I got into the habit of cleaning up after Richard Parker. Assoon as I became aware that he had had a bowel movement,I went about getting to it, a risky operation involving nudginghis feces my way with the gaff and reaching for them from thetarpaulin. Feces can be infected with parasites. This does notmatter with animals in the wild since they rarely spend anytime next to their feces and mostly have a neutral relationshipto them; tree dwellers hardly see them at all and land animalsnormally excrete and move on. In the compact territory of azoo, however, the case is quite different, and to leave feces inan animal's enclosure is to invite reinfection by encouraging theanimal to eat them, animals being gluttons for anything thatremotely resembles food. That is why enclosures are cleaned,out of concern for the intestinal health of animals, not to sparethe eyes and noses of visitors. But upholding the Patel family'sreputation for high standards in zookeeping was not myconcern in the case at hand. In a matter of weeks RichardParker became constipated and his bowel movements came nomore than once a month, so my dangerous janitoring washardly worth it from a sanitary point of view. It was foranother reason that I did it: it was because the first timeRichard Parker relieved himself in the lifeboat, I noticed that hetried to hide the result. The significance of this was not lost onme. To display his feces openly, to flaunt the smell of them,would have been a sign of social dominance. Conversely, tohide them, or try to, was a sign of deference – of deference tome.
I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, hishead cocked back and his ears flat to the sides, a quiet,sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptionalalertness and deliberation, not only to preserve my life but alsoto give him the right signal. The right signal was that when Ihad his feces in my hand, I rolled them about for someseconds, brought them close to my nose and sniffed themloudly, and swung my gaze his way a few times in a showymanner, glaring at him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew)long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as toprovoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I blew in alow, menacing way in the whistle. By doing this, by badgeringhim with my eyes (for, of course, with all animals, including us,to stare is an aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle crythat had such ominous associations in his mind, I made clearto Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, tofondle and sniff his feces if I wanted to. So you see, it wasnot good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological bullying.
And it worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gazealways floated in mid-air, neither on me nor off me. It wassomething I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrementin my hand: mastery in the making. The exercise always leftme utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated.
Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated asRichard Parker. It was the result of our diet, too little waterand too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthlyact, was hardly that. It was a long-drawn, arduous and painfulevent that left me bathing in sweat and helpless withexhaustion, a trial worse than a high fever.
I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, hishead cocked back and his ears flat to the sides, a quiet,sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptionalalertness and deliberation, not only to preserve my life but alsoto give him the right signal. The right signal was that when Ihad his feces in my hand, I rolled them about for someseconds, brought them close to my nose and sniffed themloudly, and swung my gaze his way a few times in a showymanner, glaring at him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew)long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as toprovoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I blew in alow, menacing way in the whistle. By doing this, by badgeringhim with my eyes (for, of course, with all animals, including us,to stare is an aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle crythat had such ominous associations in his mind, I made clearto Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, tofondle and sniff his feces if I wanted to. So you see, it wasnot good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological bullying.
And it worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gazealways floated in mid-air, neither on me nor off me. It wassomething I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrementin my hand: mastery in the making. The exercise always leftme utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated.
Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated asRichard Parker. It was the result of our diet, too little waterand too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthlyact, was hardly that. It was a long-drawn, arduous and painfulevent that left me bathing in sweat and helpless withexhaustion, a trial worse than a high fever.