The Manitoba government took notice. In 2002, it passed the Polar Bear Protection Act, which stipulates that only orphaned cubs under two years of age are eligible for zoo placement and that, to be considered, zoos must satisfy strict housing and husbandry standards. With mounting pressure from interest groups, complaints from the public and regular visits from USDA inspectors, the Suarez Brothers Circus chose to abandon the seven polar bears in Puerto Rico. On November 5, 2002, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service officially seized custody of the animals. Two weeks later, in San Juan, preparations were made for their transit. As we pulled up to the Detroit Zoo’s security gates, the van flooded with light. They were expecting us. The zoo staff and I had just returned from the FedEx hangar of the Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, where we had taken possession of Bärle. Twenty-four hours earlier, she had been airlifted out the Caribbean. FedEx had deposited her peers at zoos across the United States; Bärle was their final drop-off. An animal behavior specialist who had studied bears for a decade, I was tasked with her rehabilitation. When we arrived inside, the six of us piled out of the vehicle. Someone turned on additional lights; someone wheeled in the gurney; someone opened the back doors of the van. When all was in place, we re-entered the van and surrounded the crate. On the count of three, we heaved and slid it forward toward the gurney. It must have weighed nearly 200 kilograms. Bärle focused on keeping her balance by standing up and riding it out. Her conduct caught me off guard. No huffing and jaw snapping. She was well-rehearsed in behaving like cargo. Thinking about Bärle’s life on the road, I realized that probably her only reprieve from trainers was when she was traveling. In her crate, she couldn’t get hit or hurt. Maybe that’s why she was so calm. Like a human conveyor belt, we wheeled the crate from the loading dock into the quarantine area, where we pushed one end of the crate to rest on the enclosure’s entrance. While my colleagues chained the crate onto the enclosure fence to secure it for Bärle’s exit, I began interacting with her, hoping to prove we were harmless. In my years rehabilitating captive wildlife, I had learned a valuable lesson: first impressions count. I take no chances with charm; I buy my way in. I had grapes — sweet, juicy grapes. Crouching down in front of Bärle, I held the grape up to her nose through the metal mesh. Never taking her eyes off mine, she gently held the fruit with her lips and then intentionally dropped it, with what seemed to be a smile. I have experienced this behavior before with bears and interpret it as politeness. A bear may not want or need what I’m offering at the time but will take it if it wants the interaction to continue. If annoyed, it will refuse the object, refuse to make eye contact, and express aggression, such as paw slamming and huffing. I didn’t know if Bärle had tasted grapes before. Her diet in the circus had consisted of day-old bread, lettuce, carrots and cheap dog food. I offered her a second grape, which she gently took with her lips and ate. Her smile hadn’t waned. It didn’t matter if she ate the grapes or not; my objective was to show her we could be trusted so she would feel comfortable enough to leave the crate. Bärle’s face was a curious wash of age and youth. She was a small bear with a head no bigger than mine. Her fur was a mess. The long guard hairs — which work as insulation — were broken or missing, the undercoat was woolly and matted, and she had bald spots revealing flaky black skin. Bärle’s facial muscles had atrophied, giving her a sunken, weary appearance befitting an abused bear. She looked older than her 18 years — in captivity, polar bears can expect to live until their late 30s — yet a cub-like innocence shone through her expression. The complexity of it drew me in. Michelle Seldon, the associate curator of mammals at the zoo, peered through the door and quietly told me the crate was locked in place. “It’s time,” she said. I tossed a trail of grapes from the edge of Bärle’s crate to the adjacent room, where a giant straw nest awaited. Bärle stayed seated. I called her name. One ear rotated in my direction. She inched her nose forward and inhaled, assessing the environment. She took a step. Then she took the next full step over the threshold. No doubt she had detected the favorable differences, the drop in temperature, a large enclosure, and straw so fresh you could smell its sweetness — especially if you were a tired bear. Bärle feigned interest in the grapes on the floor. She approached the straw pile cautiously, first mouthing, and smelling, then putting one paw in, then mowing her belly through it, and finally falling over in a full-body roll-and-rub dance. With straw hanging from her brows and caught in her dreadlocked undercoat, she crashed onto her side and fell asleep. Read more: rd/true-stories/inspiring/barle-circus-polar-bear/#ixzz3EfBgCd86
Posted on: Mon, 29 Sep 2014 01:20:37 +0000
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