was the only sound I heard on the walk to the barn. The night’s snowfall had caused drifts to pile up around the barn door, but since the snow was fresh and soft it yielded to my push. I stepped quietly in, prepared for the worst.
The fire in the barn had gone out, and everything was still. My eyes moved from one silent form to another. Was that a sign of life? A tremble? Some of the horses lay in the shadows, others had beams from the morning sun stretched across their faces. Odd that we die with our eyes open—cold, glazed eyes stared at me from everywhere. I looked for Midnight. She was lying near the burned-out fire. Maria was sleeping nestled in Midnight’s forelegs. Her arm was cocked up over the animal’s neck; one hand was hidden in the mane as though she had gone to sleep stroking it. I touched Midnight, and found her body was cold and hard. My God, she was dead! I had no way of knowing if she’d died before Maria had fallen asleep or after, and my heart broke at the thought that this was what she would wake up to.
To be in love with nature and so attached to her animals—it hurts more than anything when they go! I knelt down and brushed the hair from Maria’s eyes. She stirred. I shook her gently, and she slowly woke up, her eyes shimmering with tears. She knew: Midnight had died during the night in her arms. I held her as she wept softly, her body cold and shaking.
There was not a single movement anywhere else in the barn. They were all dead.
I hardly remember anything about that day; thankfully, there was a lot of relentlessly hard work to do to keep the other animals comfortable. And three days after we’d watched Ted disappear over the mountain, we heard a car horn. We rushed outside just in time to see Ted coming over the ridge, honking and skidding all the way. He had made it! The truck was piled high with equipment, food supplies, and medicine.
He also brought news about our hay. The vet had analyzed the mold and found it to be botulism, one of the most deadly of all poisons. Nothing could have helped the horses. We always stored different shipments of hay separately to ensure freshness, so we could very easily isolate the bad batch and feed the rest to the other livestock.
Ted had brought as much meat as the truck would carry, enough to hold us for a few days. That night, everybody feasted. After dinner, Ted took me aside.
“I almost didn’t make it,” he said. “I came close to going over many times. Look, Ralph, Dr. Freeman realizes the problem we’re having, and he thought—” He stopped. “I heard on the news that there’s no sign of the storm letting up.” He put his head down.
“What are you trying to tell me, Ted?” I asked. “Just say it.”
Ted adjusted his Western hat, pulling it low over his forehead. “The cats aren’t going to make it, Ralph, unless—”
“Unless what?!”
“Unless we feed the horse meat to them.”
My mouth hung open in horror. “My God, man, what are you saying? Feed them Mollie and Stud and Midnight? You’re crazy! We’ll find another way,” I said, and walked off.
Ted yelled after me, “Doc said the meat won’t hurt them—just don’t feed them the insides!”
Ted knew—as I eventually came to realize—that there was no other way. The next few days were murderously cold and wet, and the situation on the ranch became desperate. Courageous Ted approached me once more about the horse meat, and deep down I knew he was right. I called a meeting by the fire and told the group what the vet had suggested. In the flickering light I could see the shock on their faces, the lowered eyes. Yet everyone understood, particularly after Maria raised her head and said, “Midnight is long gone from that cold, dead body lying down there in the barn, and I’m sure she would agree that if it’s to help her animal friends, then it’s okay.”
I had all of the knives sharpened, and Ted, Don, and I prepared to leave, but the women stopped us at the door. They, too, were dressed in boots, heavy jackets, wool scarves, and gloves, and they were going to help. Even tiny Maria could not be talked out of it.
I used the old truck to pull some of the carcasses out of the barn, and each person went to work. Maria would let no one help her. The job was tremendous for a big man, let alone for a very small woman. By evening, snow had started to fall again. Everyone else had finished, and only Maria and I were left in the barn. I pretended to be doing some work around the barn, because I didn’t want her to be alone.
Maria looked up at me, her tears like small white snowflakes on her cheeks.
“Ralph,” she said, in a voice barely audible against the wind, “could I…?” She wiped her eyes against the sleeve of her coat. I could tell that what she had to say was difficult for her.
“I mean, if the weather is okay, could I ride Son tomorrow?”
I couldn’t hide my tears, but they were tears of joy. I knew then that Maria was really going to make it through this horrendous ordeal.
“Sure, honey,” I said, “if the weather is okay.”
There was the slightest movement of her lip and chin, and she went back to her chore.
The snowflakes had become larger and were falling thicker and faster, but a slight wisp of warm breeze caught me off guard. It was the kind of dry wind that comes in from the desert and sweeps down across the valley, and when I felt it, I knew that the worst weather was behind us.
I went back up the hill to the house to get Zamba for a little exercise, and although I had every intention of getting as far away from the barn as possible, he kept wanting to head in that direction, and I figured Maria could probably use the company.
As we approached, I could hear her singing. Zamba’s whole bearing changed, and he tasted the air, clearly confused by the messages he was getting.
I will never, ever forget what I saw when I came over that rise. She was sitting inside Midnight’s abdominal cavity, wearing a massive pea coat with the sleeves rolled up and her collar pulled up around her neck, quietly cutting as the light from a small candle flickered against the horse’s rib walls. The blood mingled with the snow. She was sobbing as she sang.
Zamba, in all his wisdom, headed over in her direction. I tried to keep him away, but the emotional weight of the day meant that I didn’t have much struggle left in me, and I knew Maria could handle herself. There was no need. Zamba lay down beside her in the bloodstained snow, and as she cut and sang and cried, she would periodically cut a piece of the meat for him and feed it to him from her hands.
It was one of the heaviest things I have ever seen in my life, and at least part of me recoiled from the dreadfulness of it: Midnight and Zamba had been friends. But I also realized that Maria was responding to a higher call. Through her generosity, she was really closer than any of us to achieving true communion with the animals and with nature. I learned a great deal from her on that sad day.
16
Zamba and I did a lot of television together. We appeared on Liberace’s show a number of times, and on Red Skelton’s. Zamba’s good nature and gentle disposition became well-known, and we received calls from charitable organizations asking if he would come and help raise funds for a variety of worthwhile causes. Many of them involved children, and we were happy to help schools for orphans, the children’s wards at various hospitals, the March of Dimes, the Red Cross, and many more. Zamba sported ribbons around his neck, wore paper hats, and even accepted a beautiful hand-stitched saddlelike jacket from an organization of the elderly. He visited homes for the sick, old, and infirm, attended Chri
stmas parties, and once even had his mane whitened with baby powder so he could wear a Santa Claus hat.
Sometimes, in the beginning, I was anxious about exploiting him that way. When I saw him in a paper hat, I thought, How can the king of the jungle wear such foolish things? But Zamba’s generosity taught me that a true monarch is humble, and not above doing things for the less fortunate or giving to the needy. The appreciative look in the eyes of a sick child made our experiences helping them meaningful.
I often worked on a television show with Betty White, a dear friend and one of the world’s finest comediennes. Whenever she needed an animal on the show, she would call me and I would bring over whichever animal fit the circumstances.
Zamba was one of the audience’s favorites, and he appeared a number of times. One day I received the following letter from an admirer:
Dear Sir,
My name is Dawn. I am sixteen, and I have been blind all my life. It’s okay. I mean, if I haven’t ever seen before then I don’t know what I’m missing, right? I feel sorry for those people who once saw and then had their eyesight taken away. How horrible!
I think I know what many people look like. I can recognize most by their voices and their faces. They all have noses and mouths and eyes. Anyhow, the one thing that has always intrigued me is nature. When I hear people talk about it, it seems so big. I mean the sky and clouds flowing up there and then there are valleys, mountains, and the animals. How does one see a cloud? The only things I see are those I can touch. How can you touch a mountain or a cloud? Someday I hope to see a clown. But they mimic and I can’t see them mimic. I read a lot. Of course, only in Braille. I do pretty well with it.
Last year I read a story about a lion. This lion ruled the jungle and all the animals in it. He was huge, with a large mane, long fangs, and an extremely loud roar.
I saw you, well, heard you, on Betty White’s show with your lion Zamba. Lions are my favorite of all the animals, especially after I read this story. In the book he was very wise. He protected the innocent, and fought for the rights of others.
The real reason for this letter is to ask if I could see Zamba. (To see him I would have to touch him.) I have tried to figure out how he looks but I just can’t.
I would be most grateful if you would allow me to meet, and hopefully, touch Zamba. It would allow me to see him.
Sincerely,
Dawn
I was taken aback by this letter, and by this young woman’s sweetness, innocence, and love for nature. I wrote immediately to tell her that Zamba and I would be honored to have her come and visit.
And so she did. She arrived on a beautiful Sunday afternoon when the sky was clear and blue, and nature was in its full glory. A black Cadillac came to a halt at the end of our driveway, and out stepped a beautiful girl with such confidence and self-assurance that I could hardly believe she was indeed blind. About five-six, and slender, she had a thick head of long blond hair that hung down to the small of her back. I was surprised to see that she wore no glasses; most sightless people do. It would have been a shame; her deep gray eyes were clear and bright, and her gaze was steady and calm. A man stood next to her.
“Hello, there,” I offered as I approached the car. Dawn turned toward the sound of my voice, and her smile was absolutely radiant. She was facing into the sun, and completely illuminated by it, but she did not have to shade her eyes, as others would have. “I’m Ralph, Zamba’s friend.”
“Hi. I’m Dawn and this is my father, Daniel.”
I had expected him to handle the greeting.
We sat outside on the patio and spoke of many things. Her father was a quiet man, learned and polite. He felt they were intruding, and it took me great effort to persuade him otherwise.
“I’m so excited! What do I do when I meet your friend?” she said, referring to Zamba.
“What do you normally do when you meet someone?” I asked.
“Do I shake his paw?” she said.
I laughed along with her. “No,” I said. “Just stay calm and let him come to you. He’ll smell you, and then rub up against you. Try to brace your legs so he doesn’t accidentally knock you down, but don’t worry; we’ll be there to support you.”
I noticed that, instead of a cane, she carried a hiking stick. It was perhaps five feet long, thicker at the top than at the bottom, and was covered with many inscriptions and carved figures.
“Where did you get such a beautiful walking stick?” I asked, as we walked over to Zamba’s enclosure.
“From a Scottish friend,” she said. “I asked him what a mountain looked like. He tried to describe it, but got a bit frustrated: ‘If you can’t see a mountain then you can bloody well climb one.’ So he took me to Mount Wilson and we climbed it! The view, I felt, was breathtaking.”
This was a remarkable girl, I thought.
“Well, best not to have it around,” I said, laying the stick on the sofa. I didn’t want anything to go wrong.
She nodded. “Yes, yes. Of course. I have never been so excited in all my life,” she said. I could hear her breath, coming short and fast. I smiled at her father, who looked more than a little nervous.
I excused myself and went to get Zam. He greeted me with his usual “urrph!” I put the chain around his neck, careful to make sure that it lay under his mane. Sometimes, if he was in a playful mood, he could intentionally slip out of it, and I didn’t want anything to go wrong. I wanted this experience to be as wonderful as Dawn imagined it could be. I had bathed Zamba just a few hours earlier; for her to see him, she would have to feel his body, and I wanted his fur to be as soft as down.
Zamba had a unique way of looking at people. Some animals will look at the person as a whole entity, taking in his whole body. Zamba always looked at a person’s face, and waited, as though he were reading the person’s thoughts. It was a very intense experience. When one person looks long and hard at another person, there can be a tendency to become nervous and turn away. Zamba caused many of the people he met to do just that. Some people would look over their shoulder, thinking he was looking at something behind them. He made many people uneasy; they knew he was studying them, and most wondered what he was thinking.
I realized that he liked knowing people, not just meeting them, and he could tell a lot about them by their touch, their smell, and their body language. And although he was polite to everyone, there were definitely some people that he didn’t care for at all. With them, he would flick his tail, turn around, and look the other way. He allowed them to touch him only because I asked it of him.
There were others whom he accepted right away. If he did his “augh,” then rubbed against their leg and allowed them to touch him, they were in!
We walked up to Dawn and her father. Zamba stood directly in front of Dawn. Strangely, he didn’t look at her face, but focused on an area above her head. He seemed to be watching something that I couldn’t see.
“He’s here, isn’t he? I know it. I can feel him,” Dawn said, with a tremor in her voice. Before I could answer, she continued. “He’s so big.” She was sweating. I looked at her father. We both realized she hadn’t touched him yet! Zamba and I approached within a few inches of her.
Then he lowered his head.
“You can kneel down, Dawn,” I said. “He’s directly in front of you.”
Normally I would have a person approach from the side, but Zamba seemed not quite his usual self. I was a little confused, and stood close in case he pushed into her. She slowly lowered herself, hands outstretched, feeling for the ground until she was on her knees. Her face was at the same level as his.
“Okay, now reach up and let him smell your hand.”
She slowly raised her hand. Zamba sniffed, then raised his head and grimaced. Lions do this to get the full impact of an odor, the same way a wine connoisseur will allow air into his mouth with the wine, to fully savor the bouquet.
“Now you can touch him,” I said.
“Where?”
�
�Wherever you like.”
As soon as her hand touched his mane, she whimpered, and exhaled with a small, quiet cry. It was as though she wasn’t breathing until the moment she touched him.
Zamba stood still, looking into her face—perhaps her eyes. She buried her hand in his thick fur, and she closed her eyes as her fingers traveled, seeing all that she had dreamed of, all that her mind needed her to see. She never stopped whimpering. Leaning forward, she laid her head against his mane.
Zamba had never been one to stand when he could lie down. Lions are like that—lazy. But this time he stood, quiet.
Dawn raised herself up and began to trace her hands down his back until she reached his tail. Touch a lion at the base of his tail, and he will flick in irritation, like a scorpion. Not today. His tail lay quiet, without a twitch. When she got back to his face, he slowly lay down, and put his head in her lap. Dawn closed her eyes as one does when praying, or kissing a loved one.
She had no fear; she had completely entered into his world. Her fingers traced the area around his huge round eyes, felt his ears buried down in his thick mane, and stroked the long, straight bridge of his nose. She pushed her fingers under his upper lip and ran her fingers up and down his huge fangs. Her small, delicate hands floated over his entire body.
“You are so big!” she whispered. “Much bigger than I had thought. You are the Lion God in my book.”
She laid her head on his mane and hugged him.
“It’s time to go now, Dawn,” her father said.
As if awakening from a dream, she kissed Zamba’s nose, and he licked her hand. They both got to their feet.
“Good-bye, my hero,” she said, and gave him a huge hug. He returned with a gentle nuzzle.