Uncle Pennybags

My personal dislike for the book Gorilla Tactics aside, it did lead me to one conclusion.  Fundraising is an extremely important job in zoos and aquariums, as it is for any nonprofit.  It was the potential to completely change how your facility is able to operate - on a shoestring budget, constantly having to cut corners and make hard choices, or being able to grow, thrive, and expand your mission.  

In some places I've worked at, there's been a major disconnect between the fundraisers and the frontline staff.  Sometimes the former had ideas that they tried pushing onto the latter that were contrary to the ethics or values of the animal care staff (i.e., asking about doing paid photo ops with monkeys).  Sometimes the keepers were too hostile the fundraisers, not seeing the real value in their work, or thinking that the money that they raised was wasted on frivolous things that didn't relate to them, like vanity projects or bonuses for higher ups.  Some feel that the intrusion of any issues pertaining to money - fundraising galas, paid encounters, appeals - cheapens the idealistic world of animal care.  The most successful zoo fundraising I've seen has been when there's successful support and mutual respect between the two sides of the staff.

Keepers should understand the reality that building and maintaining a successful facility needs money, and there's nothing inherently wrong about trying to get it.  Fundraisers should appreciate that the messaging of the zoo and the welfare of the animals can never be compromised in the pursuance of funds.  Ideally, and decisions about fundraising should be a discussion between the two.  

The best way to build this relationship of trust is to invite your fundraising people into your department.  Let them get an understanding of the animals, the programs, and the staff.  It will help them understand what animals can and can't interact with folks, or why a loud, late-night gala with music and bright lights might be upsetting to some species.  Fundraisers, in contrast, might be able to look through the zoo with fresh eyes after learning more and better understand how to promote the zoo, its animals, and its staff in order to build donor support.

Book Review: Gorilla Tactics - How to Save a Species

Conservation is a team sport.  So much of the attention is always paid to the scientists and documentary hosts who become the faces of the efforts to save species, that it can be easy to overlook all of the folks who, directly and indirectly, make their work possible.  These folks vary from the  permit and logistics specialists who pave the way for work to happen in the country to porters, cooks, and guides, without which the fieldwork would be impossible to the lab workers who process data and samples that come in from the field.

It also includes the fundraisers, the thankless few who work tirelessly to drum up the financial support that is needed to make fieldwork and conservation projects possible.

It's an area of the field that I know very little about, so when I heard about Gorilla Tactics: How to Save a Species, by Greg Cummings, I was curious enough to pick up a copy.

Cummings spent nearly two decades as the executive director and fundraiser for the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund, dedicated to saving the endangered mountain gorillas of Central Africa.  It was a field that would have seemed unlikely for him to fall into at the beginning, having no experience with wildlife or conservation projects before deciding that he needed a new job one day.  He poured himself into his new role with considerable passion and vigor, and set about becoming a champion for the imperiled apes.

It almost makes me feel bad that I couldn't stand his book, and, by association, him.

I don't know much about raising money for nonprofit causes on the scale that Cummings is attempting, but I know it's hard.  No matter how great the cause, there are always limited funds and a lot of competition.  I also know that people skills are a major part of the job.  To that end, I'm amazed that the author managed to raise any money.  His book is just so... whiny.  Whiny and angry.  Perpetually indignant that he's not getting the support that he feels the organization needs, disapproving about virtually everyone that he works with, suspicious of every nonprofit he encounters, and constantly frustrated with the celebrities that he hits up for contributions.  (There are a few references to celebrities telling him - sometimes quite flatly - that if he doesn't back off with the hard sale, they will simply stop donated to the Fund).  He seems to fall into the mental trap that I so often see folks working for nonprofits tumble into, where you see yourself as the good guy, the savior, the hero - and anyone who isn't immediately in lockstep with you becomes the villain.

And yes, I admit, with professional bias, I find his barbs about the zoos - the ones that in many cases are supporting his work, as he admits in the book in several places - to be obnoxious and ungrateful.  He never says what's wrong with the zoos, but gives that trite line that I hate so much about how gorillas would be better of dead than in zoos, a bit of pearl-clutching I've always found abhorrent.  He feuds bitterly with Dr. Terry Maple, the conservation-scientist best known for the vast improvements in gorilla husbandry and welfare he ushered in at Zoo Atlanta.  When the Los Angeles Zoo lands a prize fundraising opportunity that Cummings wanted for his fund, he complains that the money might as well have been burnt for all the good it does.  I disagree strongly, and, again, pointing out the times that the zoos have funded mountain gorilla conservation (including the provision of direct medical treatment, as was NOT mentioned in his book), the less credible he really seems to me.

Cummings' defeats - and the infighting with other gorilla conservationists - eventually ended his involvement with the Fund, and he ends the book somewhat burned out.  I'm not sure if it seems like much of a loss for gorilla conservation.  He was able to raise some money, yes - but it feels like he turned off as many potential supporters as he would have gained.

Gorilla Tactics: How to Save a Species at Amazon.com

The Very Senior Keeper

There's a fella I work with who just celebrated fifty years with our zoo.  When I started there, we joked that he took care of the passenger pigeons and thylacines there when he started off.  Since then, the jokes have evolved.  Now we're up to him taking care of woolly mammoths and sabre-toothed cats

After the recent announcement that President Joe Biden wouldn't be seeking re-election, largely but not explicitly due to concerns about his age, I've heard a lot of people talk about how there are age limits (official or otherwise) in their workplaces.  Some of them serve purposes.  Some of them are actual ageism, and might be illegal.  But when, if ever, are you too old to keep?

I've worked with a few zookeepers who have been at their facility for decades, and at least two who have passed the half-century mark.  It's certainly true, this is very physical job, though the extent of that physical activity varies considerably depending on what animals you take care of and what your facility is like.  I couldn't see myself taking care of hoofstock when I get too old and struggle more with wheelbarrows and hay bales.  Reptiles?  A lot less (but not zero) heavy lifting, but reflexes are key to keep from being bitten.  Carnivores and primates?  Often involves climbing and bending, the latter something that I already have some trouble with, as I've always had poor flexibility.  But I've known people who've worked with all sorts of animals until well past when you might think they should have retired (some of them because of financial circumstances which kept them from being able to retire).

Just as important as the state body is the state of mind.  Memory is obviously one thing - almost every zookeeper I've known, young and old, lives in horror of forgetting a lock.  I've met some keepers who have gotten very rigid, almost superstitious, in how set in their ways they become, and refuse to accept new best practices and improvements in standards of animal care.  Certainly not all of the older keepers I've met - and I've also worked with some ridiculous younger keepers who were trained one month and then got all jaded and world weary and acted like they'd seen it all...

Senior keepers can provide a lot of wisdom and experience to their younger colleagues.  As long as they can physically and mentally do the job to the best of their abilities in a safe manner that supports animal care, there's no reason not to stay in the game as long as they want to.  Who knows?  Maybe it's the keeping that keeps them young.

The Sum of All Fears

Over the course of my career, I've had a few scary moments.  I've found myself in a relatively small cage with a black bear that had figured out how to open the door to his shift pen.  I've had an angry Andean condor take a chunk out of my arm.  I've launched myself onto a 12-foot anaconda... only to realize that none of my colleagues had followed suit and were hanging in the background.  Lots of scary moments, more than a few painful ones, and endless gross ones (like washing spider money diarrhea out of my hair).

I'd rather relive all of these experiences, played over and over again on a loop, than have to pick up a goliath birdeater in my bare hands.

It's irrational.  I know.  Goliath bird-eating spiders aren't particularly venomous, and the pain of their bite is due more to their large size than their toxins.  That being said, as often as I see them in zoos, I've never even heard of anyone being bitten by one, and they're said to be fairly docile.  Still, the thought nauseates me.  I don't mean the species any ill will.  I'm always happy to see one on the other side of the glass at a zoo.  If I were to see one in the wild - provided it was a little distance away and didn't catch me by surprise - I'd never dream of harming it.  But if someone held a vile of acid in one hand and the spider in the other and said, I'm going to pour one of these over your head... well, I'd probably have a pretty gnarly looking haircut right about now.

And you know something?  I really am ok with my feelings about the spider.  It's okay not to love (or even like) all animals.  I absolutely love snakes, and it makes me so sad when people harm them unnecessarily, especially when they brag about it like they did something heroic in chopping up a six-inch DeKay's snake (a harmless little slug-eater).  But I accept that some people just can't stand the sight of them, and the thought of touching them would be abhorrent.  So I let them be.

I've reluctantly made peace with the tarantula tribe over the years, and have taken care of a few specimens as part of my job.  I've even held some before, albeit not with any sense of pleasure or comfort (it's been years since I've held a tarantula, though, and now I wonder if I'd be able to do it now, or if I'd have to work up the nerve slowly and relearn to conquer the fear all over).  But I think the big guy (or gal, more likely) will always be a bridge too far for me.  And I'm ok with that.  Somethings are best admired from a distance.  Or through glass.

Species Fact Profile: Goliath Birdeater (Theraphosa blondi)

                                      Goliath Birdeater (Bird-Eating Spider)

                                           Theraposa blondi (Latreille, 1804)

Range: Northern South America

Habitat: Tropical Rainforest

Diet:  Arthropods, Worms, Small Vertebrates

Social Grouping:  Solitary

Reproduction:  Females mate shortly after molting.  Lay 50-200 eggs within a silk ball, which she carries with her.  The egg sac will hatch into spiderlings within 6-8 weeks, and reach sexual maturity at 2-3 years old

Lifespan: 15-20 Years (Females), 3-6 Years (Males)

      Conservation Status:  IUCN Not Listed

• Largest spider in the world (by mass, if not by leg span), weighing up to 175 grams and measuring up to 13 centimeters in body length.  Legs can span up to 30 centimeters
• Coloration is primarily tan or light brown, often with some faint brown markings on the legs
• Unlike most other spiders, including most other tarantulas, females rarely consume the males after mating, though they usually do die within a few months of mating
• If faced with a predator, they will fling their hairs, which can be very irritating to the skin or mucus membranes of the predator.  They will also bite in self defense, and though their venom is fairly weak (the level of pain comparable to wasp sting), the fangs are large (2-4 centimeters) enough to cause some physical damage.  Venom is not always injected in a bite.  They will also rub their legs together to make a hissing sound as a warning
• Despite the common name, which originated from an 18th century engraving that showed a specimen eating a hummingbird, these spiders rarely eat birds
• Nocturnal, spend the days either under rocks or roots or in burrows lined with silk
• Eaten by local peoples, who first singe off the hairs, than roast the spider in banana leaves.  It is said to taste like shrimp

The Idealism of Keepers

I wasn't really sure why at first, but the silly facebook comments (no, the one I shared wasn't the only one) about the new pandas at the San Diego Zoo got under my skin.  There was something unsettling about it to me, which I kept going back to pick at.  I'd seen similar comments on historical and travel facebook pages before, but seeing it in a zoo context was troubling.  After a while, I settled on a reason.  It was representative of a new mindset which we see too much of these days - snide, cynical, mistrustful, and unwilling to believe in anything... even that which should be settled fact (such as, say, the realness of giant pandas).  Even seen in the kindest of lights - deliberate trolling by someone who just wants to get a rise out of people - it's a symptom of a greater cultural problem.

Which is why, during National Zookeeper Week, I am reminded about what it is that I admire so much about zookeepers.  It isn't just their dedication and commitment, but it's their idealism.  Really, I'd say it's mostly the idealism, because, as jaded or world-weary as zoo staff sometimes like to pretend to be (if only so we don't seem too geeky), the idealism is what drives people.  There's the belief that what we do is important, and it's worth doing.  There's also the belief that the work can be done well, and, in fact, can be done better than it has in the past, which leads to a constant push for improvement and progress.  When I look at where standards of animal care were when I first started working in the field many years ago and where we are now, I'm blown away at how all of the incremental changes have piled up, building on one another, to make lasting improvements to animal welfare and conservation.

Being an idealist isn't easy.  It's especially hard when you work with conservation and animals.  On the macro scale you're confronted with the ongoing extinction crisis and society's overall indifference to the plight of wild animals.  On the micro level, caring for your own animals is a task often fraught with setback, hardship, and heartache.  When you're a zookeeper, unlike a pet owner or a hobby farmer, you're triumphs and tragedies aren't yours alone to bear - they play out in the public, dissected on the news, and subject to the slings and arrows of anyone who can tweet or post.  I'm amazed at how many people I've seen express the opinion that the work we do in zoos and aquariums is pointless, and why bother?  I'm even more amazed at how the vast majority of keepers don't give up.

There's still a lot of progress to be made in this profession - including with how frontline animal care staff are compensated and supported (which no NZKW pizza party or ice cream treats or celebratory social media posts will compensate for).  But I like to think that we'll continue to get there.  That's the kind of optimism that keeps the zoo field moving forward.

Happy National Zookeepers Week!

Happy National Zookeepers Week!  It's a great opportunity to recognize and celebrate those dedicated employees who are essential to the care and wellbeing of the animals at the zoo or aquarium.  

The Panda Conspiracy

We're living in an era of increased suspicion and conspiracy theories.  It's not just about the usual suspects, like politics and vaccines and aliens and the moon landing, anymore.  Belief in a Flat Earth has increased.  So have weird pseudo-historical theories, advanced by crackpots about all sorts of strange topics (lost global civilizations?  mud floods?  Don't google, I did, and I'm now dumber for it.)

So why should zoos and wildlife conservation be immune from the weirdest theories?  From the bowels of Facebook, I present the following inane comment.  Please let them be joking, please let them be joking...

Where the Wild Things Aren't

The geography of American zoos is interesting.  Sometimes you find great zoos in cities that you might not expect, such as Omaha or Cincinnati or Colorado Springs, while other big cities might have surprisingly small zoos, or, in some cases, such as Las Vegas, no zoos.  There are definitely hot spots of great zoos around the country, where it's possible to plan a trip, if you are so inclined, and see many wonderful facilities in a relatively short radius.  Other parts of the country are dead zones.  

The two major zoo dead zones that I could think of are northern New England and the northern Great Plains.  And yet, of the fifty states in the union, there are only two which are zoo-less.  Vermont is a fairly small state that's not that far of a drive from New York or southern New England, and there is a small aquarium on Lake Champlain, so that sort of counts.  The other zoo-free state, probably not surprisingly, is Wyoming.

But why Wyoming, as opposed to, say, Montana or Idaho, or one of the Dakotas (South Dakota has the impressive-looking Great Plains Zoo in Sioux Falls, which is one of the larger US zoos I haven't been to... yet)?  Andrew Rossi, of the Cowboy State Daily, has some thoughts...  Fortunately, the Cowboy State has enough natural wildlife to keep animal lovers more than happy!

Why Wyoming is One Of Only Two States Without A Zoo

Zoo Review: Fort Wayne Children's Zoo, Part II

Continuing the walk through the Fort Wayne Children's Zoo, we leave the Central Zoo region and embark on one of the two remaining trails.

Asian Trek consists of two main sections.  The first, newer, and much smaller, is Red Panda Ridge, which mostly consists of a pair of spacious habitats for the namesake mammals.  I'm always a little leery of the idea of having red pandas as flagship, anchor species.  Yes, they are extremely cute.  They also tend to be pretty inactive, especially during the warmer months when most people flock to the zoo.  It was a poor cool day when I visited, so I was able to see them out and about, though in the summer I imagine you'd be lucky to see a little red blob tucked away in the back.  The pandas are complemented by a small aviary of East Asian birds, though both the pandas and the birds are overshadowed by the massive play structure for kids which looms over the area.

From the pandas, the trail winds through the woods to the Indonesian Rainforest.  Visitors first come to a towering exhibit of clouded leopards.  It's one of the best exhibits I've seen for this species - a good size, lushly planted, and very tall - which also makes it one of the more difficult exhibits to see these elusive cats in.  Immediately past the leopards is the main rainforest building.  A small atrium features exhibits of reptiles and small mammals from Indonesia - the massive reticulated python being the star attraction - before emptying into the Jungle Dome Aviary.  This is a thickly vegetated forest aviary, with a path the loops around a central, waterfall-fed pool.  Birds seen here include crested wood partridge, Mariana fruit dove, and Indian pygmy geese, among others.  A side path from the aviary leads to a viewing area for Sumatran orangutans.  The orangutan exhibit is perhaps the week point of the section, as the apes lack an outdoor exhibit area, though I believe that one is being planned.

Outside, more guest services are found in a small courtyard, along with an endangered species carousel.  It is also here that visitors will find an attractive exhibit of Sumatran tigers.  From the tigers, a boardwalk winds through the forest back to start of Asian Trek, passing smaller habitats for cockatoos, hornbills, and squirrels.  The main attraction on this trail is the enclosure for Javan gibbons, a species seldom seen in zoos (and probably on its way out in North America).  I liked that this gibbon exhibit was an actual cage, rather than one of the islands that are so popular in zoos - the later are more attractive and better for photography, it's true, but here I was able to see the swinging apes take full advantage of the mesh of their enclosure as a climbing structure as they flung themselves through the branches, ricocheting off of walls.

The final and largest of the four regions is African Journey.  Passing through a lovely garden and under a tunnel, visitors will embark on a looping trail that surrounds the main savannah, populated by ostrich, plains zebra, and common wildebeest and visible from several vantage points around the trail.  As is often the case with African areas, this one has some heavy theming, and I in particular saw a long line of kids waiting their turn to play in a jeep that was parked off the side of the trail.  The trail leads past a marshy yard of sitatunga antelope and a lagoon paddled by great white pelicans, after which visitors will find themselves in an artificial kopje (and island of rocks in the savannah), from which they have vantage points of several exhibits of smaller African animals, such as bat-eared fox, banded mongoose, and radiated tortoise.  Among the caves are also viewing portals into the domains of Africa's two largest carnivores - lions and spotted hyenas.  

Down the trail, the path soon opens into the African Village, which, among its play areas (the zoo is heavily into play areas) and  rest stations are exhibits of birds (including some seldom-seen species, such as milky eagle own) and primates - DeBrazza's, colobus, and Allen's swamp monkeys.  A leopard exhibit (using the Amur subspecies as a stand-in for the African leopard) is the anchor here, though it compares unfavorably with most of the other cat exhibits at the zoo - not terrible, but somewhat lacking in imagination and complexity (leopards are a species that I often feel gets the short end of the stick in exhibit quality compared to lions, tigers, and jaguars.  Just past the village is a separate savannah, home to giraffes.  In a clear favorite for most zoo visitors, a giraffe feeding station puts guests at eye-level with the world's tallest mammals.  The trail then meanders past some of Africa's largest birds - marabou stork, Ruppell's griffon vulture, wattled crane - as well as more vantage points of the main savannah yard, before returning to Central Zoo.

Fort Wayne Children's Zoo left a very positive impression on me, while I admit that there were a few exhibits that I'd like to see tweaked or improved.  I had spent the previous day at the Indianapolis Zoo, and while Indianapolis had a few megafauna species that were absent from Fort Wayne (bears, elephants, rhinos), overall I found Fort Wayne to have the more well-rounded collection, with good representation of birds, herps, and small mammals.  Despite the name, I'm not sure if the zoo is any more or less kid-friendly than the majority of zoos I've been to, but it is a highly interactive one with lots of opportunities for play and engagement.  

Zoo Review: Fort Wayne Children's Zoo, Part I

What's in a name?  Travelers from out of town who happen to hear about the Fort Wayne Children's Zoo could be excused in thinking that there wouldn't be much of a zoological attraction there.  Maybe some goats and sheep, as well as a few other petting zoo exotics, such as emus and fallow deer, perhaps?  The truth is very different.  At 38 acres and with well over 100 species, Fort Wayne has a fairly large zoo with a full complement of animals from around the world, including large animals and endangered species.  No mere "kiddie" zoo here!  Much of its growth has been in recent years, so much of the zoo has a new, fresh feel to it.

The zoo could be divided into four zones, three of which are geographic in nature.  The fourth, and the one that most visitors will see first, is the Central Zoo, which lies directly inside the entrance.  This could be thought of as the original zoo from the 1960s  The first animals that most guests will see are the white-throated capuchins, which inhabit a monkey island of the sort that used to be ubiquitous in zoos, but is encountered far less often these days.  It's an old style of exhibit, but with fairly small primates on a well-furnished island, it works fairly well.  Nearby is a mesh-enclosed habitat for Canada lynx, while further down the trail is a South American habitat for saki monkey, agouti, and Hoffman's two-toed sloths and a yard for Aldabra tortoises.   The Central Zoo is also the main hub for visitor services, such as concession, the gift shop, and security.

Part of the Central Zoo could almost be though of as having an aquatic theme, a concept which is only enhanced by the small lake at the heart of the zoo, which many of the exhibits surround.  There are attractive, if not particularly unique, habitats for three zoo staples - North American river otters, American alligators, and African penguins.   The alter have an exhibit which is attractive and grassy, but I was surprised at how minimal the barriers were - no big deal for the penguins, which aren't exactly jumpers or climbers, but for visitors - it seemed like I could have hopped down and grabbed one!  Of course, as pugnacious as penguins can be, anyone who tries that will probably soon regret it.  An exhibit for California sea lions was being refurbished at the time of my visit so I didn't get to see those animals on display, but by now the enclosure is again opened to the public.  

And, of course, because this is a children's zoo, there is a farm.  The Indiana Family Farm is actually one of the nicer farmyard displays that I've seen in a zoo - too often, I feel like zoos put up a few domestics for petting, just because they feel like they have to, a box they have to check (similar to how I've felt about aquariums at many zoos).  This is actually a pretty attractive, well-themed immersive area with a variety of domestic animals (and a few small native species) in an exhibit that really does try to convey some of the atmosphere of an old family farm, like your visiting some relatives in the country.  It's quite nice.

The first of the three geographic areas is the Australian Adventure. Visitors cross the tracks of the little kiddie train that runs around the zoo and enter an Australian-themed courtyard (the theming of rural Australian architecture extends throughout the region).  On one end is an aquarium - a fairly modest one, with a few small tanks and one moderate shark tank.  The aquarium used to be themed around the Great Barrier Reef, though I think is since lost its geographic focus.  An adjacent building once held a nocturnal display, now sadly gone, having been replaced by the ubiquitous stingray feeding experiences which are so popular with the public (even if they bore many zoo enthusiasts).  

Even with the loss of the nocturnal house, there are still smaller animals of interest in the area, both the birds in a series of aviaries, one of which is a walk-through, and reptiles in a small reptile house.  The main walking trail, Outback Springs, also includes a walk-through habitat of eastern grey kangaroos, as well as their rarely-exhibited predators, dingoes (not in a walk-through).  Fort Wayne has long been famous for its exhibition of Tasmanian devils, and after an absence of a few years, the world's largest living predatory marsupials are back on display in a glass-fronted habitat.

And, lest you forget that this is a children-focused zoo, there is a little river ride in log-shaped boats that run a circle around the Australian area.

The Outback Springs trail empties visitors back out to the courtyard with the aquarium.  From there, it's a short walk back to the Central Zoo (again across the train tracks - I did spend a lot of time that day waiting at train tracks, obligingly waving as the kids rolled by) and the next trail.

We'll continue with Fort Wayne Children Zoo's other exhibits tomorrow.

Fort Wayne Children's Zoo

All About That Bass

The Memphis Zoo is one of a handful of American zoos to maintain a designated aquarium building on grounds, and while it's not one of the bigger ones, I enjoyed it very much anyway.  Ironically, none of the displays in that building were the largest aquariums in the city.  To see some really big fish, you have to cross town to the riverfront along the Mississippi.  There, you can find an unexpected zoological experience amid the rifles and rods of the Bass Pro Pyramid.

In the United States, it's not unusual for large outdoor sports stores, like Bass Pro and Cabela's, to have live fish on display.  The species featured are usually native game species, such as trout, often in waterfall fed pools with rocky backdrops that are themselves covered with taxidermy mounts of deer, bear, bighorn, and other game species.  Even so, the Memphis Bass Pro experience was something.  Besides the main tank, there were also several smaller pools, used to house kayaks and canoes that were for sale.  Strolling up to the very edge of one such pool, I found myself glancing down and looking into the eyes of a massive alligator gar, bobbing just below the surface.  A small number of native waterfowl paddled across another pond, while a separate enclosure held a group of young American alligators.

I'm not really sure what to think of such attractions.  I guess there's nothing wrong with fish on display in and of themselves.  I've never felt morally conflicted about the idea of a fish tank in, say, a dentist's waiting room or a restaurant as long as it was clean and well-cared for, and the level of care and resources available at one of these facilities would be far better in many cases.  I also know that hunting and fishing licenses are a major source of conservation revenue for many state agencies.  Yeah, it was a little harder to enjoy the fish and other animals when all of the visitor commentary revolved around the basic theme of killing and eating and/or mounting those animals, but it's not like the fish could understand that.  Besides, I've heard similar commentary in the halls of many public aquariums in the past.  Or any exhibit of deer or wild turkey, for that matter.

It might be a minor thing, but maybe it's that I am always a little discomfited by live animal attractions in a purely commercial venue.  I don't think it's a distinction that most guests would make.  It's certainly not one that animal rights folks would take seriously.  Besides, some zoos - including some very good ones - are NOT non-profits, and manage to combine quality animal care with financial growth (nor, for that matter, are all non-profit zoos and aquariums automatically good).  And obviously most zoos and aquariums do charge some sort of admission fee to bring in some money, as well as have concessions, gift shops, fundraising appeals, etc.  

I think I just like to try to assure people that bringing in money is something that we do in order to support our animal care programs, not the reason why we have those programs in the first place.  And I do worry a bit that having animal displays in the middle of what is, very obviously, a superstore can lead people to question that - and perhaps extend that suspicion to all zoos and aquariums.

Species Fact Profile: Bowfin (Amia calva)

                                                             Bowfin

                                           Amia calva (Linnaeus, 1766)

Range: Eastern United States, Southeastern Canada

Habitat: Lowland Rivers, Lakes, and Wetlands

Diet:  Fish, Aquatic Invertebrates, Amphibians

Social Grouping:  Solitary

Reproduction:  Spawn between April and June, usually at night.  Male constructs nest in substrate at the bottom of the water, about 40-90 centimeters in diameter.  Females approach nests and deposits her eggs while male fertilizes eggs externally.  Male guards the 2000-5000 eggs for the 8-10 days of incubation, protects the larval hatchlings for the month or so after they hatch.  Sexually mature at 2-3 years old

Lifespan: 30 Years

      Conservation Status:  IUCN Least Concern

• Usually 50-70 (but up to 110) centimeters long, and can weigh up to 9.5 kilograms.  Females larger than males.  Body is elongated and cylindrical, with a single long dorsal fin running the length of the back and a single rounded caudal (tail) fin; its the dorsal fin which gives the fish its name
• Coloration olive green or brown in color, with some dark spotting.  A large dark eye spot is present in males (and sometimes in females) directly in front of the caudal fin, which can serve to confuse or misdirect predators
• Considered a living fossil because of its retention of some prehistoric characteristics, such as a bony throat plate and rounded caudal fin; one of only two surviving species of a group of fish that dates back to the Triassic (250 MYA)
• Have the ability to breathe both through their gills and through their lungs, gulping air from the surface.  Allows them to survive in low-oxygen conditions which would be fatal for other fish.  Well adapted to warm, acidic waters
• Have been observed aestivating in chambers dug  in the mud, sometimes prompted after being trapped in small pools during drought
• Commonly confused with the northern snakehead, which is now invasive in parts of its range
• Historically were considered a nuisance fish, one that predated more desirable game species, and there were efforts in some places to reduce their numbers.  Now more popular as a game species themselves because of their strength, fight.  Meat is typically not considered that desirable, but their eggs are a substitute for surgeon, sometimes sold as "Cajun caviar"

Tracking Toads in Yosemite

The flip side of visiting a zoo's amphibian collection is that sometimes who can see some pretty cool, rarely-exhibit native species, especially those with a limited geographic range (this also applies to reptiles as well).  Often, these species are also the subject of some pretty cool local conservation efforts, like the San Francisco Zoo's recent success in reintroducing the Yosemite toad to the wild!  Not only is this project bolstering the numbers of toads in the wild, but by tagging and tracking the toads, the Zoo will obtain new information on how these amphibians utilize their environment, which can improve efforts to protect them in the future.

Delicate Touch

The reptile keepers that I worked with were, on the whole, a pretty surly, unruly lot.  They drank hard and partied hard, staggering to work bleary-eyed in the morning, but always managing to sober up enough just in time to wrangle a cobra or a mamba.  They enjoyed pulling sometimes vicious practical jokes on one another, which may or may not have sometimes involved the animals.  They did NOT enjoy Sundays and Mondays.  That's because those were the scheduled days off of our designated amphibian keeper, which meant that one of them would have to cover her section.  

Compared to reptiles, amphibians, as a group, tend to be far more delicate.  They breathe through their absorbent skin, so are extra sensitive to chemicals and contaminants.  They have a much narrow range of suitable temperatures and humidities - on hot days, when the back of the reptile house was even hotter, I liked to sneak into the amphibian wing and do as much of my work as possible under the misters and chillers.  Whereas the reptile work was often rough and tumble, the amphibians required a gentle touch and minimal handling.  Furthermore, none of them provided the adrenaline rush or excitement that my colleagues craved.  It's a lot harder to feel like a badass at work when you're carefully misting thumbnail-sized frogs with a garden mister (filled with reverse-osmosis water) than it is when you're sidestepping a charging crocodile.  

At least once a week, I'd hear one of my co-workers swear that they wish they could just get the amphibians out of the building and not half to deal with them at all.  They only said this out of ear-shot of the amphibian keeper, of course.  She was the only woman in the department, and I don't think any of them wanted to ruin their chances with her.  (None of them had a chance, anyway).

I sometimes wonder how much of our amphibian collection monotony is driven by that appealing to the lowest common denominator of keeper.  In recent years, many zoos have moved away from specialized, taxon-based keepers to generalists, who are expected to work with a variety of species.  Jack of all trades, master of none - or, in some cases, master of one, but reluctant or disinterested caretaker to others.  I suspect that might be a main reason behind the failure of some zoos to breed some species which have been successfully managed in the past.  And nowhere, I suspect, would that be more notable than in that group of species which require the most delicate of care.

The Usual Ribbets

At most zoos, the amphibian collection is a fairly small affair, usually a few tanks interspersed in a main reptile house, or in a little building that they'll call the "Conservation Center" or "Discovery Center" or some such thing.  The amphibians present can usually be divided into two categories.  

The first - and usually the more interesting one to me - are the native species.  These interest me because they are usually the animals that are the most unique to the region, so I'm most likely to see animals which I'm not familiar with.  The collection of frogs in a Florida facility is going to be much different from that of one in Arizona.  Animals in these collections are, not uncommonly, collected locally (under approved permits), so even if a species isn't regularly bred under human care, you might see them.

The second group is usually what I think of as the boilerplate.  These are the same small handful of species which you can find at zoos around the country.  They might be selected for their size, or their color, or their unusual appearance, but most are selected for the same primary reason - they're available.  

There are only four Species Survival Plans for amphibians managed by AZA, and three of those are for native species with limited distribution.  The fourth is for the Panamanian golden frog.  It's a beautiful, flashy, easily-seen species, one with a compelling conservation story, worked-out husbandry, and a ready supply from the handful of facilities that regularly breed these endangered frogs.  I sometimes get a little exasperated when I see a zoo that has a small tank with a single-sex group of Panamanian golden frogs, puts up a sign about Amphibian Ark, and than pats itself on the back, telling everyone who will listen that they're helping.  In reality, most of them are just holding a few surplus animals for exhibit purposes, while the real conservation breeding takes place at a small number of zoos.   Which is fine, not every zoo is well-positioned to breed amphibians, but it sometimes feel like some zoos riding the coattails of others while not contributing as much to conservation.

Besides the golden frogs, there's a host of other popular frog species, such as the Vietnamese mossy frog, the tomato frog, and a cadre of poison dart frogs.  In recent years, the Lake Titicaca frog has gone from being a species almost unheard of in zoos to very common as its husbandry has become better understood and breeding has taken off.  

There's an overall decrease in the numbers of species in zoos, and in many cases that's unavoidable, and not always a bad thing.  If we make larger, more complex habitats for some animals, it stands to reason that we can't fit as many species within our facilities, and not all populations are sustainable.  It makes sense.  But amphibians are a group of animals for which I feel like we should be able to move the needle a little more on conservation.  They are small and breed explosively in the right conditions, as the golden frog and Titicaca frog (both non-existent in zoos thirty years ago) have shown.  For these species, it only takes a small number of zoos to maintain a viable population, and it could prove very useful for amphibians, which are among the most endangered of vertebrates.

When I see a frog gallery at a zoo that holds the same assortment of very common species (most of which are already well-established in the pet trade), I'm not just irked by the lack of originality and variety.  I see it as another sign of too many zoos and aquariums being risk averse, unwilling to accept challenges, and preferring to play it safe rather than try something different that could have the potential to build a secure population of an endangered species.

Saving the Boreal Toad

 

Species Fact Profile: Greater Siren (Siren lacertina)

                                                          Greater Siren

                                           Siren lacertina (Linnaeus, 1766)

Range: Southeastern United States.   Possible presence in northern Mexico.

Habitat: Freshwater Wetlands

Diet:  Aquatic Invertebrates, Small Fish, Algae

Social Grouping:  Solitary

Reproduction:  Mating takes place in late winter and early spring.  Typically migrate into shallower water to lay eggs.  After eggs (up to 500 per clutch) are laid, the male will aggressively guard the nest,  The eggs hatch after two months and are independent at this time.

Lifespan: 25 Years

      Conservation Status:  IUCN Least Concern

• Body length up to 1.5 meters, weigh up to 1 kilogram - one of the largest salamanders in the Western hemisphere.  Hindlimbs are absent, while the forelimbs are very small.  External, branching gills
• Coloration variable, but generally an olive or gray color with small yellow spots along the sides.  Juveniles often have a light stripe along the side which fades as the animal ages
• Almost exclusively aquatic, but have the ability to crawl out of water, sometimes seen on land.  Despite having gills, can also gulp air from the surface.
• Nocturnal, typically spend the day hiding in dense vegetation or under logs
• Surprisingly vocal, able to produce a series of clicks or kelps (may startle potential predators)
• Able to aestivate, sometimes for up to three years, by burrowing into the mud and encasing themselves in a cocoon of dead skin cells
• Predators include large snakes and American alligators.  Primary defensive mechanism is hiding, but will also try to swim to escape or deliver painful bites

An American Duck

Ben Franklin famously (if apophrycally) suggested that the wild turkey would be a better fit for a national bird than the bald eagle.  The AZA's Anseriformes (Waterfowl) TAG has countered with its own proposal - the North American ruddy duck.  It would make sense - it's an American native, found over much of the country.  It's a very plucky bird which can be fearless when defending itself and its young.  And a male in breeding plumage is red, white, and blue.

(Less favorably, it's an invasive species outside of its range, having conquered parts of the globe.  Make what you will of that.  The male's penis is also frighteningly large in comparison to its body, so make what you will of that too).

Anyway, Happy Fourth of July. 

The First Look

I used to live in the Washington DC area and, as happens when one lives in that area, it wasn't too uncommon for friends (including some who I hadn't seen for quite some time) to drop in - ostensibly to see me.  Mostly to play tourist.  Even years later, DC is probably the city that I know the best, if only from having to lead to so many impromptu tours.  Not surprisingly, the National Zoo was always a highlight for visitors from out of town, but they rarely wanted to stay for too long to see all (or even most of) the animals.  

Most folks wanted to pop in to see the pandas, either to check another DC sight off their bucket list, alongside the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial, or to see a famous animal that they'd never seen before and would likely never see again.  For my more animal-loving friends, there was something significant about seeing a giant panda for the first time, like a rite of passage.  For those folks, it was something that they would always remember.

I was pretty young when I first went to the National Zoo, and as such I don't remember the first time that I saw a giant panda.  I do remember the first time I saw a koala, however - it was the same week that I saw my first okapi, bonobo, black rhinoceros, takin, California condor, and a few dozen other species at San Diego (some of which I haven't seen since, and wish I'd paid for attention to in the moment).  I remember the first saltwater crocodile I saw, the enormous Maximo, eye-to-eye at the underwater viewing window of St. Augustine Alligator Farm.  I remember the first manatees in SeaWorld Orlando, which somehow made much more of an impression on me than the famous orcas.

Even after years of visiting zoos and aquariums, it's not too unusual for me to visit a large facility and see a species that's new to me.  For the most part, though, it'll be a species that I've never heard of before; I might not even realize it's new to me until I get home and am going through my photos.  Far less common is having an animal that I'd known about ever since I was a child, always been interested in, and finally seeing in person.  That's a much more special experience - I find myself immediately thinking of everything I'd ever read or heard of or seen on a documentary, while the actual animal is in front of me.  No matter how much I think I know about the animal, it always manages to surprise me in that fact that it's... well, that it's there.  That it's real.  Reading and preparing help me better appreciate the animal when I see it - but they're no substitution for the actual thrill.

A few years back, shortly after the pandemic, I went back to San Diego.  It was my third time visiting both the zoo and the safari park, but I mostly went with one animal in mind.  I was at the park the moment the gates opened in the morning, and I went straight to the Australian area, where I immediately went to the one indoor exhibit in the park.  There, for half and hour or so, I sat entranced, watching the duck-billed platypus swimming through the dark waters of its pool.  I'd heard from many people who had seen them that they were surprised at how small platypuses are in person - far from being the size of an otter, they're closer to a guinea pig.  I should have known this - besides, I'd seen stuffed platypuses in museums - but I was still shocked.  But what really surprised me was how fast it was - the little guy was almost impossible to get pictures of as he zoomed through the water, stopping briefly to forage before zipping away again.  All my life I wanted to see a platypus - a live platypus - on the flesh and fur.  This animal surprised me.  It didn't even come close to disappointing me.

Walking around the grounds of my zoo as an adult, I'm mindful that there are folks here each day who likely have never seen a rhinoceros, or a giraffe, or a lion in real life before.  They might only have known them from internet sites and movies, and now they find themselves suddenly confronted with the real thing - the smells, the sounds, the undeniable presence of the animal.  In that moment, they know it's real - not CGI or pixelated, not something that was filmed years ago - but an actual animal in the same moment in time and space as they are.  

I really to envy them.  It's not often that I get to see an animal that I've always wanted to in person for the first time.  And as rare as those encounters are for me these days, I try to savor them all the more when they do occur.

From the News: Giant Pandas from China have safely arrived at the San Diego Zoo

 Giant Pandas from China have safely arrived at the San Diego Zoo