Monsters and Menageries

"Here, There Be Monsters."

Matthew Reilly's The Great Zoo of China wasn't the most inspired piece of fiction that I ever read, but it was at least a little fun.  From a professional perspective, it was worth the read just for the amusement of wondering what it would be like to take care of dragons, much like how Jurassic Park led to speculation about being a dinosaur keeper.  

It's a pretty popular topic of idle chat among keepers whenever fantasy or sci-fi introduces weird creatures to the public, from Star Wars to Harry Potter.  One of my favorite science fiction books is George R. R. Martin's (of Game of Thrones fame) Tuf Voyaging, in which a simple merchantman discovers a high-tech spaceship which is a essentially a genetic ark, able to produce clones of countless species from across the galaxy.  Recently, I witnessed a surprisingly engaged debate among a group of keepers who were Harry Potter fans, arguing the ethical merits of keeping centaurs, mermaids, and other half-human, half-animal creatures in zoos.  

The consensus, in case you were curious, was that it would be unethical, although there was some interest in seeing if centaurs/mermaids/et al would possibly be interested in working as keepers.  These are the sorts of things that we talk about in order to keep from talking about other things (i.e., a deadly global pandemic, a crashing economy, etc).

Of course, what got my mind going then was that a monster is really just an animal that we aren't familiar with.  To the Europeans who first came to the Americas, Africa, and Asia, the landscape must have seemed to be full of "monsters," as surely as the Native Americans who first saw heavily-armored battle horses must have found them monstrous.  When the first crates of sloths and anteaters and orangutans and kangaroos arrived in Europe, destined for royal menageries, the caretakers who opened them must have been shocked at the monsters that they suddenly found themselves confronted with.

It would have been hard for people back then to really know the differences between an animal that was some sort of monster or freak (such as a calf born with two faces or five legs), one that they might never have seen but "knew" existed because it was referenced in the Bible or other texts (such as unicorns - when Marco Polo voyaged through Asia, he was convinced that the rhinos that he encountered were unicorns... and he was severely disappointed with them), and ones that we today just recognize as... well... animals.  When the first pygmy hippos were presented to Europeans, some were convinced that they were really dwarf, deformed common hippos.  And imagine seeing a giraffe?  No wonder that so many people were convinced that many of the exotic animals that they saw were really hybrids of other, more recognizable ones. 

It's also interesting to remember, as we walk around zoo grounds, that hundreds of years ago, access to collections of animals such as modern zoos and aquariums would have been limited to the extremely powerful, such as princes and popes, their guests, and the servants who actually cared for them.  That probably only heightened the sense in the common folks that the creatures kept behind their rulers' walls were some kind of strange monsters, as fanciful as dragons and griffons and unicorns.

I kind of enjoy that thought - that every animal I see when I walk around the zoo is, in its own sense, a little monster.  None breathe fire, to be sure, but some fly, or carry babies in pockets, or move without legs, or spit venom, or breathe underwater, or change color or shape.  This Halloween, we're having a scaled-down version of our usual event, so there will be some trick-or-treating, with kids dressed up as ghosts, goblins, and vampires.  I'm glad that they're getting at least a little taste of "normal" for Halloween - but the best monsters are already at the zoo waiting for them.