Gerald Durrell: Menagerie Manor

Pedro was at first in temporary quarters, but, as we hoped to get him a mate eventually, we had to build him a new cage. During the period while his old quarters were being demolished and his new one being erected, he was confined in a large crate to which, at first, he took grave exception. However, when we moved it next to one of the animal kitchens and the fruit store, he decided that life was not so bad after all. The staff were constantly in view, and nobody passed his crate without pushing a titbit to him through the bars. Then, two days before he was due to be moved into his new home, it happened. Jacquie and I were up in the flat, having a quiet cup of tea with a friend, when the inter-communication crackled and Catha’s voice, as imperturbable as if she was announcing the arrival of the postman, said, “Mr Durrell, I though you would like to know Pedro is out.”

Now, although Pedro had been small when he arrived, he had grown with surprising rapidity and was now quite a large animal. Also, although he appeared ridiculously tame, bears, I am afraid, are among the few creatures in this world which you cannot trust in any circumstance. So, to say that I was alarmed by this news would be putting it mildly.

I fled downstairs and out of the back door. Here, where the animal kitchen and fruit store form an annex with a flat roof, I saw Pedro. He was galloping up and down on the roof, obviously having the time of his life. The unfortunate thing was that one of the main windows of the flat overlooked this roof, and if he went through that he could cause a considerable amount of havoc in our living quarters. Pedro was plainly unfamiliar with the substance called glass, and as I watched he bounded up to the window, reared up on his hind legs, and hurled himself hopefully forward. Luckily it was an old-fashioned sash window with small panes of glass, and this withstood his onslaught. If it had been one big sheet of glass, he would have gone straight through it and probably cut himself badly. But with a slightly astonished expression on his face he rebounded from it; what appeared to be a perfectly good means of getting into the flat was barred by some invisible substance. I rushed round to where the crate was, in an endeavour to lift up the sliding door, which, as always happens in moments of this sort of crisis, stuck fast. Pedro came and peered at me over the edge of the roof and obviously thought that he should come down to my assistance, but the long drop made him hesitate. I was still struggling with the door of the cage when Shep appeared with a ladder.

“We’ll never get him down without this,” he said. “He’s frightened to jump.”

He placed the ladder against the wall, while I continued my struggles with the door of the crate. Then Stephan came on the scene and was coming to my aid when Pedro suddenly discovered the ladder. With a little whoop of joy, he slid down it like a circus acrobat and landed in an untidy heap at Stephan’s feet.

Now, Stephan was completely unarmed and so was I, but fortunately he kept his head and did the right thing: he stood absolutely still. Pedro righted himself and, seeing Stephan standing next to him, gave a little grunt, reared up on his hind legs, and placed his paws on Stephan’s shoulders. Stephan went several shades whiter but still did not move. I looked round desperately for some sort of weapon with which I could hit Pedro, should this be a preliminary to an attack on Stephan. Pedro, however, was not interested in attacking anyone. He gave Stephan a prolonged and very moist kiss with his pink tongue and then dropped to all fours again and started galloping round and round the crate, like an excited dog. I was still trying ineffectually to raise the slide when Pedro made a miscalculation. In executing a particularly complicated and beautiful gambol, he rushed into the animal kitchen. It was the work of a second for Shep to slam the door, and we had our escapee safely incarcerated. Then we freed the reluctant slide, pushed the crate up to the kitchen, and opened its door; Pedro re-entered his quarters without any demur at all. Stephan went off and had a strong cup of tea to revive himself. Two days later we released Pedro into his spacious new quarters, and it was a delight to watch him rushing about, investigating every corner of the new place, hanging from the bars, pirouetting in an excess of delight at finding himself in such a large area.

When you own a zoo the question of Christmas, birthday, and anniversary presents is miraculously solved: you simply give animals to each other. To any harassed husband who has spent long sleepless nights wondering what gift to present to his wife on any of these occasions, I can strongly recommend the acquisition of a zoo, for then all problems are answered. So, having been reminded by my mother, my secretary, and three members of the staff that my twelfth wedding anniversary was looming dark and forbidding on the horizon, I sat down with a pile of dealers’ lists, to see what possible specimens I could procure that would have the twofold value of both gladdening Jacquie’s heart and enhancing the zoo. The whole subterfuge had this additional advantage: I could spend far more money than I would have otherwise, without the risk of being nagged for my gross extravagance. So, after several mouth-watering hours with the lists, I eventually settled on two pairs of crowned pigeons, birds which I knew Jacquie had always longed to possess. They are the biggest of the pigeon family and certainly among the most handsome, with their powder-blue plumage, scarlet eyes, and great feathery crests. Nobody knows how they are faring in the wild state, but they seem to be shot pretty indiscriminately both for food and for their feathering, and it is quite possible that before many years have passed crowned pigeons will be on the danger list. I saw that at that precise moment the cheapest crowned pigeons on the market were being offered by a Dutch dealer. I have a great liking for Holland and its inhabitants, so I thought it would be as well if I went over personally to select the birds; as I argued to myself, it would enable me to choose the very finest specimens (and for a wedding anniversary, surely nothing but the best would do), and at the same time give me a chance to visit some of the Dutch zoos, which are, in my opinion, among the finest in the world. Having thus salved my conscience, I went across to Holland.

It was just unfortunate that the very morning I called at the dealer’s to choose the crowned pigeons a consignment of orang-utans had arrived. This put me in an awkward position. First, I have always wanted to have an orang-utan. Second, I knew that we could not possibly afford them. Third, owing in part to the trade in these delicate and lovely apes, their numbers have been so diminished in the wild state that it is possible within the next ten years they may become extinct. As an ardent conservationist what was I to do? I could not report the dealer to anyone, for the simple reason that, now that they had managed to reach Holland, there was no law against his having them.

I was in a quandary. Either I could not even look at the apes and leave them to his tender mercies, or I could, as it were obliquely, encourage a trade of which I strongly disapproved, by rescuing them. By this time I was so worked up over the conservation aspect of this problem that the financial side of it had disappeared completely from my mind. Knowing full well what would happen, I went and peered into the crate containing the baby orang-utans and was immediately lost. They were bald and oriental-eyed; the male, who was the slightly larger of the two, looked like a particularly malevolent Mongolian brigand, while the female had a sweet and rather pathetic little face. As usual, they had great pot-bellies, owing to the ridiculous diet of rice on which the hunters and dealers insist on feeding them and which does them no good whatsoever except to distend their stomachs and give them internal disorders.