Lions 'n' tigers 'n' everything

A CIRCUS is a great place for natural development. There’s not much “book learnin’,” it’s true; but practicability is a thing which is understood to the last degree. The sideshow talker may slaughter the English language, but he practices more active psychology than the professor who lectures upon the subject. The lot superintendent may not know a monsoon from a period of barometric depression, but he can tell hours beforehand whether the performance will be held in fair weather or foul. The boss hostler never saw the interior of a veterinary school, yet circus horses, despite their hardships, are healthier, better cared for and sleeker than the usual occupants of a riding school. So it goes throughout the whole establishment, up to and including the trained animal department. In this latter are to be found some of the strangest developments of all.

Perhaps, at some time or another, perched high upon the reserves, you’ve seen the animal acts, and wondered a bit about them: why certain beasts are selected for certain tricks and why others are not used at all. Or perhaps the thought never entered your head; so far as you were concerned, all animals were alike.

But to the man down in the steel arena, it has been a different story. Everything—conforming to the rule of the circus—must have its reason. The tiger which rides about the big cage on the back of an elephant may be the best of its kind, leaping through flaming hoops without the slightest concern, but utterly worthless in a simple “group number” where it may have but a single duty during the whole act. In the first place, that tiger may have a single-track mind, such as many persons have, capable of assimilating only a certain routine. And on the other hand, it may be a hardened criminal, with a murder lust so highly developed that its very presence in a den with other animals would mean a fight to the death. Or again, it may be mentally unbalanced, or still worse, an outcast from the society of its kind and destined to extermination the minute it seeks the presence of other tigers. All these things count in the menagerie of the circus of to-day; things are a bit different from the olden times, when an animal was only an animal.

In fact, within the last twenty years, there has been a complete turnover in the animal business. Methods of training have changed from ones of undoubted cruelty to those in which the beasts work for a reward, just as a man or woman works for a living. Greatest of all, there has been a change to a system where the beauty or grace of a beast is placed secondary to the condition of its mentality. No longer is an animal selected simply because it is a “good looker.” There is something far more important,—the brain.

Not long ago, I roamed into the menagerie of a Mid-Western circus to find Bob McPherson, the cat trainer, sitting in front of a den containing four Sumatran tigers. Apparently he was merely resting there, a newspaper in his hands, reading awhile, then watching the tigers. The next day it was the same and the next after that. Then I asked questions.

“New cats,” answered the trainer in his jerky fashion. “Just in from Hamburg. Got to break two of ’em on the road—short in the big act. So I thought I’d put ’em through their sprouts first and pick ’em out so I wouldn’t get any more scars on me. Got four hundred and eighty-eight now. That’s enough. Don’t want any more. Breaking cats on the road’s dangerous work, unless you’re pretty sure of ’em. Just about got ’em picked out. Guess it’ll be that littlest male and the big female. Those other two—don’t like ’em. One of ’em batty and the other one’s a dunce.”

For Bob McPherson had been doing something more than merely sitting there in front of the tiger den and idly watching a set of cats when he wasn’t busy with his newspaper. He had been applying a set of mental tests to his prospective students, crude perhaps in comparison, yet fully as efficient for his purpose as the Binet test by which the human mind is catalogued.

One tiger had been eliminated from the beginning and in a glance. He was cross-eyed, which to the ordinary person would mean nothing.

But the trainer who takes a cross-eyed tiger into the arena with him also takes the chance of being carried out a huddled, bleeding mass, in a piece of canvas. Crossed eyes in a human mean little. Crossed eyes in a tiger mean that somewhere in the past there has been misbreeding; that a brother and sister or father and daughter have mated, bringing into the world a thing that is warped in intelligence, lacking in mental poise and balance, and with a predilection toward murder. And so the cross-eyed Sumatran had been passed by without further examination.

As to the others their every action had been watched by the trainer; the manner in which they fed, voracity with which they attacked their food, their actions when the crowds came into the big tent, their attitude toward the cage boy and toward his steel scraper when he came to clean the dens.

“Prince!” called McPherson. The small male, apparently asleep, opened its eyes, stared calmly for an instant, then closed them again.

“Janet!” The same thing happened with the big female.

“Rajah!” The crossed-eyed tiger raised his head and hissed, his long yellow teeth disclosed from furling lips.

“Major!” There was no response. The fourth tiger did not recognize the call; it merely lay there, eyes closed, dormant. The trainer shrugged his shoulders.

“Lunkhead!” he exclaimed. “Doesn’t even know his own name. If he can’t learn his name, how is he going to learn tricks?”

By which little experiment had a great deal been explained. Prince and Janet had shown by their calm recognition that they not only could understand the distinct name by which they had been designated, but that also the voice of the man who called it brought no malice or enmity. The actions of Rajah, the inbred, had been of a different nature; the application of the name had caused snarling rebellion, indicative of revolt should the animal ever be taken into the training den. Major—well, Major was no more than McPherson had called him; a lunkhead, without even enough brains to know when he was spoken to. And this kind of an animal is even more dangerous than the one which is plainly and openly rebellious against human control.

In fact, in the menagerie, he occupies the same position that the “harmless imbecile” does in the human strata. For years he may amble through life, allowing the world and all it contains to go past him. Then suddenly, he goes mad.

An instance of this happened recently with John Helliott, a trainer for one of the big shows. His exhibit was short of tigers, and merely to “dress the act” he took into the arena with the rest of the big cats an animal which had always been looked upon as a harmless, amiable dunce. There was little training; Helliott did not want the Bengal to do more than merely sit upon its pedestal, a thing comparatively easy, for the beast apparently was too lazy to desire to do anything else.

So week after week it went on; the cat came forth from the chute, stretched itself, then went to its seat, there to sit vacuously until the act was over. Then one day, something happened.

It was nothing new. Nothing but what had happened twice every day during the whole of the tiger’s term as an actor, a clown “walk around,” in which one of the circus funsters made the circuit of the hippodrome track in the guise of a radio fan, with a contraption upon his head designed to represent a broadcasting apparatus, from which there spluttered sparks and the constant crackle of electricity. It had been going on ever since the season had started. But the tiger simply hadn’t noticed it, that was all. On this occasion its vacant eyes happened to be turned in that direction. It saw the sparks; it heard the queer crackling noise, it went crazy with fear. When a frenzied tent was finally stilled again, they carried John Helliott forth to four weeks in a hospital, the victim of a “harmless imbecile.”

That there are imbeciles among animals, that there are the criminally insane, the criminally jealous; morons, warped intellects, criminal effects of laziness; the murder instinct as apart from a natural instinct of self-preservation, and a deliberate desire among some beasts to revolt against the laws of right and wrong are all things which have become foregone conclusions among the animal trainers of to-day. Nor are they the result of mere theories, but rather of experiments in animal psychology to learn which certain beasts do certain things, and the cause for rebellion or obedience.

To tell the truth, animal training has become greatly like human training, especially as regards right and wrong. In fact, this is the first thing that is taught the caged beasts, that it is wrong, for instance, to attempt to steal a cage-mate’s food; that it is wrong to fight the feeding forks by which meat is placed within the den, or attempt to tear at the cage scrapers with which their homes are cleaned. That paws should remain within the cage and not outside; in fact, that anything which happens beyond the bars should be disregarded entirely. The circus must remember always that it caters to spectators, and that some of these spectators apparently leave their brains at home when they go to a circus lot. They know that a tiger or a lion or a leopard is a dangerous beast; they know that their claws are poisonous and sufficiently strong to tear the muscles loose from a person’s arm. But nevertheless, if a big cat happens to be quiescent in its cage, there’ll come the inevitable:

“Oh, isn’t it pretty? I’m going to see if I can’t pet it!”

Whereupon there is a sally under the guard ropes—providing the menagerie attendant isn’t looking—and an attempt to pet an animal which fears every human except his trainer. Then, when the beast inadvertently claws at an arm or a hand, the visitor becomes angry and blames the circus. Therefore, there is only one recourse, to make it a part of animal morals and ethics to keep their paws within their cages and not offer temptations to misguided humans.

What is more, the animals of a menagerie seem to recognize these rules and understand them. The house-cat instinct to play runs through every jungle feline. A fluttering piece of canvas outside the den will offer a constant temptation to paw and tear at it; yet I have seen a leopard disregard a thing like this for hours, seemingly paying no attention to it, until the meal call comes from the cookhouse and the menagerie is deserted of attendants. Whereupon it will sneak forward, play with the canvas until it notes a returning animal man, when it will halt and once more drop back into its usual position, as though that tantalizing bit of canvas were nothing whatever in its life.

Nor does all this merely happen. It comes about, according to the present-day animal men, through a thoroughly developed morality or lack of it. The animal trainer is these days a person of constant experiments, of irrepressible inquiry. It is he who must go into the dens with jungle beasts, or command the elephants in the rings. If things go wrong, he is the one who is taken to the hospital as a result of it, and so he wants to know the why of every animal’s action. During these experiments, some surprising things have taken place, and some revelations concerning the workings of animal minds and animal criminality.

Several years ago, three young tigers, a male and two females, all from different mothers, were placed together in a cage of the John Robinson Circus as a “baby animal” feature. They played together, ate together, seemed happy together.

They grew. The male and one female developed to maturity with a rapidity which was overlooked by the menagerie men. The second female remained a cub. Nevertheless the old case of the triangle had developed; one morning the side boards of the den were taken down and surprised animal men stared within. The smallest tiger was dead; torn and slashed by tooth and claw. The other tigers were nuzzling each other; purring and growling in the good humor of matedom. For them the world was quite rosy; the other angle of the triangle was gone. What is more, the murder of the tigress had been accomplished by both of them; their claws were equally discolored; their jowls both reddened where teeth had torn at the throat and spine of an interloper.

This does not happen solely with what might be called the lower forms of jungle animals. Quite otherwise, it is more apparent in the primates. In the Stuhr Menagerie at Portland, for instance, were three orang-outangs, a male and two females. For a time everything was lovely; then the male chose a mate from the pair with which he was quartered, and the ancient story of one woman too many began again.

The fortunate Mrs. Orang-outang seemed to make no objection to the company of her lady friend. But the male did. Morning, night and noon he beat her, bit her, spat and snarled at her, stole her food from her and in general abused her in a manner wholly unbecoming a gentleman. To which she offered no objection, for the simple reason that she was in love with him.

So much, in fact, that when the menagerie men decided upon separation as a surcease to her sorrows, she threw herself against the bars, squealed and cried and lamented; and finally decided upon starvation as a means of suicide rather than to be separated from the rest of the family. The animal men decided to put her back again. But as rapidly they decided otherwise. This time there was no forbearance. Both set upon her, the male taking the initiative, and it was only by main force that she was rescued, torn and bleeding, to be sold immediately in an effort to save her from herself.

Nor is it always elemental, this strain of law-breaking in the menagerie. Nor is every overt act classed as criminal. Recently with one of the big shows, it was noticed that a riding tiger, each day when it finished its ride around the arena upon the back of a horse, and leaped to the ground, struck out farther and farther toward the trainer. At last came the time when the beast reached the ground almost at the feet of the animal man, suddenly to straighten, to hiss, then to strike savagely at him with both forefeet. The blows were avoided, the animal sent back to its pedestal, and after the performance there were conferences. Several of them. Either that tiger had worked out a carefully conceived plot, deliberately carried forward day by day, or some more natural cause was responsible for the attack.

The idea of a plot didn’t seem reasonable; animals do strange things, it is true; but rarely are their actions more than the result of a natural cunning, which leads them to simulate docility in order to gain their ends. The belief that this tiger could have worked out a theory by which it could approach an inch or so nearer each day was a bit too heavy even for menagerie men; so they looked for something else and found it. The cause of that attack had been a rapidly growing affection of the eyes which had caused the tiger progressively to misgauge his distance when leaping. Then, at last, the surprise of finding his trainer right upon him had caused the attack. They sent for the circus veterinary, treated the tiger’s eyes, forgave him his trespasses, and now, with his vision clear again, he’s back in the steel arena once more.

Every now and then, in truth, there’s a Freudian aspect about the handling of menagerie beasts, complicated until the cause becomes known, and afterward extremely simple. As was the case of Jake, a full-bred Nubian lion, trained to the “Wallace” or untamable lion trick, and one of the most faithful beasts of his kind in captivity.

Jake’s task in life was to nearly kill his trainer twice daily, in what is known as the “Wallace stunt.” An act, by the way, which demands exactness on the part of the trainer and of the beast, a perfect understanding between the two, and a high order of intelligence on the part of the animal, for the simple reason that his job is to fool the audience.

The lion is let into the arena, roaring and bellowing the minute he leaves his cage. He chews at his pedestal. He turns and claws and thunders at the attendants outside. To all intents and purposes, he is a raging, vengeful thing that really doesn’t begin to get along with himself until he’s killed a trainer or two a day. He seeks to climb the bars of the big den; he claws at the netting; from outside the trainer throws him a crumpled piece of cloth and he tears it to shreds even before it has had time to strike the arena floor. Meanwhile the audience shivers and shakes, hoping the trainer won’t try to go in there, and then hoping that he will, inasmuch as they’ve never really seen a trainer killed. Then the trainer opens the door and leaps within. The battle is on!

Revolvers flash, whips crack. But the lion will not be tamed. Gradually he forces the trainer backwards, closer, closer; now he has him in a corner and crouches to leap; now the trainer edges forth into a new chance for life, only to be re-cornered by the bloodthirsty beast; to be almost chewed to pieces, and finally, in a desperate rush, he escapes through the steel door just as the lion comes crashing against it!

Thrilling! But only an act, after all. For every movement of that battle is a rehearsed thing, with the lion and the trainer each knowing every instant what the other is going to do. And the lion which displays his fierceness in this manner is usually the calmest beast of the whole menagerie. So it was with Jake. Until one day they changed his habitat from a full cage to one slightly smaller than a half compartment. And that day Jake became a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde!

In the arena, he was the same old Jake, dependable, exact to the quarter of an inch. But once the act was over and he was returned to his new home, he became in reality the beast he had simulated in the steel arena.

Apparently there was no cause for it. Nevertheless the consequence was there. Instead of his usual amiability, he had taken on a sullen, vengeful fierceness. His trainer could not come near him. He fought the feeding forks. He refused food.

They tried experiments upon him to test his mentality and to seek to determine the extent of his murder lust. A live cat was placed scrambling in the den. He paid no attention to it. A fluttering chicken was thrown within. He disregarded that also. His hate was for humans and humans alone, the humans who had placed him in that small enclosure; and his hatred vanished as soon as he was released into the steel arena. About that time they began to inquire into Jake’s past.

That inquiry brought forth the fact that Jake had been shipped to America five years before; that he had come in a crate too small for him, and that he had been horribly mistreated by one of the attendants who accompanied him to this country from the shipping headquarters in Europe. Perhaps Jake didn’t remember the specific instance. But the closeness of small quarters had brought back to him an instinctive hatred, and Jake was a murderer as long as that instinct worked on him. The result was that Jake was returned to his old domicile, a full cage, and he once more became placid. Even I, no trainer of lions, or even of dogs, could go into the cage with him and not think any more of it than a visit with a house cat. But in that small cage, well that was something else again!

So it goes. Mentality’s a queer thing, even in beasts. The amount of insanity which has been discovered in recent years has been surprising, even to men who had argued its presence. Nor is there much deviation between the human and animal cause.

A great part of it comes from inbreeding and poor parentage, just as it does with humans. Some comes from illness, especially that affecting the spine and nerves. And still another cause is idleness.

Evidently Adam wasn’t the only being that was told to get out and earn his daily food. Animals must have received their orders also, for the happiness and health and mental comfort of every one of them depends upon work. Lions and tigers and leopards are made to pace in expectancy for their meals; the great hunks of meat are purposely delayed. The elephant is happiest when he is worked hard, and plenty of strain placed upon his muscles. The tamest beasts of any circus are the “working bulls,” allowed to wander at will about the circus grounds, with their trainer lolling in the shadow of a wagon and commanding his charge merely by a word or a grunt. And nowadays the first thing that is prescribed for a convalescent beast on at least one circus is exercise!

It came about in a rather queer way. A three-year-old lioness became ill with an intestinal disease. Weakened, it was believed that absolute rest was the best thing for her. She was taken out of the act of which she formed a part, confined in a half compartment, and presumably well cared for. Months went by. Then it was discovered that the cat had become insane.

Her breeding, slightly inbred, was a part of the cause, it was true. But another was enforced idleness. The symptoms took the form of a constant scratching against the floor of the cage, not noticed until the animal had worn the pads of her paws bare, and, in a sudden excess of agony, had rolled to her back, as if, by holding the bleeding paws aloft, to cool and soothe them. The menagerie superintendent went close to the cage and for a long time studied the beast, her nervous twitchings, the spasmodic reversion to that frenzied digging and scratching, then the return to the position on her back, the pain-ridden paws stretched above her.

“Only one thing to do,” came the conclusion, and the menagerie superintendent hurried for the harness-maker’s tent.

There he fashioned a set of four shoes, built much after the fashion that shoes for dogs are made. Following which he obtained assistance, bound the beast, carefully bandaged the ragged paws, affixed the shoes and released the big cat.

There was a moment or so of ludicrous skating about, an exaggerated edition of a house cat in paper shoes, then the lioness attacked the trappings with her teeth, tore them off, and resumed her former activities. The menagerie superintendent only sighed and went back to the harness shop.

This time, when he did his cobbling, he inserted sharp tacks, protruding from the inside. Patiently he put the new set of footgear on the lioness and awaited results. Once more she strove to tear them off, but the tacks hurt her mouth. She desisted, and tried again, for the third and fourth and fifth time. During which periods, the insane desire to scratch overcame her. For moments at a time she would forget that the raw-fleshed paws were padded, only to return to her gnawing, and to desist. At last, she ceased to fight the pads, and the superintendent gave a sigh of relief.

“Now let her scratch to her heart’s content,” he announced. “The more the merrier.”

In the next three weeks the lioness wore out six pairs of shoes. In the meantime she began to round out; her eyes became clearer, and the frenzies of scratching less pronounced. In a month the paws had healed and a seventh pair of shoes was placed on her feet, to last far longer than the others. Gradually the big cat became saner, more natural. At last the scratching ceased entirely; the shoes were removed, and the menagerie superintendent gave a verdict of returned sanity. Exercise, which might otherwise have killed the beast, through infection of those torn paws, had effected a cure, through a set of leather shoes. And to-day that lioness is back in her act, clear and strong again. After all, there’s more to the care of menagerie animals than merely feeding them!