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Now
Two weeks ago, an orca named Kasatka
intentionally grabbed and pulled her trainer underwater twice-nearly
killing him in the process. Kasatka is a performer for Sea World
Adventure Park, San Diego. She is one of seven orca entertainers
at the Southern California park. With operations in five other
US locations, Sea World and Busch Gardens are owned by the Anheuser-Busch
corporation. Indeed, as Susan Davis demonstrated in her Spectacular
Nature (1997), these flagship zoological parks are corporate
enterprises: for-profit businesses.
According to a park official,
the Sea World orcas perform as many as 8 times per a day, 365
days a year. The Kasatka attack happened during the final daily
show. As for the performances themselves, they are finely choreographed
and composed of several acts. Each is highly complex in its routines
and challenging in its stunts. These shows require skill, patience,
labor, and hours of weekly practice. The orcas are, in every
sense, performers and entertainers.
A considerable amount of money
is invested in such flagship zoological ventures. These parks
are vacation destinations. There are hotels, restaurants, amusement
rides, merchandise, and special events. There are adventure camps
for students. There are animal exhibitions and performances.
There are extensive breeding and academic-related research operations.
In truth, the global trade in exotic-animals is a multi-million
dollar a year industry. The Russian government, for example,
just resumed its trade in captive orcas. This is not surprising,
as a single orca can be worth up to 1 million dollars. Conservation
is big business.
Yet much more is happening
at these zoos and aquariums than just production and profit,
more than just performers, spectacle, and captive audiences.
For Kasatka's action on that day was not a unique incident. It
was the third such public act of violence involving herself.
In 1999, she attempted to bite this same trainer during a show.
He only escaped with all his limbs fully intact by quickly jumping
out of the pool. After this event, Kasatka was sent, as stated
by a park spokesman, "back for some additional training
and behavior modification"-for in 1993, there was a similar
bite-attempt. In fact, two years earlier, her father, a performer
at Sealand of the Pacific in Canada, killed his trainer during
a show. Resistance at zoological institutions occurs far more
often than most people know.
The acts of resistance that often attract the most attention
are violent forms. Arms are bitten off. Flesh is torn. Bones
are crushed. Humans are killed. The most famous recent event
occurred in 2002 in Las Vegas during a Siegfried and Roy show.
Montecore, a 6 year veteran of stage, refused to lie down during
a routine, and, when his trainer bristled, the white tiger clamped
down on his arm. After being repeatedly hit on the head with
a microphone, Montecore then grabbed him by the neck. His trainer
would survive but only barely. Others have not been so lucky.
In 1876, for example, Babe
the elephant was born in India. He began his working life as
a performer in an American circus. But, after stomping a trainer
to death, he was sold to a zoo in Toledo, Ohio. There, three
years later, he killed another trainer with his tusks. So resistant
did this elephant become, his final obituary read: "Animal
which became a Killer and Outlaw, executed following a Paralytic
Stroke." In fact, according to a 1991 report of the American
Association of Zoological Parks and Aquariums, 18 trainers were
killed by elephants over a 20-year period in North America-thereby
achieving the unique distinction of having the highest per capita
morality rate of any employment profession.
Another attention-grabbing
act of resistance is escape. In 1922, an unidentified ape attempted
to flee from the Toledo Zoo. Apparently, the ape was once an
adroit bicycle-rider in a vaudeville show but was later sold
to the zoo. During the escape itself, the ape was confronted
by the head keeper and his armed men. After beating and stabbing
the ape with clubs and pitchforks, the keeper decided to shoot
the animal in the head, as this was the ape's third breakout.
Escapes were so common in the early days of the zoo that the
Toledo Blade printed a series of cartoon editorials: each
depicting various animals running through the streets and causing
havoc in the local Walbridge neighborhood. Contrary to what some
readers might be thinking, time and progress have not slowed
such actions.
In 2003, Little Joe, a gorilla
at the Franklin Park Zoo in Boston, escaped his exhibition twice
in a two-month period. Noting the 12-ft-wide, 12-ft-deep moat
and electrified wires, officials had no idea how he accomplished
it. At the Dallas Zoo a year later, Jabari-the gorilla-broke
out of a containment that was, according to the zoo director,
"among the best in the country." As he said afterwards,
"this blows our minds." Over a one month period at
the Los Angeles Zoo in 1997, twelve animals-a gorilla, snow leopard,
howler monkey, four spider monkeys, and five colobus monkeys-escaped
their exhibitions and made it onto zoo grounds. Sometimes, these
animals can get even further. In 1960, a seal lion named Cyril
fled the London Zoo in London, Ontario. Swimming fourteen days
and traveling a distance of over four-hundred miles, he traversed
the Thames river, St. Clair lake, Lake Erie, and the Maumee river.
He was eventually captured in Ohio.
The most common forms of resistance,
however, are those particularly unspectacular in their methods.
Cheetahs who refuse to do anything. Tigers who ignore commands.
Elephants who fake ignorance. Orcas who rebuff new tasks. Gorillas
who break equipment. Chimpanzees who throw their shit ("scatological
humor," as zoo officials call it) at visitors. One researcher
marveled at how skillful the monkeys at the Los Angeles Zoo were
at hitting visitors with "clods of earth" from great
distances. Then there was Stuffie, the first chimp ever produced
from artificial insemination. Shot to death in 1987 while attempting
to escape, she was infamous at the Toledo Zoo for holding milk
in her mouth for hours on end: waiting patiently until her trainers
came close enough so that she could spit it out in their faces.
Zoological institutions have
always acknowledged this resistance. Indeed, if a keeper or trainer
desires to obtain an adequate, timely, and profitable amount
of labor from such creatures, there always has to be some degree
of negotiation involved. After the latest Kasatka attack, one
whale-researcher admitted that "sometimes they're [the orcas]
not happy with their situation." "Some mornings they
wake up not as willing to do the show as others." "If
the trainer doesn't recognize it's not a good day, this will
happen." Resistance could mean a lessening of duties and
a day off. For Kasatka, she was sent right back to work the following
day, but all routines directly involving trainers were cut out.
Or this resistance could result in something worse.
For Babe, it brought further
beatings and the sawing off of her tusks. It brought armed-guards,
more chains, and a new stronger pen. For Little Joe, his escapes
brought about a new cell with triple-layered glass walls, a woven-steel
cap, and 24-hour video surveillance. For Jabari, it meant being
shot to death by the police. Many parks have now created specialized
response teams: armored and armed. In fact, for both Babe and
Little Joe, their acts of resistance initiated serious discussions
among zoo officials concerning the use of the death penalty.
By 1826, the London Exeter
Exchange Menagerie had enough of Chunee the elephant. He had
broken his last enclosure, ignored his last command, killed his
last keeper. Depicted by a famous engraining, Chunee was executed
via firing squad. Parallel was the fate of Topsy, the Coney Island
elephant. Fed up with his continued "temper," including
killing a visitor who fed him a lit cigarette, he was sold to
the Thomas Edison Laboratory in 1903. Recorded by motion-pictures,
Topsy was electrocuted to death.
For the elephants at the San
Diego Wild Animal Park, their resistance negotiated a different
outcome. In 1993, responding to increasing injuries and deaths
among trainers, the park (following the lead of several others)
decided to completely change its training methods. Instead of
applying the use of physical force and punishment, only positive
methods of reinforcement were now to be used. Moreover, they
switched to a "protected-contact" system. Either the
keepers would be protected at all times by a permanent barrier,
or the elephants themselves would be placed in restraining devices.
As for those creatures who
just refuse to do anything, they pose a most particular and serious
problem for zoos. Remember, these institutions make a considerable
profit from entertaining visitors, and the sight of a monkey
sitting quietly behind a bush is not entertaining. There is,
in fact, a sizable amount of contemporary research done by zoos
seeking to discover why animals become anti-social or act lethargic
when confronted by visitors. The ultimate purpose of these "behavioral
enrichment" studies is to lessen resistance and increase
production. Animals need to perform. They need to play the part
of the beast. They need to act voraciously. They need to run
rapidly, fly swiftly, and swim excitedly. They need to roar and
screech loudly. The methods used to obtain such reactions range
from the construction of "naturalistic" exhibitions,
to the utilization of toys and hidden treats, to experimentation
with pharmaceutical drugs. None of these techniques, however,
guarantees success. During the 1980s, for example, Busch Gardens
designed and installed an expensive, long, narrow structure for
their cheetahs. It was supposed that these creatures would readily
use this structure to exhibit and highlight their speedy running
abilities, consequently attracting vast audiences and their money.
The cheetahs, though, refused to use it.
In response to the latest Sea
World attack, the park and the AAZA went into a self-preservation
mode. Two points were made repeatedly. First, animals are better
off in zoos than living autonomously. Second, zoos educate the
general public. Neither argument addressed the actual issue at-hand:
what about Kasatka's actions. When pressed, their response was
careful and measured. Whether born in captivity or not, these
creatures are still "wild," and thus subject to unprovoked
and unusual acts of recalcitrant behavior. Ironically, this is
the same reasoning used (although in a critical form) by the
Humane Society of the United States. This is a top-down view.
In order to see the world from
Kasatka's perspective, three facts need to be considered. First,
there are no recorded incidences of orcas "in the wild"
attacking humans unprovoked. This is an institutional problem.
Second, Kasatka and other performers have a long history of
attacking trainers. Resistance in zoos and aquariums, in truth,
is anything but unusual. Third, the zoological institutions themselves
have to negotiate with their entertainers to extract labor and
profit. Indeed, animal performers have agency, and zoos have
always (privately, at least) acknowledged this. Therefore, the
next time you hear about an orca attack, don't dismiss it from
above: "Animals will be animals." But instead, look
from below: "These creatures resist work, and can occasionally
land a counterpunch or two of their own."
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