Zoo of Characters

As I stepped out of my car, walked up the concrete patio entrance with embedded miniature gardens of marigolds to a small gateway with the ticket counter, paid my entry fee, and stepped into the zoo, I immediately felt a world away from the outside city. Thick, dark green shrubbery lined a walkway that forked at a large sign with a detailed map of the area, showing the winding routes that could be taken. Down either path I could see nothing amongst the twisting sidewalk and mass of green vines, trees, shrubs, and grass. I chose the right, and started on my way, wondering what I would discover. Only the distant echo of the zoo train’s horn could be heard amid the silence. As I walked on, I expected to just see regular animals in tiny enclosures doing regular animal things. Little did I know what “characters” would be waiting.

Surrounded by a grove of trees shading the unnatural cement path I was walking on, I came upon my first point of interest at the Lincoln Children’s Zoo. At first glance I could only see a square, metal cage. Along the back wall stretching thirty feet was a red-brown artificial rock formation with vines and plants draped the eight feet down to the dirt ground. No animal. I searched the enclosure again to reveal the lonely creature hidden in the upper right corner, almost pinned against the cage in its need to be as far from the open desolate feel of its imitation habitat. The sign in front read Amur Leopard. It would have been majestic, if not for its apparent desire to remain crouched and hidden. The golden tawny hue of the fur shone as rays of sun broke through the canopy of trees above the enclosure. Embedded in the golden silkiness were lumpy donut-shaped black rings. The fur followed this pattern along the leopard’s body until the hair finally turned fluffy, long, and a spotless cream-color under the belly and behind the arms. As I continued to watch, the leopard rose up from its secure place away from spectators and began pacing along the top brim of the rock formation. Back and forth, back and forth, it continued to pace, as if nervous, worried about something very important. The cat began to remind me of a junior high student. It felt out of place and awkward as it hid from the outside world up in the far corner, straining just to go unnoticed. As it began pacing it took on the junior high persona of being overly concerned about the most minute details, as a student would pace and fret over their first big test. I decided that the leopard deserved a name—Jessica, common for junior high girls—as she had suddenly taken on the characteristics something more than just an animal. She was a personality.

Adjacent to the leopard's pen was another enclosure, similar to hers. It was roughly the same shape and had the wire cages along the front side. This particular habitat, however, had a tangle of branches and boards all intertwined into a fantastic jungle gym in the center of the enclosure. Sitting on either end of one of the boards were two Guinea Baboons. One had his right leg draped over the two-by four while he rested his arm lazily on his right knee. The other sat “pretzel” style with his hands in his lap. It reminded me of a kindergartener trying with all his might to pay attention to everything his teacher is trying to tell him. A quick glance down to the base of the nearest viewing window showed a third baboon lying in a reclined posture against the ground. His feet were up against the wall, the left foot slightly higher, with the right foot directly below. The baboons struck me as rather dull-looking compared to the leopard. Their hair was coarse, and appeared as though it had been stained a dark, murky tan. They had long snouts, slightly darker than the color of their fur, and ugly protruding lower teeth. However, I couldn’t get over how much they acted like little boys. They began picking on each other, like young boys often do, and then acted relaxed and lazy as if nothing happened. This prompted me to name them as well after their personalities: Mark, Jeff, and Craig, my three little baboon boys.

I continued to follow the zoo path as it looped around the south end of the zoo and began to head back north. From there I actually heard the next animal before I saw it. A terrible squawking sound was coming from just up ahead to the right of the path, my view blocked by a grove of jungle-looking trees. Squawk wouldn’t even begin to describe it. It was more like a shrill, throaty screech, that might have come from a horror film had I not been in the middle of a children’s playground. The culprit was perched atop a long branch, surveying his new visitor. The Scarlet Macaw was the name on the information plate, but I saw him for what he was. This regal bird was a king. He sat tall, his bright red plumage puffed out for everyone to see. The sun beamed down on him as if he were in the spotlight, and the blue and yellow stripes on his wings stood out like royal jewelry as the rays bounced off them. His feet were crossed, giving the illusion of a person with much authority. Until this point I hadn’t noticed his companion in the shadows. Hiding, on a much lower branch, was another scarlet macaw. There was no beam of light, no hint of royalty in this bird. I walked along the fence, to get a better look at him. Even with no light, I could see that the colors of his feathers were much plusher, and even brighter than the first macaw. This didn’t make any sense to me. I viewed this other bird as one of the first’s “royal subjects,” but royal subjects were not usually more beautiful than their king. I glanced around the enclosure for clues I may have missed in trying to figure out the birds’ personalities. Nailed to the front of the wooden rail encircling their habitat lay my answer. A generic white rectangular sign hung there with information about each individual bird. The one I previously deemed a king was actually “Mrs. Roberts,” a Scarlet Macaw born in 1964, and the “royal subject” was actually named Shilo and was born in 1992. The personalities and physical qualities made much more sense now. Mrs. Roberts was obviously an old nanny protecting the child she had to babysit—Shilo.

As I think about each animal, I begin to reflect on the idea of them having such human characteristics: the leopard who reminded me of a junior high student, the baboons acting like kindergarten boys, and the macaws who were a child and her nanny. I wondered if this could be applied the other way. Could humans display animal traits? If so, would that tell us about what type of people we are, or why some people don’t get along with others? So I pondered my own characteristics, perhaps even more detailed than my animal examples were. I’m relatively fair skinned with blonde hair. I can become easily aggressive, but also have lazy tendencies. . . Immediately I paired myself with a lioness—a blonde-furred animal, ferocious when threatened, but lazy all day long. If I was a lioness, who were the other “animals?” The tortoise? The camels? The naked mole rats? Why did I care, weren’t they just animals in cages? How could people possibly relate to them?

It is quite easy for people to think of animals just as animals--no feelings, no thoughts, no personalities. Many people drive animals out of their natural habitat to make way for human development, uncaring about the effect the animals will suffer. I believe that my observation proved this point wrong. If the leopard Jessica had no feelings, why was she hiding in the corner of her cage? Just as human situations and feelings cause us to act certain ways, the feeling of nervousness or wanting to hide caused Jessica to cower in the furthest corner. I switched my thoughts to the baboons. With this example I failed to comprehend how anyone could label them as “just animals.” The way they held themselves, their posture alone seemed to mimic the way human beings would sit—like kindergarteners. They were thinking hard about something, or in the case of the third baboon, relaxing as he gazed off into space during some great daydream, just as any human would do. The macaws affirmed my third point of animals having personalities. The old nanny was perched much higher, authoritatively above the child. This shows a form of hierarchy, seen throughout humans behavior. After this closer look at specific individuals, I failed to find any reason for people to believe that animals are just inferior beings.

Each animal brings something special to the table, just as each human donates their individualism to the world. As I left the zoo, walking past the tiny marigold gardens and getting back into my car, I said a quiet goodbye to each of the new personalities I met that day—to Jessica, to the kindergarten boys, and to the nanny and her child.