For many years there was an enclosure at the western edge of the park; three or four acres of fenced-in marshy area containing a few whitetail deer, which park goers could come watch in what was touted as natural habitat.
The inhabitants of this natural habitat rarely showed themselves. More often than not, they stayed in the interior of the enclosure, hidden in the tall grass, leaving few signs of their existence: the occasional scat visible through the chain link fence, a ragged tuft of brown fur clinging to it, perhaps, and these combining to create the unmistakable odor of (any) animals living in a confined space. But that was about it. The only reliable clarification that deer were anywhere in the vicinity was a posted wooden sign that announced, in no uncertain terms, Whitetail Deer, prompting visitors without further instruction to wait and see if they could catch sight of one. There was a feed dispenser as well. 25 cents bought you a handful of dent corn and the possibility - if you were lucky, patient - that a deer might emerge from the tall grass, approach the fence and eat out of your hands.
Growing up I spent many summer afternoons in the park, fistful of corn at the ready. On the rare occasion a deer made an appearance (always a doe; never once spotted a buck), I can't say I was all that impressed. They seemed to creep unsteadily over the gravel and straw beneath their hooves toward my outstretched hand and stop short - always stop short - of taking the offering, dark eyes gazing vapidly at me, ears twitching erratically as though their head had short-circuited. I'd stretch my arm as far as possible through the portal in the chain link, rattle the corn around in the palm of my hand a bit, maybe offer a cooing 'Come on...it's okay...' (as one might coax a kitten to jump onto one's lap), but it did no good. Invariably, these tired creatures chose to forsake the corn, turning and walking off, their slow, arthritic gait suggesting neither apprehension nor comprehension; at best, a low-wattage disinterest in everything.
I don't think this wholly uninspired behavior was due to malnourishment or maltreatment. These penned-in deer were simply couch potatoes, lazy and domesticated, a far cry from the swift, alert denizens of the forest I saw bounding with a flash of white in and out of the thicket behind my house. And it got me thinking, though not knowing exactly why, that this was no way for them to be living.
I wasn't the only one. The deer park was a frequent target for animal rights activists in the late-1980s. Ordinarily, their dissent took the form of a letter to the local newspaper calling for the park's closure; less frequently a live appeal before the city council. But every once in a great while, some naive albeit well-meaning individual (usually a young college student, immersing himself for the first time in a newly realized freedom to set the world - which he'd been watching deteriorate throughout his childhood - on the right track...), would sneak into the park late at night and cut the chain link fence open in hopes of setting the deer free.
If any deer escaped, they didn't get far, and such efforts did little but arouse the ire of town officials, who insisted that setting the deer free did more harm than good because the animals had become too domesticated to survive in the wild. This argument made sense, yet I couldn't shake the thought that the animal rights folks had a point. I'd seen it, and felt it, myself after all: they weren't in especially bad shape, probably not unhappy or mistreated, but there was nevertheless something off - something not right- about these deer in captivity.
By the 1990s, the protesters were raising questions about not only the morality, but the efficacy of the deer park. Times had changed. Deer were no longer a special thing to see. The state's wild population was well over one million, and the species was not only becoming a hazard on roadways but encroaching into suburban areas freely. In my town, it was strange not to wake up and find whitetails raiding a garden or bedding down behind the neighbor's garage.
A deer park was no longer a big deal. Everyone had their own.
By the mid-2000s, in addition to ethical and functional questions, the deer park had become a financial burden, and that was what spelled the end. I don't know how it came to pass, or what became of the animals (if there were any left by that time) but the deer park was closed down.
The tragedy at Orlando's SeaWorld this week, during which an experienced trainer possessing a reportedly loving relationship with the animals she worked with on a day-to-day basis was grabbed by an orca (killer whale), pulled underwater and drowned in front of spectators, got me thinking about that deer park; specifically the varied and complex relationships humanity has with the natural world and the animals that inhabit it.
I'm by no means an animal rights kook. I eat meat...love it, in fact. I believe that our species is supposed to love it, that we're intended to take advantage of the resources available us, like any animal in the food chain. I support the rights of hunters and fishermen (am myself an avid fisherman), believe that, contrary to stereotypes, most are stewards of the land who strive for clean shots and either practice catch and release or obey bag limits, fully understanding that such regulations are put in place with their interests in mind. I believe that while Humanity's relationship with animals is inherently violent, and has been through time, our treatment of the animals we quarry for food and put to work for us has - on balance - become consistently more humane through the ages; certainly in the last century a whole new consciousness about this treatment has arisen. That being said, there is still much work to be done. With the rights implicit in being at the top of the food chain come a host of responsibilities, which are not always being met by certain people at certain times.
I won't bother mentioning things like dog fighting and cock fighting; these and other wanton acts of animal cruelty, usually going on underground and illegally, are universally criticized. There's no way to stop it from happening really, but when it's discovered, every effort is made to put a stop to it. Sadly, that's probably as good as it's ever going to get.
Nor will I spend any time decrying the methods by which we slaughter the animals we eat - the huge chicken and cattle yards where so much filth and carnage reportedly begets our Saturday ribeye and Sunday fried chicken. Though to some this is no more humane a process than cock-fighting, it is legal - an industry too deeply embedded in our society's infrastructure for much to change anytime soon. An argument for another time, perhaps...another blog.
The complex and touchy subject of animal testing too demands another time and place. On the issue, I'm ambivalent. I believe it depends largely on what's being tested, and what testers hope to accomplish.
A cure for cancer, right on.
A new make-up that won't sweat off in the sun, no way.
Some new biological weapon to level human populations in another hemisphere, forget it.
'Accountability', 'watchdog'....these words should be part of any relationship we have with animals in a testing environment, to minimize and/or eliminate exploitation and undue suffering. And frankly, I think I could be swayed to denounce the entire practice.
What gets me uneasy is the use of animals for our entertainment. Generally, any scenario where a species is being trained (forced) to do something it wouldn't normally do, exposed to unnecessary pain and stress for no reason other than spectacle, is, to say the very least, troublesome.
I don't know why this should upset me more than animal testing, chickens being bred in their own excrement, or cattle being abused before getting put to death with a steel rod to the skull. Maybe because we are too entertained these days. With so much out there, so many options for keeping ourselves nice and distracted, anything even marginally reminiscent of with our past dalliances with animal blood sport seems not only unnecessary, but fatuous.
Even still, I'm willing to concede some shades of gray. Things like rodeos and bull-fighting are quickly defended by people who think of them as tradition, and I'll grudgingly go along with this. Not so much because I think in this day and age driving spears into a bull's back and watching it die in ever-decreasing circles, or wrapping a belt around its balls to piss it off then jumping on top of it for 8 seconds are either traditions worth preserving or a reasonable barometer of manhood, but because at least - at the very least - these activities involve domesticated animals. Species that have slowly, over time, been acclimated to live amongst humans - to serve our needs, satiate our appetite, and for better or worse, indulge our folly.
Problems arise when we throw wild animals into our midst. The worst example of this would seem to be the exotic pet phenomenon - people harboring large reptiles and snakes, poisonous or otherwise, big cats, big apes, bizarre birds from far-off lands and sometimes things completely out of left field, like kangaroos, civets, bears or hyenas (it apparently does happen...) with little concern for how doing so might adversely affect their lives, the lives of those around them or the environment. Too often, without really understanding the animal's needs, physiology or life expectancy (some species of parrots live longer than most humans!), they mistakenly treat their new best friend as they would a house cat or dog, or become hell-bent on anthropomorphizing every instinctive thing it does in an effort to legitimize owning it. This invariably leads to living in ultra-close proximity to it, and allowing it to do things they would never let an ordinary pet get away with.
But at least exotic pet ownership has a flavor of personal choice. There are larger and more organized menageries being cobbled together purely for spectacle and profit, which many of us don't give a second thought to. Circuses, for instance, where horror stories of animal abuse periodically rise out of the flatulent morass of the collective greatest show on Earth.
There is something to be learned from circuses, actually. Every time an African elephant brings down a big top in an angry spray of splintered tent poles, peanuts and human body parts, it's a reminder that perhaps these animals should not be getting forced to stand on their heads and walk around in a circle and wave at the crowd with their trunks. They don't want to 'wave' at the crowd.
They neither like, nor trust, the crowd. They're wild animals. Why do we delude ourselves into thinking otherwise?
In this same vein can be found a host of smaller animal parks sprinkled across the country and the world, where 'handlers' (should anybody be a handler of a wild animal? Can anyone be...?) purport a special bond with their animals that allows them to do really stupid things, like jumping on the backs of alligators, swatting tigers on the nose and sticking their heads inside a lion's mouth...all for the amusement of paying customers.
Do we need to see this? Is it worth the price of admission? Worth the risk to the 'handler'...to the audience...to the animal?
It is essentially what goes on at SeaWorld: wild animals are held captive in a confined space and taught to behave unnaturally, for our entertainment.
In fairness, I don't regard SeaWorld the way I do any average circus. SeaWorld is just someone's antiquated idea; conceived, I believe, in an age when families did not have the options they have today, for either entertainment or education. In the 1960s and 70s, who knew about killer whales? They and their flippered brethren were mysterious to most people, especially those living away from the ocean, where nothing about them or the lives they live on this blue marble was likely to come up in conversation. A place like SeaWorld provided an up-close-and-personal encounter with these marvelous creatures for people who might otherwise never get to see such a thing.
That's not true today, just as it is no longer true that seeing a whitetail deer holds the cachet it did when my hometown opened its deer park decades ago. We live in the information age. No small amount of literature, photos and video - live and otherwise - is available on the Internet or in libraries about orcas and every other type of marine animal, and they are featured on countless television shows and movies.
Not the same as seeing one in person? Of course not. But that's what aquariums and zoos around the world are for.
Which brings up an important point: animals, even wild ones, kept in captivity strictly for educational/appreciation purposes is (marginally) acceptable, if it's done with their comfort in mind. And that would make SeaWorld acceptable, were that all that was going on. But it's not. SeaWorld likes to tread a fine line between education and entertainment, but people don't go there to learn; they go to watch 'Shamu' do flips, swim backwards on its tail, sling-shot a trainer off the tip of its nose and beg for a piece of fish.
And does that need to be going on? Should these multi-ton animals - any multi-ton animals - be sentenced to living in cement pools so that we can laugh, cheer and clap our hands when they spit water on the guy sitting next to us? Should they be anthropomorphized to the point where we're considering them one of us, considering them friends, considering it appropriate to watch trainers take rides on their backs, and therefore believe they like what they're doing? That they enjoy the stardom?
Is that part of our God-given dominion over animals? Should we be riding on an animal's back for any other reason than to get from one place to another?
I'm sure the animals at SeaWorld are treated just fine, and that the tragedy with this hapless trainer was an isolated event (although this particular orca apparently has a 'history' of erratic behavior and has been involved in similar incidents in the past, it is now being revealed). I still don't think they need to be played with. We think we know them; this ties into our propensity to turn them into friends, laugh when they do almost-human things, convince ourselves that they're smiling at us with their little bristly teeth...almost child-like, right? But we don't know them.
They're not smiling.
We were reminded of this at SeaWorld in Orlando.
A woman in Connecticut found this out last year at the mercy of a chimpanzee named Travis that had no business living the life it had been allowed to live up until that awful day.
Siegfried and Roy learned a harsh lesson in 2003 with one of the tigers in their act.
That same year, the same week in fact, Timothy Treadwell paid the ultimate price for wanting to believe he had made some kind of connection with the Alaskan grizzly bears he considered family.
Perhaps that's why the bedraggled deer in the enclosure back home rarely made an appearance and always stopped before they reached the fence. Maybe they knew, if only instinctively (but hey, instinct is what keeps them alive), that no matter how much I wanted them to, no matter how hungry they were, they simply were not put on this Earth to eat corn out of my hand, and I was not put on this Earth to feed it to them.
