People and Animals

by FAIRFIELD OSBORN

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THERE is a little universe of its own within our largest city. More than two thousand animals of almost a thousand different kinds have their home there. The largest weighs well over 3 tons, the smallest less than a penny. They come from every region of the earth—from the bare lands bordering the polar wastes and from the meshes of tropical forests hiding the equator. People from almost everywhere come too, more than two and a half million of them each year. This little universe is popularly known as the Bronx Zoo.

Zoos have been in existence for a long time. The oldest one of which we know anything was established in China by the first emperor of the Chou dynasty about 1100 B.C. This emperor must have sensed one of the essential purposes of a zoo, for he most fittingly called it the “Intelligence Park.” Zoos have developed among widely divergent cultures, but they received their greatest impetus in Europe during the last century with the creation of “zoological gardens” and great collections on private estates.

The art of caring for wild animals in captivity is now a highly specialized affair. More and more emphasis is being placed on keeping animals contented, in surroundings as similar as possible to those of their natural environment. The gorilla is a case in point. One of our early guidebooks, published in 1907, contained the following statement about gorillas: “Whenever one arrives, all persons interested are advised to see it immediately — before it dies of sullenness, lack of exercise and indigestion.”A few years later, the director of our zoo wrote: “There is not the slightest reason to hope that an adult gorilla, either male or female, will ever be seen living in a zoological park or garden.” Today we have three, including a mountain gorilla, the only one in captivity in this country. All of these animals came to us when very young — that is, in about their second year; today our oldest, Oka, a lowland gorilla, has been with us for a decade.

The turn from failure to success in the care of animals has occurred for two principal reasons — one physical, the other psychological. Much has been learned about diet, and present methods of feeding bring our animals to superb physical maturity. Take the case of hummingbirds. Thirty years ago not even the most skilled aviculturists were able to keep them alive. Today we usually have twenty or more of these exquisite birds, of a number of different species, at the Bronx Zoo, and they are frequently seen in collections elsewhere. The present success in caring for them is almost entirely due to the discovery by an English aviculturist of the proper diet, which contains Mellon’s food, condensed milk, honey, and vitamin concentrate, A different kind of trick we learned several years ago was how to feed flamingoes, scarlet ibises, and roseate spoonbills so as to prevent their losing their vivid color after their first molt. Their standard diet had been bread, rice, and dried shrimps. In a purely empirical effort to maintain their natural coloration we added cod-liver oil, fresh shrimp, ground red peppers, ground carrots, and Mexican dried flies. At the next molt we were richly rewarded in all three species with a renewal of their color hardly less brilliant than that in nature. We must confess we still do not know which of the added ingredients is chiefly responsible.

Captive animals are, of course, subject to diseases, infections, and injuries just as human beings are, but they cannot describe their ailments. In general, our charges are probably better protected than people are. Nowadays many of our animals, when they are indoors, are separated from the public by glass, and ventilating systems provide them with fresh and clean air. We have extraordinarily little illness. A modern animal hospital, manned by two experienced, highly trained veterinarians and equipped with X-ray, operating, and bacteriological rooms, is located near the center of our zoo. The veterinarians, the curators, and the keepers make certain that “stary” coats, ruffled feathers, dull eyes, or indifferent appetites all danger signals — will be spotted promptly. From that point on, nothing that medical science or knowledge of the invalid’s habits and needs can do is neglected.

One of the great thrills of keeping wild animals comes from their response to kindness. Fear and apprehension are just as bad for animals as they are for children, and zoo-keeping today lays great stress on handling animals with the utmost gentleness. The consequences of this method are extremely rewarding and sometimes even touching. Several years ago one of our tigresses had three young — two brothers and a sister — but the mother was an aged animal and carried no milk. Rather desperately we turned the three babies over to the wife of our head lionkeeper, who raised them in her own apartment near the Park. They grew to superb mature animals — the males, of great size, now weigh more than 500 pounds. The female, Dacca, has since mothered many of her own young. All three have an evident and deep affection for their foster mother, and several times Dacca has brought her new-born “kittens” out from the inner den to show them to “Grandma.”

Practically all so-called “ferocious” animals respond, in some degree, to sympathetic treatment. When reared by hand or by their own mothers in captivity, lions, leopards, gorillas, the massive Alaska brown bear, and most other animals usually remain amenable or even gentle. Notable exceptions are buck deer, which in mating season may become dangerous; bull elephants, which almost invariably cause trouble; and male rhinoceroses like our Joe, who chums up with no one. Even wild-caught adults of many species can be reconciled to confinement if treated with kindness and consideration. Our bull okapi, the only one in captivity in this country, accepts living with us as placidly as though he had not reached maturity in the jungles of the Belgian Congo.

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PEOPLE often ask, Do you think animals are happy in captivity? My answer is Yes, at least as regards the great majority of animals in any well-managed zoo. We are likely, of course, to judge happiness from our own human viewpoint, and it is obvious that our standards do not necessarily apply to animals. The psychological requirements of animals are related to three basic needs: food, shelter, and security. Quite often one of my friends will come up to me and jokingly inquire whether we have a place for him in our zoo. No wonder! Our first goal with our animals is, of course, to meet their primary needs, and they seem to sense this and respond accordingly.

Practically all our “big cats” — tigers, lions, leopards, and jaguars — have been born in our zoo or been brought to us when very young. The same holds true of our great apes — and, in fact, of the majority of the animals we have. To them, consequently, the Bronx Zoo is the only home they know, and it is doubtful whether they would find more health and contentment in the wild. Our collections of deer have large ranges and — one proof of wellbeing— breed freely.

It is highly probable that animals live longer in captivity than they do in the wild state, although we cannot be certain, since records of animals in nature arc obviously most difficult to obtain. Lions have lived in captivity for more than twentyfive years, a tiger for twenty years, and an elephant fifty-seven years. One of our own best records was Pete, the hippopotamus, who lived just a few months short of a half-century. It is unlikely that animals such as these could have survived so long in nature. Certainly the glow of health that most animals have in captivity, if they are really well cared for, is fair evidence of their good condition. There are exceptions, of course, and certain species such as the muskox, the pronghorn antelope, and a few others — do less well in captivity.

The rapidity with which wild animals are capable of adjusting themselves to “civilized life” is often astonishing. Four years ago we brought six wild young elk from Wyoming. Despite the noise and excitement of a five-day train trip, they were soon comfortably established in a large pasture, and within ten days they paid no attention to the public or to the near-by noises of city traffic. Animals seem to have as much capacity for adapting to city life as people have.

Many of our animals evidently become deeply attached to their own “homes.” The hurricane of November, 1950, blew out the glass sides of an outdoor flying cage in which three magpies from India lived. Driven by the violent wind, they were seen the next day in the girders of a large public garage at least a mile from the zoo. When we went to get them they had disappeared. The next morning they were found back in their flight cage, pluming their ruffled feathers and waiting for their breakfast.

Needless to say, keepers become very devoted to their charges. In the early days of our zoo, the head keeper of the bears was a tall, loose-jointed, grizzled man with a face of weathered granite—stern and with a rugged sense of duty. We did not think of him as having any particular tenderness for his animals, yet he loved his bears. On a level piece of land near the bear exhibits, at the top of a rock ledge, was a small patch of clear ground. The keeper started a garden there and then installed a couple of beehives. Any time a swarm of bees was reported in the zoo or near by, this keeper would get it and add it to his colony. He finally had a half-dozen hives going, and the bears fed royally on honeycombs.

Several years ago we had a famous elephant named Alice, who had lived to a ripe old age of more than fifty years. She was brought to us as a young animal by an equally young attendant who had worked Alice for a while in a circus. He wanted to stay with his animal friend and applied to us for a job, but we had no place for him at that time. Later Alice got loose in the zoo and ended her wanderings by becoming wedged, of all places, in the vestibule of the Reptile House. After much excitement, she was extricated but refused to return to her own quarters. As a last resort we sent for her former attendant, who without any difficulty led her back to her place in the Elephant House. That incident settled it and the man got his job. Eventually Old Dick, as we called him in later years, became head keeper of the building housing the elephants, hippopotamuses, and rhinoceroses. He was the gruff type; but when it became evident that Alice, because of the infirmities of age, should be dispatched, Old Dick broke down and sobbed. He was given a two-day leave while Alice was humanely sent to elephant heaven and her remains removed from the zoo. Old Dick was never quite the same man after Old Alice departed.

The operation of the Bronx Zoo is a lively and unpredictable business, and scarcely a day goes by that something unexpected does not occur. Taking care of a visiting public that runs to millions each year obviously presents a variety of operational problems. It is not all easy going, and with so many animals and such a large public, accidents do happen. While the conduct of the public towards the animals is usually remarkably good, once in a while there are unpleasant incidents. Recently some young culprits hid in the zoo at night and stole the eggs from a brooding Darwin’s rhea— a rare bird whose young we have never been able to raise. A number of years ago some boys went into the penguin enclosure, killed three of the birds, and threw their bodies into the bear dens — a case of juvenile delinquency in one of its meanest forms. We lost our superb male gorilla, Makoko, through drowning, although every precaution had been taken against such a loss. Then there was the case of Herbert, the 958-pound walrus, into whose pool a child had thoughtlessly thrown a rubber ball. Herbert swallowed the ball and died a week later. By some alchemy of personality he had won the affection of the public, and his passing was memorialized within a few days of his death by editorials in the leading newspapers.

Several years ago we opened a Question House in order to provide a place where visitors could readily and at first hand obtain answers to questions about animals — any kind of question about any kind of animal. This little building is staffed by young men and women who are well along the way to becoming qualified zoologists. The Question House has been a lively success. The great majority of questions are serious and sensible; some are intended to be serious but are far from sensible. Among the latter are the following gems: —

“I have a blue racer at home and every time I pick it up it bites me. It doesn’t hurt, and I don’t care if it bites me, but will it hurt the snake to keep on biting me?”

“Which is more tenderhearted, the elephant or the hippo?”

“What is a kangaroo’s pouch lined with?”

From a boy: “How can I fertilize box tortoise eggs?”

“Does an octopus have anything in common with a human being?”

From a city boy: “My grandfather says swamp rabbits swim on their backs and use their cars as oars. Is that really true?”

From a man: “ Will a cow die if she loses her cud ?” (When the Question House attendant said “No,”the man’s wife broke in with this: “See, I told you so — if cows died so easy as that, the price of milk would be even higher than it is.”)

From a child: “Is a platypus a kind of cat? Its name ends with puss.”The Question House attendant explained that a platypus was not a cat and, among other things, that it ate worms. The child: “Oh, I see, it’s a kind of chicken.”

“Do snakes ever laugh?”

“How do skunks stand each other?”

The immense popularity of the zoo is not surprising. The truth of the matter is that practically every one of us is thirsty for some contact with the natural world. Seeing wild animals answers this yearning to an extraordinary degree. A zoo is the best kind of antidote to the overmechanization of these modern days. To many people it is more than that. To them the observation and study of animal life in its myriad forms is a lasting inspirational experience — a revelation of movement, color, and sound, the end results of timeless processes of adaptation and evolution. Through some hidden channel there comes a sense of the unity of all life.

It is not too difficult to discern what we think of animals. One can never be quite sure, of course, what the animals really think of people. In our zoo we do everything in our power to gain their confidence and affection.