CHARACTERISTICS OF DIFFERENT ANIMALS
It must not be supposed that all captive felines are amenable to
education. The personal equation enters in very largely. What will
do for the lion may do for the tiger, the leopard, the puma, or the
jaguar; but what will do for one lion may not do for another, nor can
all tigers or leopards be trained alike. Many, in assuming that the
lion is brave and the tiger treacherous, and in ascribing set qualities
to the others, are generalizing without basis.
The lion is feared for his clumsiness as much as anything, because
it makes him likely to do serious damage unwittingly; the jaguar and
leopard for their terrible swiftness in action; and the tiger for a
tenacity of purpose which, when once aroused, is almost unconquerable.
But it cannot be said in general that one is more to be feared than
another. It is the individual that must be reckoned with by the
successful trainer.
One animal may be of a heavy, phlegmatic disposition; another may
be slow and stupid; a third subject to fits of unreasonable and
ungovernable rage; another curious and inquisitive, making him
incessantly restless; another nervous and timid; and yet another will
show a fussy and irritable disposition, and refuse to perform unless
all the circumstances are just as he considers they should be.
With rare exceptions, all the felines are untrustworthy and more or
less treacherous, and no matter how long they may have been trained,
or how well their trainer may know them, they are liable at any
moment, and without the least reason, to turn on him. Each one has his
characteristics, and it is these special characteristics which require
such extremely careful study and continual watching.
Weather affects wild animals in just the same way in which it affects
human beings. This appears to be the case specially with lions. Damp,
muggy weather will make them seemingly depressed and irritable, and in
this state they are doubly unwilling to do anything they do not feel
inclined to. In hot weather they become lazy and sleepy, and it is
sometimes with the greatest difficulty that any of the lions can be
made to perform. This laziness is natural. In his native state the lion
sleeps all day, and will only go out for food at night when urged by
hunger.
In cold weather, Captain Bonavita finds his lions so frisky and playful
that it is extremely dangerous to make them perform, for a playful lion
is a terrible thing--with even a tap from one of his paws he can break
the neck of a horse.
One cold, frosty day, when Captain Bonavita was trying to get his lions
to perform, one, a huge beast, was particularly playful, and, in spite
of all his care, at last got one claw in the cloth of his coat. In a
moment the animal dragged him to the ground, and, not being able to get
his claw free,--as it had caught in the cloth,--became wildly enraged.
Had it not been that one of the men outside the cage gave the
trainer an opportunity to cut the cloth, he would have lost his life in
a few minutes.
[Illustration: THE OLD ARM-CHAIR]
Apart from all these physical variations, the peculiarities of
temperament also must be studied and watched. Each animal is so
different from its fellows and so subject to sudden changes of temper,
that this requires the most careful observation; nor can any reason
often be found for their different actions.
There is a very famous lion now performing who fears but one thing: a
stick in the left hand. The trainer may have a club, a whip, a knife, a
pistol, or even a firebrand in his right hand, and the lion will spring
for him fearlessly, but the smallest thing in the left hand will keep
the animal perfectly tractable. No satisfactory explanation of this
individual peculiarity has ever been offered, and one trainer limps for
life simply because he did not make the discovery in time.
Lions have no affection; they become used to and tolerant of their
trainers, and their obedience and docility is partly, if not wholly,
due to ignorance and to the dread of anything they do not comprehend.
They seemingly do not understand why the trainers are not afraid of
them, and do not appear to realize that one little blow could put
them out of existence. It is only when they lose respect for their
trainer--either because he has contracted bad habits, or because he has
been foolish or unguarded enough at some time to let them see that he
was nervous--that they realize that he is only a small thing compared
to themselves, and turn on him.
The great majority of cases of defense of a trainer by an animal have
little foundation, other than the minds of the ingenious press agent.
But there have been rare cases where animals have conceived a real
affection for a trainer, and fawned upon him like a dog, and even
protected him from others when they attacked him.
One such case concerned Mme. Pianka. During a rehearsal at St. Louis
several years ago, she was suddenly attacked by a young lion and
thrown to the floor. Instantly, a smaller lioness, of whom she was
particularly fond and who had appeared to return the affection, leaped
upon the lion and gave him so much to attend to that the trainer got
to her feet, and was then able to whip the offending lion back to his
corner. No trainer, however, depends on such interference; in fact, he
knows and takes it for granted that if he is attacked and thrown, the
other beasts in the cage will join in only too quickly.
The fellowship of animal for animal in the bonds of slavery is stronger
than that of animal for man. Once in the cage, the trainer is alone
among vastly superior forces that at any moment may become hostile, and
his wisest plan is always to mistrust and look out, and not to expect
anything but united hostility should he slip or be attacked.
An animal seldom, if ever, attacks a trainer for blood or a desire for
meat. The danger lies in the instinct of ferocity; and many experiments
made in this direction undoubtedly prove that animals attack from
inherent fierceness and savagery alone. A tiger will occasionally show
a desire for blood, but other animals very seldom.
I made an experiment some years ago in order to see whether civilized
food would make any difference in the nature of a wild animal. I had
a fine, well-grown young lion, which I reared for two years on cooked
food--boiled meat and vegetables. He had never tasted blood or raw
meat, and yet when he was a little over two and a half years old he
broke out and killed a fine young buck which was loose in the runway
behind the cage; and when in the arena afterward, proved to be no
different in any way from the other animals who had been brought up on
raw steaks and other fresh meat.
It is doubtful whether lions, tigers, and their kin have minds
developed in a wild state to anything like the degree attained by those
of the smaller fur-bearing animals, such as ermine, fox, wolverene, or
a number of the smaller rodents. They are endowed with so much agility,
strength, and endurance that they need hardly exercise much thought in
securing their livelihood; while the caution and ingenuity required of
the weaker species, in order not only to get food, but also to escape
from their enemies, tend to sharpen their faculties daily.
[Illustration: MADAME PIANKA]
The only enemy feared by the larger wild beasts is man. Why they should
feel this supreme awe of man it is difficult to explain. Neither his
size nor his erect position can account for it, and it is only in long
settled and much frequented regions that his firearms are dreaded.
The explanation probably is that they are unable to comprehend his
habits, to fathom his mental attitude, to learn what he is likely to
do next, and are awed by the mystery of his conduct, as we might be by
that of some supernatural being of unknown power who came among us and
threatened our liberty and our happiness.
The minds of the great carnivora are little exercised in nature, and do
not develop. Accustomed to seeing all the denizens of the forest quail
before them, they do not know what it is to feel a sense of help needed
or of favors granted. It is perfectly natural, then, that trainers
should say that kindness is not appreciated by them. A tigress is, in
most cases, as likely to eat up her keeper after six years of attention
as she would be after six days, should she consider that she were safe
in doing so.
A quiet tiger is always to be feared and watched carefully. Mr. Charles
Miller, who has been so successful in training the fiercest Bengal
tigers, has no fear of the noisy ones, who are forever growling,
snarling, and spitting defiance; but of the others, who are stealthily
quiet and show in no way by voice or gesture that they object to what
he has to do, he takes the greatest care and caution. Whenever he is
obliged to turn his back on one of these tigers, he takes care to turn
it on the snarling ones, who do nothing but make a noise. The quiet
ones are only waiting for the very first opportunity to spring, and one
spring from a tiger is fatal. In one performance, Mr. Miller turned
his head quickly to find a treacherous animal crawling stealthily on
his stomach toward him. The instant the tiger saw he was noticed he
stopped, and began to lick his paws in the most indifferent manner, but
the next moment he was trying to do the same thing again, until brought
smartly up by a flick of the whip. This he also took quietly, although
with a curious hiss. He was simply biding his time.
It is an acknowledged fact, among those who know anything about wild
animals, that continual quietness invariably goes with a mean or savage
nature, and that the animal who does not snarl should be carefully
watched at all times by those who have anything to do with him. Why
this should be an indication it is impossible, at least for me, to say.
I have studied the matter very carefully, and many of the cleverest
trainers and owners of wild animals have done the same.
As a rule, lions are much slower than lionesses. They are far more
deliberate in their movements, and, consequently, seem more haughty and
majestic. A lioness will frisk and romp about even when she has had
several families, but a full-grown lion will seldom, if ever, depart
in the slightest from his habitual grave, solemn manner. Generally
speaking, the female felines are more easily managed and not as
dangerous as the males, but they are always crafty and treacherous, and
the time when they appear to be indifferent or off their guard is the
time to be more than usually cautious.
There are, of course, cases where the females act swiftly and suddenly
without treacherous motives, and this makes them even more dangerous,
because one never can tell when this may happen. At Philadelphia, some
years ago, we had an illustration of this, and of what a terrible and
lightning-like blow a jaguar can give.
This jaguar, a magnificent female, had been rehearsing some fancy leap
from shelf to shelf, and as a finale was to jump from a projection from
the side of the cage, about seven feet high, to a wooden ball some ten
feet distant, and maintain herself upon the ball until a given signal
from the trainer--a most difficult feat. The graceful creature measured
the distance carefully for a few moments, keeping her eyes fixed on the
ball, and stretched her slender neck forward toward the goal before
essaying the leap.
Then she launched herself. That leap was a study in beauty of form and
grace of motion, but there was a slight miscalculation. The jaguar
landed on the ball, but after clinging desperately for a moment to
the oscillating sphere, fell to the ground, landing in a crouching
attitude. Swifter than the eye could follow, there was a motion of the
paw, and the wooden ball, weighing nearly a hundred pounds, sailed
across the stage and hit the bars with an impact that shook the entire
structure as an earthquake would have done, frightening the pair of
lions and the leopard who shared the cage almost to a frenzy.
As for the jaguar, she glared fiercely round with a hiss and snarl, as
though to see whether any of the others were laughing at her, and then
slunk away to one side, where she examined her paw with an appearance
of solicitude, listening meanwhile to the rebukes of the trainer with
obvious confusion. It is the possibility that at any moment a blow of
that caliber may land on him, which effectually prevents the trainer
from experiencing any feelings of ennui when in the cage with wild
animals.
Elephants have their little peculiarities, like all other animals, and
one of them is their strange and often unaccountable antipathy to some
persons, and their warm affection for others. One of my elephants is
of a most gentle disposition, but hates the sight of a dog. A tiny toy
terrier is enough to drive him nearly frantic, and unless the animal is
removed at once he would kill him instantly, for an elephant makes up
his mind quickly.
The majority of wild animals appear to be fond of music, although a
great many dislike it extremely. As a rule, the large carnivora seem
to like it, and the trained animals will often rouse themselves at the
sound and look round inquiringly. There is no doubt whatever that it
is a stimulus to them. In many cases it is their principal cue, and
without it they are uncertain, restless, and unhappy.
Some time ago the band of a traveling show went on strike in the middle
of a performance, and left in a body. Three trained tigers were the
next feature on the program. When they came on they looked inquiringly
at the orchestra for the music, and then two of them quietly settled
down on their haunches and refused to go on. The third, who was of
less experience, made a feeble start and then joined his companions
on strike. Orders, commands, threats, and flickings of the whip were
useless. No music, no performance, was obviously the motto of these
tigers; and they stuck to it until finally the trainer, finding that to
try to force them further was dangerous, was obliged to let them return
to their cage without giving any performance at all.
The trainer feared that he would never get them to perform again, for
once let an animal off his performance and it generally means that he
expects and insists on not giving any more exhibitions at all. However,
the next day, when the differences with the musicians had been settled,
and the tigers were brought out again, they seemed perfectly satisfied
as soon as they heard the music, and acquitted themselves better than
ever.
One incident which has always puzzled my trainers and myself occurred
with a fine, full-grown Barbary lion. When the band has been playing a
certain set of tunes for some time, it will naturally change them for
newer and more popular ones. I have never noticed that the animals were
aware of it, but in this case there was one tune which this particular
lion did not like. The moment it was started he grew restless and
uneasy, moaned and whimpered, and finally roared to such a degree that
we could not imagine what was the matter with him.
This went on day after day and night after night, until at last we
noticed that he always did it about the same time, and finally, when
the tunes were changed about a little, that he always did it when a
particular tune was being played. We tried him the next morning, at
quite a different hour, with the same tune, and it had the same effect.
The moment it was started he would get up, moan, whimper, snarl, and
grow more and more uneasy, until he worked himself up into a rage and
roared at the top of his voice, which was strong even for a lion.
The music appeared to irritate his nerves. Whether this was so or not
I cannot tell, but it evidently annoyed him to a painful degree. After
making sure of this fact, I ordered that tune to be left out for the
future, and from that time to this he has never shown dislike to any
other music, and is quiet and peaceable, and a good performer.
[Illustration: MR. CHARLES MILLER AND HIS BENGAL TIGERS]