HOW WILD BEASTS ARE TAUGHT TRICKS
The next stage in the training of a lion is for the trainer to enter
the cage again with the chair and stick. No longer militant, but
somewhat timid, the animal keeps in his corner, furtively watching the
trainer. Little by little, the man edges the chair over until he is
within reach; then he begins to rub the lion with his stick. Little by
little he decreases the distance still more, until, finally, he has his
hand on the lion’s shoulder and is patting him gently.
This is another great step in advance. The lion has learned to
endure the touch of the human hand; although he murmurs sulkily, he
likes it, for few animals are indifferent to petting. Day by day the
trainer familiarizes the lion with his presence and touch; rubbing
his back, stroking his shoulders, raising his paws,--a somewhat risky
and ticklish trial,--and in the course of about two weeks after first
entering the cage, if the animal be of fairly good temper, all alarm
and overt enmity have been eradicated, so accustomed has the animal
become to the presence of this one man.
After this he is taught to back until he reaches the rear of the
cage, and then made to lie down. After a time he is made to lie down
and stand up, at either the word of command or at a certain cue, and
after each act of obedience he is given a small piece of raw meat as a
reward. If he does not obey, he gets no reward, and in time the habit
becomes strong, and he does what is required of him, whether he gets
anything for it or not.
Then comes another period of extreme danger for the trainer. This is
when the animal first enters the arena. He finds himself in a place
which seems vast after a cage, and becoming a little bewildered at the
strange surroundings, behaves in an entirely different manner. Many
animals who have been taught to perform in comparatively small cages
have to be trained all over again when in the arena. In the big arena,
therefore, the training of the animals has to be practically begun anew.
This is one reason why trainers are always so anxious to get their
animals out of the training-schools and -cages and into the arena
as soon as possible. But they are liable to get them there too soon
sometimes, which is extremely dangerous. I have already explained why a
lion is first put into a small cage to begin with. If he goes into the
arena too soon, he is more apt to spring at the trainer, because he has
not yet become tractable and docile enough.
On first entering the arena, the lion runs round and round, seeking
some place to escape, because his surroundings are strange. He is also
rather frightened, for anything unusual or strange always makes a wild
animal, especially a lion, nervous; but the trainer’s quiet presence
and voice generally soothe him after a while, and he soon gets used to
it. An entire day is generally taken to accustom the lion to his new
surroundings, and he is then put through several evolutions, just as
in the smaller cage.
Beginning at this point, the training or education of an animal is
simply the application to more advanced work of the principles already
followed. It is progress beyond a kind of kindergarten, and learning
by association has everything to do with it. The animal is becoming
amenable to the mastery of man, and in doing so his own reason is being
developed. From this time on he begins to take a new interest in life.
That instinct of action, which he has inherited from his ancestors and
which has been slumbering, is awakened, and he is learning to know and
enjoy the cultivated exercise.
He works gradually into the harness, and soon becomes an adept at the
work which he has been taught with so much painstaking patience. But he
always remains an animal, his natural instincts are always paramount,
and though he may go through his performances meekly, and even with a
certain amount of interest, there are always deep down in him an inborn
distrust and fear of man.
[Illustration: TRAINED BUT NOT TAMED]
The only trainer, therefore, who has any business in a cage with such
animals is one who thoroughly understands their nature, who knows all
their weaknesses and characteristics, and who fears their strength.
If I ever hear a trainer make a remark to the effect that, after all,
there is nothing to be afraid of when once an animal is trained, I know
that man is unfit to be a trainer at all. The man who makes the best
trainer is the one who realizes their treachery, and knows that there
is danger at all times and in all places with wild animals, no matter
how well trained they may be. As I said before, no wild animal is ever
tamed, only trained, and the best training in the world is nothing
when once the animal feels inclined to give way to his natural savage
instincts.
In time, the trained animal becomes so accustomed to performing, that
when he sees the paraphernalia of his performance he knows exactly what
is expected of him, and does it naturally and readily. The successful
performance of all trained animals depends on this almost instinctive
following of long-accustomed habit, together with the pleasure the
exercise gives to animals habitually confined in small cages.
Leopards, panthers, and jaguars are all trained in much the same
manner. Mme. Morelli puts them through a course of training very
similar to that given the lion. They are taught to respect and look for
the trainer, and have instilled into them as much awe as is ever bred
in any animal, which is not saying a great deal. The jaguar, leopard,
and panther become used to the association of the trainer, and are
finally willing, through much coaxing and coercion, to perform such
elementary feats as are required of them.
The stick is the instrument for the education of these animals in the
same manner as in the case of the lion. To begin with, a broomstick
is laid on the floor, and the trainer steps to the back of the stage,
apparently unarmed, leaving the stick in full sight, the animal
crouching in the rear of the cage. After a few moments’ hesitation,
with the tense, strained tightening of his leg-muscles,--which all
trainers know so well as a signal of danger,--the animal launches its
sleek, compact, sinewy body full upon the unprotected broomstick.
The dull wood, like a craven, has not spunk enough to respond. It
accepts the punishment as a Chinaman does in battle, with no apparent
expectation of anything different. The animal, disgusted, leaves the
stick and launches himself at the trainer. The trainer, small and
delicate woman as she is, meets the charge with coolness and that
quiet reserve force which stands all trainers in such good stead. The
broomstick is not her only weapon. She has another: an iron prong,
heavy, thick, and with a point dull enough to leave whatever skin it
touches unlacerated, but sharp enough to remind any animal that he
is in poor business in an attack on it, when held in the hands of a
determined trainer.
The prong is attached to the end of a stick much larger and longer
than the first stick, and against that combination the animal throws
himself. He comes out of the encounter with a cowed air and an added
respect for the small woman who held it. He slinks again into his
corner, but allows himself to be finally coaxed out and stroked with
the very stick which had resisted his first spring in such a decided
manner.
Finally, the stick is laid on the floor, and after much persuasion, the
animal is induced to walk over it, which he does, hissing and snarling.
He is led over it again and again, and fails to notice that each time
the stick is raised a little from the floor, until finally he finds,
somewhat to his surprise and discomfiture, that when he walks over the
stick he has to make quite a spring in order to get over it at all.
Before this stick incident is finished, he jumps over a stick raised as
high as a chair.
No animal is ever allowed to backslide. Each thing done one day must be
done the next day in exactly the same way; there must be no deviation
from the rule. This is the reason that in every animal act the trainer
positively insists upon perfect adherence to the regular formula. Such
is the force of habit that laxity to-day means a desire for laxity
to-morrow at the same place and in the same way, and laxity in one
small detail will breed the tendency for it, which will then in all
probability spread and in a short time affect the whole performance.
This is why everything is done with such careful attention to detail.
[Illustration: “DEPEW”]
If an animal is sent to the right side on entering the arena the first
day, he is sent to the right every day thereafter, and the direction in
which he goes after leaving his pedestal, and before taking his place
in the group, is always the same. Each animal, too, in a group has his
own place and his own time for assuming the place; and should he once
leave it, there would be danger to the whole performance. The trainer,
too, even in walking about the arena, always walks in the same way,
and gives his closest attention to the prevention of the happening of
anything unusual.
Performing animals particularly dislike a change in the stage setting,
and it is absolutely necessary, whenever a new one is contemplated, to
accustom them to it by the most gradual means. There have been times
when an animal, seeing a new barrel or block for the first time, would
attack it with such gusto that not only would the objectionable piece
of furniture be destroyed, but so much excitement would be communicated
to the other animals that it would be found impossible to go on with
the act.
The dangerous tigress, Goldie, which performs with Herman Weedon, has a
special dislike to the red pedestal on which she has to sit during the
performance. At all other times, when this pedestal is out of sight,
Goldie is as meek and mild as a kitten, and will allow herself to be
smoothed and stroked with every symptom of pleasure. But when once that
red pedestal is in view, Goldie is a fury. At one time Herman Weedon
tried painting the objectionable stool another color, but he soon found
that in Goldie’s case it was not the color or the pedestal itself that
she objected to: it was the fact that when she saw that pedestal she
knew that she had to perform, which raised all her temper and animosity.
An incident which occurred in Kansas City will well illustrate the
force of habit in wild animals. An error on the part of the workmen
had caused Mme. Pianka’s cage to be misplaced, and it became necessary
that a smaller one be substituted. Such a change from one accustomed
condition to another is one which performing animals particularly
dislike, and it is avoided whenever possible, but in this case it was
unavoidable.
The lions all objected to the change, and showed their displeasure by
many unmistakable signs. One lioness absolutely refused to enter the
cage at all; Mme. Pianka coaxed, ordered, and flicked her whip. The
lioness had been a good animal, but some unaccountable sulkiness, such
as is likely to obtrude into the good nature of any animal at any time,
had taken possession of her, and nothing would move her.
It was at this juncture that I decided to enter her cage myself and
insist on obedience. The lioness looked casually at me and then at the
small riding-whip in my hand, and after a little demur went into the
cage and through her act without any more fuss or sulkiness. I was in
the act of leaving the cage when I, thoughtlessly, did a most foolish
thing.
Pleased to think I had subdued the big cat, I carelessly tapped the
riding-whip on the ground, merely for a flourish. Twenty feet away the
lioness’s mate was standing, watching the whole proceeding with dubious
eyes. He promptly noted the action, had never seen it before, mistook
its intent for an attack on his mate, and with a single bound was on
me. Before I had time to realize what was happening, the lion had
pinned me through the fleshy part of the thigh, and we both went down
together.
The lion loosened his hold, gathered himself up, and picking me up in
his mouth, as though I were a tiny child, carried me over to Pianka,
as though for her approval. Here, fortunately for myself, the force of
habit again came into play.
In Mme. Pianka’s hand was the revolver, loaded with blank cartridges,
which she used for her act. Two of these she fired, in quick
succession, close to the lion’s ear. That was one of the signals for a
change in his act; the other, a simultaneous one, was to throw her arm
about his neck. The natural pose which had always been suggested by
these two actions in conjunction worked the charm. The force of habit
brought him to instant obedience, he drew his teeth out of my body,
fell into the pose, and seemed quite oblivious of the anger that had
only the moment before aroused him to his dangerous attack.
I scrambled to my feet, and after running the lion once or twice round
the arena, just to demonstrate that I still had the mastery, went off
to bed. The teeth had not touched the bone, but there were some bad
flesh wounds, and I was not up again for three weeks. And all this
was through a foolish little bit of byplay to which the lion was not
accustomed.
After the animal has learned his lesson and become expert in his
performance, there still remains the test of a public appearance. This
is always a matter of anxiety for the trainer, as animals suffer from
stage fright. The sight of a crowd is likely to distract them and
draw their attention from the trainer, so that they lose their cues.
Once thoroughly accustomed to the stage, they seem to find in it a
sort of intoxication well known to a species higher in the order of
nature. Nearly all trainers assert that animals are affected by the
attitude of an audience, that they are stimulated by the applause of an
enthusiastic house, and perform indifferently before a cold audience.
The pleasure in acting and showing off before others is, perhaps, more
plainly demonstrated by bears than by any other animals. The conceit
and good opinion of themselves which some performing bears have is
absolutely ridiculous. One trainer, Roberto, has cleverly trained
some very young bears to perform various acts. The duty of one is to
climb up a ladder, set free the American flag, and sit on the top of
the ladder until his trainer has played a tune on the violin while he
balances the bear on the ladder.
So proud is the little bear of his accomplishment that whenever any one
is looking on, he will go through the whole performance by himself,
evidently simply for the pleasure of doing it, and no one can fail to
see the conceitedness of his manner as he does it. Bears very seldom
get nervous in public; they enjoy the acts too much.
More animals are lost to the arena from fear than through viciousness.
Trainers dread a timid lion, tiger, or leopard, not only because in its
panic it is likely to injure the trainer, but because it is unreliable,
and may take fright and spoil a whole performance. When animals are
found to be so unusually timid that it is impossible to rely on them,
they are not used for any of the higher classes of performances, but
are employed for the more simple sensational acts, which often take the
public quite as much as the more difficult feats, but which require
little preparatory education.
In cases of wild animals in captivity suddenly seizing a keeper or
other person, the best means to make them loosen their hold is either
to fire off blank cartridges or to turn a hose on them. Generally the
hose has the greatest effect, as it stops the animal’s breath for the
time, and he loosens his hold to breathe. In many cases, however,
nothing in the world will induce a wild animal to loosen his hold,
and in this case it is merely a matter of brute strength, which it is
impossible to overcome, except by killing the animal, and even then he
will often hold on long enough to finish his victim.
The keeping of red-hot irons in case of emergencies I discarded about
ten or eleven years ago. I rejected it because it is an extremely
cruel expedient, and seldom effectual as a remedy for the attacks of
wild beasts. This fact was contradicted a short time ago by a man who
stated that he saw some irons being heated in one of the coke fires.
So he did, but this was in the winter, and my practice is then to put
hot irons into the drinking-water of the animals occasionally. This
practice is always observed in all my shows during the winter months.
It has the value of taking the chill off the water, and also imparts
some of the beneficial qualities of the iron, thus giving an iron tonic
and drinkable water at the same time.
[Illustration: A DIFFICULT FEAT]
For the reason that it is cruel and unsafe, I never now allow any
firearms to be used, unless it is in a case of great urgency. I took
this precaution after an incident in Chicago, when the cheek of
a spectator was grazed by a shot fired by a trainer at one of his
infuriated animals. The weapons that are used now are intelligence,
pluck, vigilance, and patience. With these used in the proper way, very
few animals in captivity, whether trained or not, will do those about
them any harm.