ACCIDENTS
Every man or woman who trains animals has what are termed “accidents.”
Animals differ in temperament, mood, and nature as human beings do,
and the trainer learns to read the intent of each in his eye, in the
motions of his tail, in his walk and movement.
Animals are erratic and uncertain at times, and one can never tell
just what the animal will do. He may have done the same things a great
number of times easily and willingly, and yet may, without any warning,
suddenly refuse to do anything further. He comes out with a plain,
blunt refusal, without any apologies, either in voice or manner, and
he usually makes it pretty clear that he means what he says. He has
grown rebellious; his sense of wrongs, his hate, and his desire for
revenge appear to have culminated suddenly, and his only wish is to get
even with those who have been making him do things which made him look
ridiculous.
In a case like this there is generally an accident, and if the trainer
is not alert and self-possessed he is apt to lose his life. Again, an
animal may lose his temper suddenly, and in one of those swift rages
or frenzies into which all wild animals are liable to fall at any time
try to kill his trainer, and a few moments afterward crawl back and
show his repentance. It is most unwise to punish an animal when this
happens. He will probably do the same thing again, and may succeed
in killing his trainer the next time, but to punish him when he is
repentant would only make him vindictive and revengeful, and wild
animals do not forget easily.
Of course, no animal is ever to be trusted until he is dead; but if the
trainer is in a cage and gets cornered, experience teaches him what to
do. He learns to think and act quickly, to retain a natural sobriety
and coolness, never to lose his temper with a wild beast, and to make
him obey every time, at all costs. It is never the physical force of
the trainer that conquers; that is impossible. It is his coolness,
determination, and untiring patience.
More minor injuries are received in training, without any evil intent
on the part of the animal, than in any other way. The lion, for
instance, is always clumsy, and is at any time likely to misplace a
paw armed with claws that could not be more effective if they were
fashioned from so much steel. If that paw passes along the body of the
trainer, the unlucky man goes to the hospital, where he may be laid up
for six or seven weeks.
Such an accident happened to Mme. Pianka one night at Buffalo. An
admirer had sent her a bouquet of red roses, and in place of her heavy
riding-whip she carried it into the arena for her performance with the
lions. It is a fallacy to suppose that any change in the dress of the
trainer will make a difference with the animal. All trained animals
know their trainers, and even should another man come in dressed
in the same clothes as their own trainer, they would recognize the
difference instantly. But all animals will jump for meat, no matter
where that meat may be.
There can be no doubt whatever that in this instance the lions at the
first glance mistook the bunch of red roses for red meat. One lion had
not yet reached his pedestal when Mme. Pianka entered, or possibly
he might not have sprung. But, being on the floor of the arena, the
moment he caught sight of the red mass in her hand he sprang forward,
and in the wide sweep of his paw to get the supposed meat, struck the
trainer’s cheek, and the blow, glancing to her arm and chest, tore her
flesh and dress.
Instantly Mme. Pianka tossed the flowers from her, and she was only
just in time, for every one of the lions pounced upon them, sniffed
and smelled them with evident surprise and disgust, found they were
not what they had expected, and in their usual slow, deliberate manner
remounted their pedestals and waited passively for their act. Mme.
Pianka, who is an extremely plucky woman and possesses great nerve and
self-possession, put them through their usual performance, although her
face, neck, and arms were bleeding profusely, and then, as she left the
arena, fainted.
Again, what begins by accident may be quickly turned to murderous
account by the animals. The most perilous thing a man can do is to
lose his footing, for it is more than likely, the moment he falls, the
animal will spring upon him. An English trainer was almost torn to
pieces once because of a pair of heavy top-boots he wore.
One of his tigers slipped, and in trying to save himself got one of
his claws entangled in the trainer’s leg. It was a purely accidental
blow, and the tiger, alarmed, tried to get away, but the keen claws had
penetrated through the stiff leather, and in endeavoring to extricate
them the animal threw his master down. Quick as a flash the two other
tigers in the cage were on the prostrate trainer, and but for the
prompt action of an assistant who pluckily sprang into the cage and
beat them back, the trainer would never have come out alive. It is
a vital article in the code of every trainer never to lose his temper
in a case of this kind or to punish the innocent cause of it. Often the
animals themselves are as much frightened as the trainer, and their
only resource when frightened is to fight, and to fight with all their
inherent fierceness and strength.
[Illustration: “CONSUL,” THE CHIMPANZEE]
Therefore, to punish an animal for what is perfectly natural to
him would not only be the height of absurdity, but most unwise and
dangerous. Wild animals can never be punished by chastisement; a few
harsh words are generally sufficient, and even then there is the danger
that it may be too much. Anger the animal or irritate him, and he is
likely to seek revenge with a prompt spring or a sweeping blow.
The apparent lashes given with the whip during performances are mere
pretenses, part of the daily program, and known to the animals as such.
True, these supposed lashings call forth growls and snarls, but this is
because the animal knows it is a signal for him to do something, and
he does not often feel inclined to do it. He generally does it, but
he always protests a little if he can, and growls and snarls form his
speech.
Expert, indeed, must be the trainer, for if one of these light blows
should go wrong and land on some part of the animal’s body where it
would hurt, there might well be an attack; almost certainly there would
be a fit of sulks on the part of the animal struck while doing his best
that would not only put an end to any further effort on his part for
that day, but even mean lifelong resentment and hatred, which would
simply wait for a favorable opportunity for injuring the trainer who
had given the blow.
To illustrate this. A trainer was one day exercising his animals, and
in using the whip accidentally caught a lion on the tip of his nose.
For a moment the animal paused, as though too surprised to do anything
else; then he rubbed his nose reflectively, as though still trying
to solve the problem. The trainer, who had at first grown rigid with
fear of what might follow, kept a careful eye on the lion; but as he
appeared quiet and only puzzled, and as the trainer concluded the blow
could have hurt him only slightly, he thought that was the end of it.
The animals were driven back to their cages, and nothing happened to
show that the injured lion remembered it in any way. But that same
evening, when the time came for the performance, and the trainer
flicked his whip toward the lion whom he had accidentally struck, the
animal, instead of taking it as his cue, promptly roused himself,
gathered himself together, and in another moment had sprung full at the
trainer.
Fortunately, the trainer had noticed the dangerous symptoms,--for
a lion generally gives a little warning before he springs, a tiger
never,--and had leaped aside with such agility that the lion landed a
little to the right, and this time received a stinging blow which sent
him back for a moment, giving the trainer just time to escape.
But from that time it was found absolutely impossible to make that lion
perform. He would go into the arena, and would even mount his pedestal,
but at the very first flick or lash of the whip in his direction he
would prepare to spring. Therefore, through a very slight accident,--a
little blow which one would think such a big brute would not mind,--we
lost one of our best performers.
Some very serious accidents have also occurred from the playfulness of
animals. A playful animal is always dangerous; he may be in the best of
moods and tempers, and simply wish to have a romp, but his strength and
power are too overwhelming for a man to have anything to do with him.
The wisest course to pursue with an animal in a playful mood is to get
out of his way and leave him alone.
This is easy enough at rehearsal, but in the performance it is another
matter. The animal must be put through his paces day after day, or he
will expect to take it easy all the time. A good trainer will always
try, when possible, to let the animal have his play out before urging
him to perform; but sometimes this play will go on until the audience
becomes impatient, and then comes the risk to the trainer. The animal
is comfortable and enjoying himself, and to be forced to get up on
a pedestal and do other things in the middle of it must naturally be
irritating and annoying, and the animal generally vents this annoyance
and irritability on the one who forces him to act. In some cases he
will not be forced, and then more trouble still arises for the trainer.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN BONAVITA CARRYING A LION WEIGHING FIVE HUNDRED
POUNDS]
I was once working with a group of lions at Indianapolis, when an
incident occurred which will show how one small playful action on the
part of a wild animal may sometimes lead to serious results. I was
in the training-school when Young Wallace, one of my fiercest lions,
but for whom I had a great affection, which, in a way, he appeared
to return, jumped from his pedestal for a piece of meat which I had
thrown on the floor. While eating the meat, I stood watching him, and
thoughtlessly tapping the leather leg of my training-boot with my whip.
Wallace had been accustomed to playing with the whip, and to feel the
gentle stroking of it down the muscles of his back. One of the tricks
which he had been taught was to ask for the stroking by reaching for
the whip with his paw when it was held suspended over him. A lion’s
paw is no plaything. A cat’s paw, with its sharp, incisive claws hidden
in the velvet, is sometimes a fierce and effective weapon. Imagine
a cat’s paw enlarged twenty times, propelled with a proportionate
increase of muscular energy, and with the same lightning-like rapidity,
and you can gather some little idea of what a lion’s paw means when it
strikes.
In this instance, Wallace struck at me merely in play and with little
of the strength that he would have displayed in a wilful attack. The
stroke was a part of the trick he was used to, and he made it with good
animal intention, but it was none the less direful. The claws fastened
deep into the fleshy part of my leg, through boot and underclothing,
and there stuck. A lion’s claws would not be nearly so dangerous were
they sharp and straight; but they have a sharp curve, and go in like a
cant-hook, penetrating the flesh at an acute angle. The lion has not
the sense to draw them out, as they went in, by the curving process,
but pulls them straight out.
Wallace found his claws in farther than he intended, and, slightly
frightened, promptly drew them out, not backward but forward. Needless
to say, with them came a good-sized piece of flesh, which caused me
excruciating pain.
Painful as it was, I did not move, knowing as I did that to show any
signs of fear or trepidation would cause alarm, and, probably, not only
be the spoiling of the lion, but the signal for an attack. But when
a second or two had elapsed, and Wallace had returned to eating his
meat, I at once ordered the animals back to their cages, and in this
way Wallace, picking up the remains of his meat and taking them with
him, was soon in his cage again, without having been given time or
opportunity to realize that he had hurt his trainer or drawn blood--two
things which always have bad effects on animals.
A great many accidents occur, and always will occur, either through
carelessness or through mistakes on the part of those in attendance
on the animals. It is not only the trainers who suffer from the claws
and teeth of the animals: there are numerous other men and boys in
an exhibition who are constantly running into danger, very often when
there is not the slightest occasion for their doing so.
The duties of these attendants are numerous. Besides helping to
keep the animals and cages clean, they have to attend to watering
the animals, see that no bones or other small articles are in the
cages,--for the smallest object, no matter how worthless, may be the
means of leading two animals to quarrel for its possession,--and do a
hundred and one other things which crop up from day to day.
Many of these attendants also help the trainers, which is almost as
dangerous as the duties of the trainer himself. Properties and other
things have to be passed in to the trainer during the rehearsals and
performances, doors and gates have to be opened and fastened after
them, and there is always the possibility that an animal may turn and
spring on the attendant, although with trained animals this rarely
happens. It is nothing for a man to close a door, but if an animal
springs back at it, it would require more than the strength of six to
do so.
An attendant was holding the door open, after a performance, for some
bears to return to their cages. All but one bear--a big Kadiak--had
gone quietly in, when, without the least warning, the bear turned,
inserted his claws round the edge of the door, tearing it out of the
hands of the attendant, and in a second had him down. In spite of the
promptest assistance given by Mr. Stevenson, who risked his life in so
doing, the man’s arm was terribly torn, and it was months before he was
able to leave the hospital. To this day his arm has remained stiff, and
he can only hold it in an unnatural way.
A terrible accident took place entirely through a mistake on the part
of an employee. Albert Neilson by name and a good, hard-working young
fellow, and a great favorite with the show, nicknamed “Curly,” was sent
one morning with some food in a basket to feed some young lion cubs.
The cubs were in a cage next to Rajah, the big tiger. All the employees
had been repeatedly warned about taking care in going anywhere near
this tiger--a special little trick of his being to feign sleep and then
suddenly throw out a paw with claws extended.
Whether “Curly” was careless and mistook the cage will never be known,
but the other attendants were appalled by terrible screams issuing from
Rajah’s cage, and on rushing forward saw to their horror that the man
was being held in the tiger’s mouth by his head. The details are too
terrible to go into, but here again Mr. Stevenson, who has earned for
himself the name of the Guardian Angel of the Show, rushed into the
cage, and, at the peril of his life, did his best with iron bars to
force the tiger to let go.
But nothing would induce the beast to relax his hold, and in the midst
of his growling the man was calling piteously for help. After this,
pistols were fired at him; but, when warned to come out, Sam Stevenson
would not leave the man, although he was surrounded by bullets, each
one of which was likely to strike him at any moment. Rajah was hit once
or twice, but he only let go his hold on the man’s head to take a
firmer one round his waist.
Neilson was eventually drawn out, but he died soon afterward, to
the deep grief of all in the show. Most trainers are superstitious,
and great attention was drawn at the time to the fact of the number
thirteen playing so prominent a part in the boy’s history. He was born
on the thirteenth, had thirteen letters in his name, and so forth.
It is, perhaps, the living in this perpetual state or atmosphere
of danger which causes indifference and, in some cases, neglect on
the part of the attendants. Each man and boy knows perfectly well
that he is daily exposed to bites and scratches, and, perhaps,
fearful mutilation; for all this is carefully impressed on every
newcomer,--sometimes so much so that they depart with a shiver, which
proves them totally unsuitable. The treachery of the animals is almost
daily demonstrated in some way or another; the attendants are often
witnesses of what terrible things wild animals can do, and yet I have
seen them pass close to the cages, or stand indifferently by them,
when every moment they were risking the loss of a limb, and, perhaps,
their lives.
I am always afraid of accidents with an extremely quiet man,--a
man, that is, who never speaks to or appears to take any notice of
the animals. All wild animals are very sensitive, and seem to know
instinctively when people are interested in them. A friendly word or
a little interest goes a long way with them. Captain Bonavita, for
instance, never speaks to his lions when performing, but he loves his
animals and takes the greatest interest in them, and when in their
cages talks to each one by name.
Whenever I notice an attendant who evidently takes no interest whatever
in the animals, I invariably get rid of him. He may be in the show
for some time, but one of these days the animals will get him; so, to
prevent a bad “accident,” I consider it wise to let him go.
[Illustration: MR. SAM STEVENSON
_Whose bravery in saving lives has earned for him the sobriquet of “The
Guardian Angel”_]
A very small error is often the cause of a serious accident, and this
I experienced myself at one time with Rajah, the tiger who killed
Albert Neilson. I had been putting this animal through his rehearsal
one day, and was returning through the runway to shut him in his
cage. By an error on the part of an attendant, the door was not shut
as it should have been, and Rajah had an opportunity to jump on my
defenseless back. It was an opportunity he did not hesitate to seize
immediately. The indiscretion of this attendant nearly cost me my life.
Rajah got his fangs inside the head-protector I wore, and his claws
into my body. After the first terrible sensation of tearing, I remember
nothing more, for I became unconscious, and, in addition to other
injuries, had concussion of the brain afterward.
A similar accident happened to Captain Bonavita. He was putting his
lions back, when one door, which had not been properly fastened, was
pushed open by one of the lions, who sprang upon the trainer and nearly
killed him. Another time, when Bonavita was in the runway behind the
cages exercising his lions, the electric lights suddenly went out. This
was a fearful predicament. Owing to the hubbub which immediately ensued
in the building, it was impossible to make any one hear, and even had
he done so, it would have taken a very brave man to go into a dark
runway with several lions.
As it was, Captain Bonavita did the best he could. He kept swinging
about him the heavy club he had in his hand. He could hear one of the
lions coming toward him in the dark and breathing heavily. He knew only
too well that the momentary pause was the signal either for creeping
nearer to him or for a spring. As long as he was able to keep the club
swinging he knew the lion was at a certain distance, but in an instant
it came in contact with something soft, and as this was followed by a
fierce growl, the trainer knew he had probably struck the lion on the
nose just as he was creeping close up to him.
His arms were beginning to ache terribly, and he realized that he
would be unable to keep it up much longer, but when he struck the
soft substance a second time, and knew that the lion had again crept
closer, he determined to sell his life dearly, and kept up the swinging
movements, although he was beginning to get faint and dizzy from the
exertion. As long as he could keep this going he was comparatively
safe, but there was always the danger that, instead of creeping nearer,
the lion might spring, and in that case nothing could save him.
Just as he was about to give up and take the consequences, the lights
suddenly came on again, and disclosed the lion in the very act of
preparing for a spring. The sudden glare of the light, however, and
the appearance of the trainer standing there with his club, appeared
to confuse him; and when Bonavita, with a supreme effort, ordered him
back, he turned round and went submissively into his cage. The trainer
walked to the end of the runway, where he was found by the attendants
soon afterward in a state of collapse from exhaustion.
It takes so little to turn a trivial incident into a serious matter,
that the greatest care is always necessary. In moving round the arena
at one performance, Mme. Morelli in some way touched one of the
leopards with the lace of her dress. This was before they had all
mounted to their pedestals. The lace of the dress caught him in the
eye, and in an instant the leopard sprang, and had she not been so
fortunate as to catch him with her whip as she sprang aside, there
would probably have been a very serious accident. The spring of a
leopard is a serious thing; it can bound ten or twelve feet in the air,
and although it is the lightest and most graceful jumper of all the
wild animals, it is also the strongest, and it was only the agility and
prompt action of Mme. Morelli which saved her.
At another time, a slight oversight on Mme. Morelli’s part resulted in
a very serious accident. She had concluded her performance, and was
leaving the arena, thinking all the leopards were in front of her,
when an attendant called out that one leopard was staying behind and
creeping toward her. Quick as the attendant had been in warning her,
and quick as Mme. Morelli was, they were neither of them quick enough
that time; for before she could turn round, the leopard sprang, and,
unfortunately, catching her just as she was in the act of turning,
landed on her neck and shoulders, tearing them fearfully.
[Illustration: POLAR BEARS AT PLAY]
In this instance it was Captain Bonavita who rushed in and saved her,
beating the leopard back and keeping it at bay until Mme. Morelli
was safely out of the way, and the animal could be sent back to its
cage. This was one of the most serious accidents she ever had, and
great persuasion was brought to bear on her afterward to give up that
leopard, but she would not hear of it. She was ill for some time, but
as soon as she was able she re-entered the arena and made each leopard
obey her as before. It is always a matter of wonder to see leopards
perform, but to see four or five do so with one small woman is a
marvelous sight, and proves what can be done in the way of mastering
even such treacherous and vindictive creatures as leopards and jaguars.
In taking up the business of an animal trainer, a man, if he has the
qualities of which I have already spoken, runs no more desperate
chances than thousands of other men who follow their various callings.
The physician risks his life daily from infectious diseases, but
beyond taking a few precautions, such a thing as thinking of the danger
never occurs to him. The soldier knows he may be called to give up his
life for his country in time of war, but when face to face with the
enemy, he only nerves himself to think of his duty, and not of the
danger to himself.
There are hundreds of occupations, such as mining, building, tunneling,
and driving railway engines, where men also run daily risks, and an
animal trainer runs no more than any of these, provided he is careful
and cautious. Animal trainers are no different from other men. They
all have the same capacity for fear that every man has in time of
great danger, but they have schooled themselves, by good habits and
self-control, to meet the danger calmly.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Transcriber removed a duplicate book title between the Preface and
Chapter I.
Cover created by transcriber and placed in the Public Domain.