| Love, Tyrone |
|
Food would soon be his friend. If he was lucky, he may even
get a treat, a tasty piece of fruit, perhaps a little on the rotten
side, but fruit nonetheless. The men came in his direction. He
could see the cup in the keeper's hand, the mean man, big and
powerful. Soon his hair would drip with icy-cold water, stinging
his eyes and blinding him for a moment. He would shiver with cold
and rage. Not understanding why, never understanding-why? He took
refuge in the corner, tried to climb out of the water's reach,
but he knew it was pointless. Keeper took careful aim at his face,
and even though he anticipated the chill, knew it would come,
the cold still surprised him. He quickly turned his head away
from the spray, only to slam into cold, unforgiving bars. There
was nowhere to run. Again and again the water stung his eyes,
he couldn't see the man. The spray invaded his nostrils-he sputtered
and opened his mouth to purchase sweet air, but the water invaded
his lungs instead. Coughing spasms racked his body, making his
ribs ache with searing pain.
Keeper's voice grated and boomed, angry, always angry. His
eyes still stung, but he could see the blurred outline of the
keeper. He would not let him win today. Today, only today, he
would not charge the man, his face split with a grimace in fear,
frustration, and rage. He was so cold his joints ached with stiffness,
the bones of his legs burned with the sting of bruises, the cuts
on his shins bled again. His hands were raw, open blisters, oozing
tiny drops of blood. His only thought was that perhaps Keeper
would grow tired of this nasty game and let him bask in the warmth
of the sun, and let it work its magic and heal his hurts. He looked
down to see his waste swirl to the platform's edge and drop off
the side. He dared not look at Keeper, for surely he would be
punished more. His body throbbed with pain, his heart felt leaden,
his legs and feet numb, prickled with cold. The shuddering shook
his body until his teeth rattled. Keeper never gave up so easily.
This was hard to understand. A few moments passed in forbidding
quiet. He saw Keeper's shadow, shoulders bunched with tension,
fists in big balls at his sides. The cup wasn't in his hand, or
the hose, but gripped in iron was the long thing, the hard Plexiglas
rod that made the terrible noise.
Dripping with cold water, wet to the skin, teeth banging
together, hands trembling, he chanced to look at Keeper, and glanced
quickly away. He didn't understand what he had done to make Keeper
so angry. He slowly reached his bleeding, open palm toward the
man. In appeasement, with his head down, he murmured soft cooing
noises in supplication. Searing pain slammed into his hand, raced
up his arm, exploded in his spine. His scream of pain filled the
quiet air as he cowered in the corner. His cries went soft, the
birds and animals waited in nervous silence, listening for danger.
"You ugly bastard, I said, 'wake up!'" Keeper screamed
at him, the rod in his hand glinted in the pale light, he saw
the spark. Clanging on metal, the bars reverberated with the harsh
sound, and he could feel it, even on the opposite side. Fearing
for his life, tiring of the game, he lunged straight for Keeper's
hand. Lips vanished, yellowed teeth aimed for grip on Keeper's
arm. Instead, the rod found it's mark, and the clang crashed in
his ears. He looked quickly around, desperately seeking a face
like his, hoping against hope that there was another of his kind
he could enlist for help, but he knew he had long been alone.
He raced, jumped high above Keeper's head, crashed into the bars,
retreated to the corner, charged and leapt anew. The noise of
his rage should have been enough to rid him of his enemy. Keeper
did not turn and run, but his hatred spewed from him. At every
pass, Keeper hurt him with the water. Every hair stood on end,
his lips peeled back to reveal the long incisors. His screams
ripped holes in the sky, his humiliation and rage poured from
every cell of his being.
It stopped. Slowly, slowly, Keeper moved away, the rod in
his hand dropped to the ground, a hideous grimace crossed his
naked face, at long last, he turned and walked away. It was over.
His heart pounded a cadence in his chest, banging and rattling
his ribs until felt as if they would crack under the burden. His
lungs ached from the insult. His bruised and battered body felt
weak, as if it would fail him. He moved to the corner, his stomach
protested the lack of food, his heart rending for lack of companionship.
He sought comfort, waiting for the warm sun to reach him.
He watched as plumes of vapor rose from hair and skin, and
waited for the shaking to stop. His belly made those strange noises,
and he cocked his head to listen. The rough cement was drying,
and would soon warm enough for him to lay down his head to rest.
No straw comforted his bones. Hard, cold things were all he knew,
and hunger. Not only hunger for food, but hunger for kindness.
He had long since stopped hoping for kindness, he knew he would
not find it here, and he didn't know why.
He lay down on the hard floor, warming in the sunshine, drowsing
and dreaming of green things to touch, smell, taste, eat, and
sleep upon-soft things. Things that didn't grate his skin, or
make his stiff joints ache. Tall trees with green leaves sticking
out all around. He dreamed of a strong smell in his face... the
tickle of hair, the sweet taste found when he latched onto soft
skin and suckled. is belly full and round, chubby fingers cling
tightly to long, stiff, black hair. Looking at green things, faces
like his, upside down. Warm softness caresses his skin, gentle
scratching through his hair, playing with the Others. Soft darkness
falling around him, safe kept in his mother's embrace deep in
the nest of the tallest tree. Through the long night the nest
sways with gentle breezes. Now and again, he hears the sounds
of fear, the Others calling for reassurance from their nests,
quiet paws of the long-tooths prowling for meat in the night.
Sweet smells of earth, flowers, and fruit, damp leaves warming
in the first light, wake his senses. Soon it is time to go, the
long climb from the nest to the earth begins. The Others greet
him, sniff his head, pat him gently, part his hair to scratch
at a scab, when his mother allows it. Food found, calls to each
other begin. Smacking loudly, breakfast is a lazy affair.
Something has happened, the Others scream and run, but his
mother screams the loudest of all. She holds him tight to her
chest as she leaps toward the tree, scrambling for grip on the
thin branches. His heart pounds hard and fast in his chest. Something
is wrong, she isn't going up, she is going down, too fast. They
land together in a jarring heavy thud, and she releases her embrace.
She is still. He looks for the danger, but sees nothing. She is
still. He screams and pulls at her hair, glancing quickly to the
Others to enlist their help, something is terribly wrong! But
they are running away, pounding the dust of the earth with their
feet, screaming, screaming, screaming, running fast. The taste
of terror overwhelms him. A dark bag drops over his head, he shrieks
in fear, and grips his mother tight. Writhing and twisting, he
tries to free himself of the bag, his heart leaping in his chest,
the blood roar in his ears is the loudest sound he has ever heard.
Terror grips him as he is wrenched from his mother's chest, thick
tufts of her black hair between his fingers are all that is left.
He hears the Other's fearful cries retreating in the distance.
He calls to them, but they are too far away to hear his small
muffled voice.
Loud grating sounds frighten him, and his arms are pinned
hard behind his back, pain in his shoulders makes him scream.
The bag is pulled from his head. Sunlight sears his eyes. Blinking,
his vision clears, but it is not his mother he sees, it is many
faces like his, yet not. They are not covered with the stiff black
hair, their faces are dark, no deep brown eyes set under heavy
brow ridges. Something is terribly, terribly wrong! He hoots softly,
calling to his mother to come and find him. Terror reflects in
his tiny voice. The big apes make odd ugly noises with their mouths,
not pants, grunts, or hoots, but so many sounds he doesn't know.
They look at him, stare into his eyes, and he is so afraid. They
have put him in a cage, a cage that looks like the vines he plays
on, but they are hard and he can't bite through them-they taste
funny. Soon, they pick up the cage and begin to move away. Around
a curve, he sees the still shape of his mother, and calls to her
softly. She doesn't move at all, doesn't try to retrieve him.
Flies swarm around her face, buzzing like angry bees, and they
move quickly past her. His hooting escalates, he frantically calls
to her, over and over, louder and louder, trying to wake her.
She is still. She doesn't jump up screeching, her yellowed teeth
bared to them, she doesn't pull him to her chest and nurse his
fear away, high in the trees. She is still.
Suddenly, cold water splashed his face, and forced it's way
up his nose. He shook it off, thinking for a moment it was only
the dream, but it was not. Banging on the bars started again.
Exhaustion lay heavy on him. Keeper was here again, bringing only
punishment. Before he was awake enough to scramble to the far
corner, Keeper slammed the rod into the bars and screamed at him,
"Wake up, you fool!" The little people stood rooted
to the ground. He saw a little girl standing off to one side,
she threw no rocks, she didn't scream at him, or laugh, but watched
with sad, round eyes. He focused on her, trying to ward off the
shock he knew would come. A bone-cracking blow glanced off his
shoulder. He screamed and leapt, teeth bared at Keeper. The little
girl pushed and shoved the children away, making funny noises
he had never heard, yet understood. She ran to Keeper and clung
to his arm. He saw the pinched, red face, heard the noise he instinctively
understood, and the beating stopped. Keeper turned from him, hateful,
sulfurous noise rushed from his mouth. The little girl let go
Keeper's arm, reached down, and hurriedly threw an orange between
the bars. For a moment too long, he looked at the fruit, but it
was snatched away, and Keeper hurled it square at his head.
All the little people hushed, and they looked at him with
solemn eyes, some with water in them. Keeper walked quickly away.
The little ones stood fast. One reached deep in a pocket, and
gently tossed a peanut near his feet. He waited quietly, only
his eyes moving, wanting so badly to grab and eat the nut, but
he was afraid any movement would start the pelting of his old
bones. He waited so long that the children lost interest and left,
save one. She moved an inch closer and made strange noises with
her mouth. Her quavering voice stirred him-he had heard it before
from his own mouth, the day his mother lay so still on the forest floor.
He got no more to eat that day. Keeper did not come back.
By nightfall the young one left him alone again. Before she left,
she carefully took his water bucket and filled it, and pushed
it carefully through the bars with a long stick, watching him
carefully all the while. After she left, he painfully walked to
the bucked, sniffed the water, and drank, deep and long.
Long shadows stretched out on the ground, lying on the earth's
belly, soon it would be night and cold. He saw the men down the
way, tossing rotting food to the animals, and he softly hooted
to them, his open palm reaching through the bars, begging for
something to fill his gnawing belly, but he was ignored. The darkness
fell softly on his wasting shoulders. He shuddered with cold, alone.
"Tyrone the Terrible" was the main attraction of
the Toby Tyler Circus, and this was his life. Advertising paid
off handsomely after Tyrone became the "vicious, crazed animal,"
for the amusement of the crowds. Those who fed on the fear and
degradation of others were always the first to line up, sweaty
palmed, waiting their turn to goad Tyrone into the vicious beast
they paid to see. The keeper learned quickly just what to do to
make Tyrone play his part. Abuse and humiliation, three times
a day, everyday, was the only life Tyrone had known since his
mother was killed to harvest the infant chimpanzee for profit.
Tyrone's story is not unique. Thousands upon thousands of
primates have endured similar fates over the years. Many are taken
from their dead mothers for the pet trade, roadside circuses and
zoos, or for laboratory studies. Still more are bred specifically
for a life of pain and suffering. They survive years of painful
and debilitating, corrosive experiments, humiliating animal acts,
and the pleasure of people who purchase them for pets. Despite
the heroic efforts of many activists, poachers continue to circumvent
the law, often with bribes to public officials. And the trade
in lives continues.
Yet Tyrone is one of the lucky ones. The Michigan Humane
Society stepped in and confiscated him from the cruelty of his
keeper. Once Tyrone was confiscated and safe, the humane society
contacted Wallace Swett, President of Primarily Primates, Inc.
and Tyrone was moved to his new home.
As it turns out, Tyrone is not so terrible. One would think
he would be hateful towards people, violent and dangerous after
his life of pain, but he is not. He very rarely gets upset with
his hairless cousins, preferring to sit and watch what they do.
He responds to caregivers at PPI with gentleness. He has acclimated
nicely to his surroundings, and now lives with two ex-circus,
castrated, toothless, male chimps (Hans and Bango,) and one female
ex-pet (Liah.)
Now instead of daily humiliation, he is treated with gentleness,
and he is a favorite of the staff. He is loved for himself-Tyrone.
He no longer has to play to the crowd, or anyone. He quickly learned
to socialize appropriately with the other chimps, and lives in
peace, free from abuse, neglect, and humiliation, secure in the
knowledge that he will never suffer again, as long as he remains
in the gentle care of PPI.
Chris Landrum
Copyright 1996