THE FEEDING OF SNAKES AND ELEPHANTS
All wild beasts in their natural state will hunt and kill their food
when hungry, and if too lazy to do this,--which is frequently the case
with the lion,--they will keep a lookout for the remains of some other
animal’s “kill.” When wild, animals always provide themselves with
sufficient food, and appear to have many ways of working off a too
heavy meal.
In captivity it is very different. They appear to lose their judgment
to a certain extent, and in many cases will overfeed, if given the
opportunity, or, in some instances, deliberately starve themselves
for no accountable reason. This is specially the case with many
snakes,--generally the larger ones,--and unless most carefully watched,
they will literally starve themselves to death.
Snakes are difficult to feed; they appear to dislike being seen eating,
and as they will not eat mammals or birds after rigor mortis has set
in, great care is needed in feeding them. Pythons will sometimes go as
long as eight or nine months without feeding, and when this is the case
it is necessary to feed them by force.
Very few snakes, especially pythons, will allow themselves to
be handled. At certain times, it is true, they will appear
either indifferent or--if such a cool condition can be called
friendliness--friendly toward their keepers; but this is, in nearly
all cases, simply a sign that they are torpid from cold, and it merely
needs the house to be heated a little to show not only that they can be
very lively, but very spiteful and vindictive.
Occasionally, when some little operation is necessary, the snake has to
be overpowered, but it is possible to do this only by numbers. No one
man could do it; he would be crushed before he had time to turn around.
The best way to set to work when the snake has deliberately refused to
feed for many months is to wait until it is asleep. Then, at a given
signal, several men pounce upon it--one grasps it by the back of its
neck, several others stand on or hold different parts of its body, and
others stand ready with rabbits, rats, and other small animals on the
end of long poles, with which they force the food down the reptile’s
throat.
[Illustration: “BRANDU,” THE SNAKE-CHARMER]
It is needless to say that some terrific tussles take place on these
occasions, and often there is great danger. Unless the snake is quickly
subdued, it is likely to subdue those who are molesting it; and even
when several strong, able-bodied men are grasping it firmly, it will
sometimes recoil with so much force and suddenness that the whole lot
may be thrown to the ground.
The most dangerous part is when the moment comes for prying open its
jaws. If this has been done safely, there comes the second difficulty
of forcing food down its throat. There is no doubt that this process is
objectionable and, in all probability, a little painful to the snake,
and it is not to be wondered that at this moment it generally resists
with all its power. Even should the rabbit be got down the throat of
the reptile, there is always the chance that it may be drawn out again
with the pole. But this operation is generally performed successfully,
and when the python has inside about a dozen rabbits, one or two
guinea-pigs, and a few pigeons, he becomes heavy and sleepy, and at
last settles down in a state of repletion from which he will probably
not awaken for several days.
There have been many dangerous accidents from feeding snakes by force
when they refuse food. Once a trainer entered and grasped a big python
at the back of the neck, while several other men made ready to catch
hold of it in other places. He caught it nicely in the right place, and
was just speaking to the others when, to his horror, he found that the
python had coiled itself firmly round his legs and body, and that he
was unable to move.
With a great effort he shouted, and the men, realizing instantly what
had happened, rushed forward and, with united efforts, uncoiled the
monster, and so set him free. It was a matter of life and death, for
in another moment the breath would have been crushed out of him, and he
would have become a shapeless mass of flesh. It was only by his nerve
and prompt call that he saved himself, for the men said afterward that
until he shouted they were not aware of what the snake had done. After
this nothing would ever induce that trainer to have anything to do with
snakes again. He said he could never forget the feeling of unspeakable
horror and indefinable helplessness he experienced when the coils were
encircling him.
At another time, a young pig was thrown to a pair of snakes. In this
case the snakes were ravenously hungry, and, consequently, very lively.
The larger one of the two darted for it, but the smaller snake was too
quick for him, and had swallowed the pig whole before the other could
touch it.
Now followed a very curious incident, and one which, I believe, has
not often been observed. The large snake waited until another pig was
thrown in, and took care this time to get it, but immediately after
swallowing it deliberately turned to the small snake and swallowed
him, swollen as he was with the first pig. This snake lay in a state of
repletion after this for weeks, and from various indications that we
had I don’t fancy that his cannibalism agreed with him.
But a more curious incident than either of these occurred at the
Pan-American Exhibition with Great Peter, the largest python ever
kept in captivity. Great Peter had been fasting for some time,--most
of the summer, in fact,--and we were beginning to feel anxious about
him, when, toward the end of September, he suddenly became very
lively--always a sure sign of hunger.
Much delighted at these signs, his keeper at once looked for suitable
food for him, and procured a young razor-back pig. As a general rule,
all animals when put in with snakes are rendered helpless by fear. They
appear to be paralyzed by a strange fascination, and instead of making
the slightest resistance or attempt to get away, stay on the very spot
where they are thrown until the snake kills them with a bite or thrusts
them into their living tomb by swallowing them.
[Illustration: M. JOHNSON AND HIS TRAINED ELEPHANT]
But this little razorback was made of different stuff, and was neither
fascinated nor helpless from fear. The moment he entered the cage it
was evident that he meant to have a good fight for it, no matter what
happened. He gave the python no time to spring, but, taking time by the
forelock, ran up to the huge snake, screaming shrilly at the top of his
voice, and fastened his sturdy tusks firmly in the back of the snake’s
neck.
He squealed no more after this, but attended strictly to business, and
hung on like grim death. There was a momentary pause, and then the
daring little pig shook his enemy vigorously as he would a rat. For a
second or two over thirty-two feet of python coiled and lashed about
the cage in a furious manner, but the pig hung on.
His triumph was not long. The contest was too unequal. Suddenly the
thick coils left the air, and, descending on the plucky little animal,
coiled round and round, crushing his body and cracking his ribs as
though they were nutshells. But still the pig hung on,--hung on until
the coils of the snake gradually relaxed,--and then, as they loosened
weakly and fell off, the pig, game to the last, dropped off the
python’s neck, dead. His enemy lay quietly beside him--the conqueror
and the conquered together.
Had the razorback only allowed himself to give one little squeal when
he was being crushed, he would have been obliged to let go his hold and
we might have saved the python, but his pluckiness cost us a valuable
reptile.
Elephants are big feeders, and few realize the quantity of food they
need. A fair-sized elephant in a healthy condition will consume on
an average about two hundred pounds of hay, a bushel of oats, and
six or eight loaves of bread a day. This is in addition to all the
other things in the way of peanuts, cakes, crackers, nuts, etc., it
gets from the visitors. Occasionally one or two large basketsful of
fresh vegetables are given to each one, for elephants are fond of any
vegetables, fruits, or grain, and nearly always seem to be hungry.
From this a rough estimate can be gathered of the vast quantity of food
it is necessary to provide for a group of only half a dozen elephants.
The difficulties are often considerable, especially in small country
places where the produce is not equal to the demand. It will often
take one or two men all their time to procure enough food to keep the
animals even in fair condition. Grain can generally be had, but too
much grain is not good for them, and the necessity for a variety, which
is not always obtainable, causes much difficulty.
Elephants are not particularly strong or robust constitutionally. They
suffer from various ailments in captivity, even with the greatest care.
Colds and chills are the most frequent, and, though not themselves
dangerous, they sometimes lead to pneumonia, and when once an elephant
has pneumonia he never recovers.
It is almost impossible to give an elephant medicine. Every way has
been tried, but in many cases to no purpose. The moment he tastes it
nothing will induce him to swallow it, and he promptly spits it out.
Capsules have been tried, in the hope that the animal would swallow
them whole, but he at once crushed them with his teeth, and at the
first taste the usual spitting out took place. Medicine has also
been introduced into loaves of bread and drinks of water or milk, but
the elephant detected it at once, and it was, of course, absolutely
impossible to force it down his throat, as can be done with some of the
other animals.
About the only possible thing to make an elephant take when he has a
bad cold is a good dose of hot whisky and onions, and he appears not
only to like it but to wish for more. However, if elephants are looked
after and cared for properly, it is rarely necessary to give them
medicine. They are generally healthy, and the chief thing to guard
against is a chill or cold, when there is always the possibility of
pneumonia following.
An elephant sleeps in a peculiar manner. Nearly all lie on their left
sides with their trunks curled up, making a peculiar hissing noise
at regular intervals, something like the sound of steam issuing from
a kettle. He is not a sound sleeper. He does not take much notice of
his keeper prowling round in the night, but should anything strange
or unusual take place, the hissing stops suddenly, two small, red
lights appear in the elephant’s head, and the animal is wide awake and
evidently watching. At the first sign of danger he trumpets shrilly, so
that oftentimes he gives the first alarm, when no living thing besides
suspects anything amiss.