Thoughts on a Child
Erin Douglass
RoarAugust 2007
Roxy has fallen in love with animals. Not just cats and dogs and the super cool fish in the aquarium at her daycare. We're talking elephants, hippos, turtles, monkeys and something with the unfortunate name of "urial."
Jon and I have certainly played a part in cultivating this early life crush. We read aloud Baby Animals chunky board books, place her in front of World Animals Baby Einstein DVDs, fill her crib with all manner of stuffed rhinos, sharks and bugs.
Still, it's gotten a little out of hand.
"She'll be able to say 'ibex' before she can name her cousins," I told Jon the other night as Roxy leaned over the side of her highchair to identify the leopard on her safari-themed drop-cloth.
Consequently, several weeks ago, during a brief maternal grandparents visit, five of us piled into my parents' mini van and roared up the 5 to the Los Angeles Zoo.
This poor zoo gets a lot of flak. An elephant died under its care not long ago. Fires threatened its edges in May. The new primate zone has been under construction for, what, decades? And where are the exotic treasures — the panda keep, the fancy new penguin preserve, not to mention the environmentally tasteful grounds?
I say, embrace our zoo. Love its hardscrabble spot on the smoggy edge of Griffith Park. Relish the unsung quirks of its collection (who knew they had Babirusa pigs and Visayan warty pigs?). Enjoy the twisty asphalt paths, the bountiful local flora, the sheer diversity of the families and couples and children who jam the entrance every weekend.
Upon arrival, Jon plunked Roxy into the baby backpack, heaved it onto his shoulders and lead the way to the entrance.
The first stop, sadly, disappointed. Sea Lion Cliffs, the Disneyesque habitat complete with rock formations, waterfalls and ever-flowing, gentle currents, was closed for renovation. As we pressed our noses to the tank's 12-foot glass wall, Roxy stared open-mouthed at the clear blue pool. It could be the nicest body of water on this side of town.
Under the beating sun, we lumbered up the steps, avoided the first retail onslaught of animal-themed gewgaws, passed under a ceremonial arch and came to an abrupt halt at the churro cart.
"We have yet to see an animal and we're already snacking," I said, as my dad got into line.
While the four of us waited in the shade, I finally spotted beyond the oil-free sugared almond stand our first occupied exhibit, the black swans. My mom and I sped over, Jon and Roxy on our heels.
"WOW!" I cried, pointing to one of the shyer, back-of-the-enclosure birds. "It's a swan, Roxy!! And it's black!" Roxy followed our pointing fingers to the slow-moving creature and locked eyes on it.
My father returned with the hot, chewy cinnamon sticks. While Roxy tracked the swans, we wolfed down our churros.
Bellies full of fried dough, we picked a direction and marched up the road. The dusty-green smell of eucalyptus filled the air. Rounding the first left, we spotted the American alligator exhibit directly ahead.
Grateful that Roxy was buckled into a backpack rather than a let-it-all-hang-out frontpack, I peered over the edge. The black, bumpy beast sprawled along the bottom of its compound — a concrete, sky-blue bowl that looked more like a skateboard ramp than the home for a ferocious reptile. Once again, Roxy fixed her eyes on the animal and wouldn't let go.
"In Florida they say it's not a good idea to squat down and change a flat tire on your own."
We looked around. An older woman in khakis and wide-brimmed hat was smiling at us and pointing at the alligator.
"These guys are smart. They'll sneak up and get you."
It turns out we'd found an actual zoo docent, at her post to share facts and fun.
And share she did. She told us about friendly senior citizens, again in The Sunshine State, who unwittingly feed alligators only to have the creatures follow them home. When the seniors refuse to welcome them in, the alligators proceed to knock on the doors with snout and tail.
As someone who has only been to Florida once — and not even south of Tallahassee — I found this horrifying. Roxy, however, was unfazed. She gazed down at the placid beast, perhaps trying to reconcile it with the always green, always smiling alligators in her board books.
Next, we meandered over to the kinder, gentler marsupials — kangaroos, koalas and some lost-looking wombats — followed by an enormous, tubby bird.
"Um..." I said, searching for the official zoo signage. "Is it an ostrich?"
"It's a double-wattled cassowary," read Jon.
As families and couples gathered to stare, the cassowary waddled up to the front of his enclosure, presented his profile for us all to admire and let loose a pile of excrement the size of a whoopee-cushion.
The crowd giggled and pointed. Roxy craned her neck, searching for the star of the show. I thanked God that the double-wattled cassowary is a flightless bird.
Then our feathery friend turned around and scrutinized the fresh pile. Leaning down, he plucked an orange sliver from the green-brown goo and swallowed it.
A swell of groans and peanut-gallery jeers enveloped us. Jon stuck out his tongue and walked away, determined to prevent the scene from registering with Roxy. Before I could follow, a boy to my left nudged my elbow. "Did the bird eat its poop?!!"
"Yes," I nodded, trying to maintain a neutral, scientific tone. I turned and followed Jon, my parents trailing peacefully behind.
The rest of the afternoon featured a delightful assortment of antelope-like creatures, primates, giraffes and "bippos" — Roxy's term for a hippo.
Finally, we reached the lions.
Roxy is particularly fond of lions. When she spots one in a book or magazine, she lets out a satisfying, guttural roar. Lately, perhaps in honor of the lion's superior jungle status, Roxy has been roaring for a variety of other animals, frogs included.
We picked out the creatures immediately. There was the proud male himself, lolling under a central shade tree. A female slept off to the left in her own shady patch.
As Roxy watched, bug-eyed, the King slowly rose, yawned and wandered over to the Queen. He batted her nose, but she refused to move. He head-butted her side. After several seconds, she stood up and stalked to center stage. The King followed.
"I have a bad feeling about this," I said, watching the male approach the female from behind. Sure enough, once the Queen had settled back into the dry grass, the King climbed on top of her and, well, got to work.
A woman to my right belted, "OK, kids! Who wants chicken fingers?" She winked at me as her brood cheered. "They don't need to see this at the zoo."
I'm not sure what she was worried about, because five seconds later, the King dismounted his female friend. Throwing back his head, he let out an impressive roar.
Roxy grinned.