Scar Tissue

"Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.  The events that cause them can never be forgotten, can they?"

- Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

I was working quietly in the back of the animal holding building when I heard the yelp.  It wasn't quite a scream - more like a sharp gasp of mixed surprise, fear, and pain.  Hurrying over, I saw our newest keeper standing in an enclosure with our 12 foot Burmese python.  The snake's recurved teeth were embedded in the keeper's calf, and thin streams of blood were beginning to trickle downward.  The snake, normally one of our most placid, showed no signs of constricting, but neither did she seemed inclined to let go. 

Climbing into the enclosure, I radioed for backup, just in case, and climbed in beside them.  Taking the snake's head, I gently eased her teeth out, then separated keeper from snake.  Then, I held the snake securely while the keeper made his exit, not releasing the snake until he was well clear.

By the time we had the chance to start cleaning the many little wounds left by the teeth, the keeper had transitioned from terrified to giddy.  As I swabbed with alcohol, he chatted enthusiastically about his idea of going to a tattooist and having the outline of the bite inked onto his leg.  Fortunately for him, the bite was a fairly superficial one, and had completely faded before he could put the plan into practice.  Not all of my coworkers have been so lucky.

I consider myself grateful that I've never lost a coworker or colleague on the job.  Many of us have had close calls of some sort.  Some pass you by without leaving a mark - it's like if you were crossing the street and a car suddenly zoomed by, almost hitting you.  You almost died, sure, but five seconds later, no one looking at you would have ever known.  Now, replaced "street" with "hoofstock yard"... and "car" with "bull eland."

Other injuries leave their mark.  I've met keepers who are missing fingers, or can't use a finger or a wrist very well due to an injury.  Maybe it was a once friendly chimpanzee that nipped away the tip of a finger, or a rescue eagle that locked its talons into the unsuitably-gloved arm of a rescuer (who then needed a rescuer of his own).

I've collected a few scars over my career, none very big or noticeable, and usually only visible in certainly light.  Unlike my colleague of the python infamy, neither are ones that I'm especially proud of, because to me, both reflect errors, not adventures.  One was the result of me not having a secure enough grip on an animal during a medical procedure.  The other was a result of having too great a familiarity with an animal that I thought was friendly.  Both could have been avoided if I had been better at my job.  Both were in the early days of my career, when I was experienced enough to be a little cocky and sure of myself, but not experienced enough to know exactly how to be safe.

Thankfully, neither of these scars are prominent enough that people see them, and one is almost completely faded.  Neither got much attention from colleagues, which allowed me to at least escape with my dignity.



One curator I know wasn't as lucky, and had his hand mangled pretty badly by a female crocodile monitor that he was attempting to catch up.  I'm still not sure who took the pictures, but photos on his hand spread across the zoo reptile community; my own curator at the time printed one out and taped it to the door of our own croc monitor enclosure as a warning to the rest of us.  The afflicted curator had to deal with a lot of cracks (or at least nosy questions) about his hand for some time after.

Which, I suppose, is one advantage of scars.  At the very least, they can serve as a cautionary tale.