A long debated argument within the realm of animal ethics is that of captivity in zoos. It feels unethical to lock creatures built for open fields within tiny manmade landscapes. Yet, reducing these animals to these exhibits removes them from predators, habitat degradation, scarce resources and illegal poaching. Animals in captivity are given the life span to be able to die from old age, a feat that is rarely met in nature due to natural and unnatural constraints of the wild.
Many people are saddened by the animals’ immobility despite their large bodies. Yet, these animals are not particularly active in the wild. Tigers and lions are generally as lazy as your common housecat, though the larger cats must engage a little more effort in getting their dinner beyond eating out of a bowl. If anything, we should blame our culture for depicting lions as theatrical predators just as we depict sharks and snakes as being more aggressive than they actually are. The primate exhibit at a zoo exemplifies seemingly active creatures being active in captivity. Because these animals are naturally social, they are often more exciting to see at the zoo than large cats because they enjoy the attention.
Volunteering at the aquarium, I find that the sacrifices involved in maintaining an aquarium are worth its ability to educate and fascinate visitors. Petting a stingray, despite the unnerving name, engages visitors into investing emotions with animals they do not see on a daily basis. I love talking with nervous children about how the sandtiger shark who bears nasty teeth is highly unaggressive and how King Mydas the sea turtle survived Katrina. Learning about these creatures and ecosystems in this way helps strengthen the public’s awareness of ecological necessities and conflicts.
I visited the zoo on the MLK holiday to celebrate my birthday and enjoy my Audubon volunteer card that grants me free admissions to different facilities. Most of the animals I saw seemed content basking sleepily in the sun, as they had attention, food, and shelter. Yet, I found myself staring face to face with a gorilla named Casey. He was the only animal I saw who genuinely looked discontent with his predicament. While I was watching him, a young boy was screeching, “Hi MONKEY!” over and over again, and various parental figures were saying various cutesy phrases such as “Monkey want a banana?” At first I thought it was the ape’s higher mental capacities that enabled him to recognize his own captivity and be mournful of his predicament, yet other primates we as humans are more closely related to did not share the same depression I saw in Casey.
Even when I moved on to see the juvenile giraffe and the zebras, I still had the odd feeling of a despondent returned stare from a gorilla in my mind. I think that as I continue to read for this course (Literature of Nature), I will return to visit Casey and determine why it is he was the only animal I saw who was unhappy at the zoo.
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