We Bought a Zoo. Benjamin Mee

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СКАЧАТЬ He got the idea and I was soon in the checkout queue, restlessly shifting my weight and craning over the three people in front of me to see how long they were likely to take. Now, my tolerance for the dead time in checkout queues is minimal even when I’m not in a hurry. Over the years I have developed Zazen breathing strategies, and trained myself not to focus on the inevitable sequence of minor ineptitudes which could have been avoided and slow the queue down. But this wasn’t working. I was in full emergency mode – a couple of hours before I was making life-and-death decisions for the first time in my life, there was still a volatile big cat prowling around up the road in the wrong place, and it was going dark and I needed to complete this purchase so that work could continue on keeping it contained. And this was not a proficient checkout. The operator seemed bemused by her till, and everyone around me was moving in treacle. Then, as the first transaction finally meandered to its conclusion, the departing customer stepped smartly back into line and reached for a packet of marsh mallows; ‘Ooh, I forgot these,’ he said. I very nearly cracked and went into manual override. My hand was twitching towards the bag of fatuous pink and white confectionery to snatch it away, stamp on it, and demand to be processed next. But I didn’t. Deep breaths. And eventually it was over and I was speeding back through the darkness towards the emergency.

      On the home straight an obstruction loomed in the headlights. Unbelievably, the guys in the transits I’d passed earlier had closed the road between me leaving the park and returning. Concrete barriers were down, and a sign said it would be closed for the next four months to build a power station. The diversion signs weren’t up yet and my mental map of the area was scanty to say the least, and it was a further half an hour of getting lost down identical single track back lanes before I eventually tore up the drive and set off at a run for the top tiger enclosure.

      A single 60 watt bulb had been rigged up, and I rapidly set about wiring up the lamp using the Leatherman tool on my belt. I’ve wired tens, maybe a hundred or so, such lights in my time, but for this one I noticed that my hands were shaking slightly, and I wasn’t doing a very good job. Doing it 18 inches away from Spar, the elderly but massive and menacing Siberian tiger, didn’t help. Sporting a small bloodied cut on his ear from an earlier encounter with Sovereign, Spar was naturally spooked by the afternoon’s events, and didn’t like unfamiliar people working in his house at strange hours of the day. He was as unsettled by my presence as I was by his, and kept up an impossibly low and ominous growl, occasionally reaching a crescendo with a roar and a short lunge at the weld-mesh between us, his big orange eyes wide and locked onto me at all times. These noises travel right through you, resonating in your sternum and sending alarm signals to your primitive midbrain, which is already awash with worry trying to suppress the distressing news from the eyes, warning of massive predator proximity and imminent death. Perhaps understandably, in stripping the flex I cut too deeply into the wire, and the terminal connections were messy. But it would do.

      When the light eventually flooded on I confessed to Rob, as our acting Health and Safety Officer, that its wiring might have to be redone later under more conducive conditions. His drawn face smiled sympathetically, and he said, ‘It’ll do for now.’

      John, Paul and Rob worked quickly to finish the inside of the fourth chamber, with the unspoken efficiency of men who knew what they were doing and had worked together for a long time. Duncan had been exploring the dart-gun situation. The nearest zoo, Paignton, couldn’t lend us theirs because it wasn’t licensed for use off site. Our park’s previous reputation in recent years, and our much heralded inexperience can’t have helped with their assessment of the situation, and this sense of fiasco, the public perception of it, and what it might mean for our prospects, now had time to sink in.

      Rob finally secured a dart gun and a licensed operative who was prepared to travel down – Bob Lawrence, senior ranger at the Midlands Safari Park – but it was decided that because Sovereign was contained, Bob would come down in the morning. Opinion on the ground was, quite reasonably, that the cat was contained in an enclosure designed to contain big cats, and the risk was minimal. We began trying to lure him into the finished fourth cat chamber by placing meat just inside the door, and though the presence of meat had an almost chemical effect on this muscular predator and brought him to the lip several times, his instincts for self-preservation held him back. He was just too canny, and too spooked, to surrender his new territory in order to jump into a small house for a free meal.

      Mike advised that we kept a vigil from a car next to the enclosure, and at the first sign of trouble, like Sovereign trying to climb the wire mesh fencing, call for the firearms. Rob went to sleep on the sofa in the keeper’s cottage with the gun next to him, and I moved my mum’s car as close as I could, and settled down with a flask of coffee and a torch. Every half an hour, Mike said, I should shine the torch and make sure Sovereign was calm – and most importantly, still there. ‘Don’t get out of the car,’ warned Mike. ‘If he has got out, you won’t hear him, and he’ll be waiting outside the door.’ Unfortunately, as the evening drew in, sensible Sovereign decided it was safe to sit in the empty chamber, though he kept a watchful eye on anyone approaching the house. This meant I couldn’t see him from the car, so every half hour I had to open the door, half-expecting 100 kilos of muscle, teeth and claws to come bursting in, then, when it didn’t, walk a few paces into the darkness which may or may not contain a large angry Jaguar, and shine the torch. My confidence grew with each sighting of the two reflective eyes staring back at me from the house. Sovereign wasn’t going anywhere, and at 5.00 am Duncan relieved me in the car.

      Bob Lawrence arrived at about 7.30 am with the dart gun. With things hanging off his belt and an Indiana Jones hat, Bob was a very reassuring presence to have on site. If there was a rhino loose (not that we had any), you felt he could deal with it. The vet arrived with the necessary sedatives, and at the third attempt Sovereign was successfully darted, unfortunately, it appeared, in the tip of his sheath, and he jumped around angrily until he began to slow down, scowling and prowling, glaring at us through the wire. You got the impression he was memorizing faces, so that if he got out again he’d know who to punish for this indignity.

      There was a danger that, drugged, Sovereign may fall into the moat and drown, so I sent for a ladder, mainly to use to push him out with, but I secretly decided that if it looked even remotely possible, I was prepared to climb down the ladder into the water to drag him out. But that wasn’t necessary. Sovereign went down like a lamb, and we rushed into the enclosure to stretcher him out. Back in the safety of his own house – microscopically examined for flaws which may have contributed to the incident – Sovereign got a quick dental and general health check. It’s not often you get to peer into this kind of animal’s mouth without it being terminal, so the vet made good use of the time.

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