My training in working with animals began in earnest during our three weeks of clinical rotations my senior year. While most of my classmates were completing their rotations at vet clinics, my previous volunteer experience—plus a really convincing essay attached to my application—successfully got me on the list to shadow at my top 3 choices: the zoo, a large cat sanctuary, and an animal-centered theme park. Here was my chance to be up-close with lions, bears, dolphins, and more.
I had many amazing experiences during these rotations as I shadowed in different departments among those three locations, but there is one experience that still gives me chills when I think about it. And that was the day of the lions.
The lions usually lived out in the open in a spacious habitat, but today they would be brought in to their night-enclosure—basically a big cement den—which was also the building where the vets came to examine the lions and draw their blood when necessary. That was why we were here. I was shadowing the vet, and a blood sample from the male lion was on the to-do list for the day. But here we were no longer in the vet's domain. This was the kingdom of the lions and their keepers, a kingdom held in balance by a delicate system of trust and respect that kept the lions healthy and the keepers alive.
The lions were target-trained, conditioned to present their noses to the keeper's hand wherever the keeper placed it. The keepers never crossed the fence—everything was done through the protection of chain-link—but there was no denying the power of this animal, even behind a barrier of safety. The keepers could use the target-training to draw the lion into a small fenced area of the building and guide him into lying down, and then the vet could carefully come around behind and reach a syringe through the chain link to draw blood from the lion's tail while the trainer kept him busy with treats on the other side. This was the plan, and so we entered the building and stood waiting as the keepers called the lions in.
I don't know if you've ever been within touching-distance of a lion, but the first thing that struck me as I saw the male lion enter was the sheer size of him. His paw was literally as big as my head, and his mouth could easily have swallowed my whole torso. The next thing I noticed was how graceful he was. He was enormous, yet he walked as if he barely touched the floor. The female had entered just in front of him, and together they prowled through the maze of security gating—a system kind of like an airlock, with a series of chain-link fence sections where no two gates were open at the same time—and the keepers pressed levers to lock and release each gate as the lions progressed toward us. I stood in awe of the two of them, the male lion and his mate, as they strode through the corners and turns of the gate system and walked directly up to the fence in front of us.
I was less than five feet from a lion, separated only by a slight drop-out in the floor—like a dry moat—and a ceiling-high barrier of chain-link fencing. I was staring into his eyes.
And then... one of the keepers roared, a deep-chested sort of yell. And the lions responded.
This—this is the moment that still gives me chills today. For when the lions responded, the very ground quaked. The entire building vibrated, and I felt it straight through to my core, like being so near the speakers at a rock concert that you can feel the vibrations of the music inside you. Except this was no music. This was the sheer force of nature, a lion's roar that shook a cement building and left my heart buzzing in its wake. In all my years since, I have never heard any creature make a sound so powerful.
I stared at the keeper in awe. These lions were roaring to him as if he were one of them, one of the pride. I didn't go on to work with lions professionally, but that moment will always be one of my favorite memories, and I still hold a small bit of wistfulness for the daily awe of working face-to-face with lions. I hold that memory tight.
There is a passage in the Bible that states, "The lion has roared; who will not fear?" Every time I read that passage or anything like it, the memory of that day comes flooding back, because in those five seconds that the lions' roar filled the building, it was fear that filled me—but not just fear. Fear, and awe, and a sense of wonder unlike any I've ever experienced. The sheer power of these creatures, with paws as big as my head and a roar that shook me to my bones, was terrifying. And wonderful. And one of the most beautiful things I've ever been privileged to witness on this earth.
A few weeks after I completed my clinicals at that location, there was a news story about a tragic accident between the male lion and a keeper. It was, sadly, one of many such stories I've heard since. The keeper lived, but she suffered permanent injuries, simply because one small moment's distraction resulted in the lion accidentally injuring her. He didn't mean to, they determined, and so no consequences came to him. For that, I was glad. But the life of an animal keeper is not a safe one, especially when working with large predators. As I have been reminded many times over the years, one of the most important aspects of working with wild animals is respecting their wildness. Always. Even after years of working together results in a bond of trust—and gaining the trust of a wild animal is a magic unlike any other; it is humbling and awe-inspiring—even then, the wildness never leaves them. It is a delicate balance, a tightrope walk, to care for wild animals and to be their keepers and trainers. But on the good days, on the days when you stare into the eyes of a wild creature and it bows its head to be scratched by you, on the days you roar and the lions answer, in those moments there is a rare magic, some mystical unspoken language flowing between the two of you. It is the language of trust between you and a creature of the wild, and there is nothing else like it.
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