Free Did Not Survive by Ann Littlewood Page A

size herd.” He’d had this debate before, and he was enjoying it.
    I wasn’t. I was getting pissed off. “People work night and day to keep them healthy and happy.” I remembered a discussion from a keepers’ meeting. “Do you see the sand two feet deep in that yard? That soft surface inside the stalls? That’s why their feet are fine, even though Damrey is over forty years old.” I couldn’t remember exactly how old she was. “How about the full-time veterinarian, the top quality hay and produce, all the effort that goes into environmental enrichment for them? I do not see two sick, miserable animals. I see two busybodies who are wasting time here when they ought to be working for sanctuaries in Thailand and Cambodia and India, that is, if you really do care about elephants and not just about getting your pictures in the paper.”
    That fired up the young sidekick. Eyes flashing, he half-shouted, “Next I suppose you’ll claim that these two are ‘ambassadors for their species’ and that all their suffering is so that the wild ones will survive. But you said yourself that it isn’t working! You drive them crazy in zoos and then you blame them for turning on people!”
    I had no idea where to begin with this jumble, but before I could try, the younger one said, “If everyone here is so nice to these elephants, where did Nakri get that gash on her thigh? Could it be that someone took an ankus and ripped her open?”
    â€œNo,” said a quiet voice. Ian. He must have seen the altercation through the window and come to back me up. “They get browse. Each week. Maple, maple and alder branches. She lay down on one. Poked herself. It abscessed.” He turned to me. “Sam called Security.”
    â€œOf course he did,” said the junior activist. “You can’t stand having the truth come out, so you evict us.”
    â€œEnough, Dale,” said Mr. Bushy. “We’ve made our point. Let’s go look at zebras. See you later, Ian.” He turned away, and I stepped back from his sign and backpack as they swung toward me.
    â€œI don’t believe that about the branches for one minute,” the sidekick called over his shoulder as they retreated.
    The security guard rolled up in a little electric cart. I pointed at the retreating signage. “They went thataway.” The guard spun the sluggish little vehicle around and did his best to roar off.
    I gathered myself back into bird keeper mode. “Thanks, Ian. Stinks to be the target.”
    He nodded.
    â€œWhat’s
with
those two?” I asked. “They can get into the zoo before it’s open, and the big-hair guy knew I wasn’t an elephant keeper. How do they know all this?”
    â€œDon’t know how they got in. They know you don’t work this area because they watch. All day.”
    â€œWatch elephants the entire day? Why?”
    â€œShort guy talks to visitors about sanctuaries. Young one hopes we hit one of them. Get it on camera.”
    â€œThat’s disgusting.” I was mad all over again.
    Ian shrugged and started back toward the barn.
    â€œIan, he knew your name,” I said to his back.
    He didn’t turn around or slow down. “It’s on my shirt.”
    That was true. I watched him disappear into the barn. But the senior sign-waver sounded as if he really knew Ian, not as if he’d just read his name. I shook it off and got on with my real work.
    A little before noon, I dropped by the office to see if Jackie wanted to join me for lunch, hoping for news of Wallace. Mr. Crandall was exiting the Administration building as I approached the door. He brushed a hand over his silver hair and straightened his tie, gave me the briefest of distracted nods, and stepped toward the zoo entrance. I watched him through the gate. He positioned himself in front of the Finley Memorial Zoo entrance sign, facing a cluster of