The Rhino with Glue-On Shoes Read Free Page A

prosthesis, or we could give him a false eye prosthesis used in human medicine—the kind that can be taken out and popped back in at will.
    I looked up at this quiet, knowledgeable eye doctor and wondered why a veterinary ophthalmologist would ever offer the latter option. Ophthalmologists routinely perform amazing procedures that restore function to this complicated organ, but there are some tools in their tool belt that simply aren't practical in the animal world. They know so much about the eye, in fact, that they can identify a species by looking at the retina, inside the eye. We had to learn this skill in vet school ophthalmology class, as if at some point in our veterinary career we might come across an eyeball—rolling around on the ground, for instance—that needed to be treated and wasn't currently attached to the species to which it belonged. I momentarily contemplated the hours spent rummaging through the bushes to find the fake eyeball every time Hondo yanked it out to throw it at someone, and opted for the stay-in-the-socket prosthesis.
    The surgery went well, and Hondo's head-standing ceased immediately. His postsurgical care, however, required daily visual exams and eyedrops. I visited him often in his holding area, where, eyeball-to-eyeball, I could check the surgery site and take follow-up photos without the intervening glass. One day, with little more than the expensive camera equipment between us, I realized that he had stopped spitting water on me. How could that be? After all the years of spitting when I was careful not to even look at him, the recent weeks of anesthetic darts, surgery, frequent exams, antibiotic treatments, and eyedrops had somehow improved our relationship. Not only that, Hondo readily approached to sit with me, giving up the opportunity to impress the chimp troop by humiliating me with a mouthful of water.
    On one visit, when Hondo's recovery was nearly complete, he began another new ritual. He reached his index finger through the mesh, as if asking to touch my gloved finger. When I finally mustered the courage to allow him to touch the very tip of my finger, he held it there, staring at it, as if fascinated by my latex skin.
    The keepers started making jokes about our relationship, asking me to visit him even when he didn't need a vet check. Hondo had a well-known fondness for certain women, and now, apparently, I was one of them. I secretly relished the fact that here was a zoo animal that might just like me. When chimpanzee annual physical exams came around every year, I made sure I wasn't the one to shoot Hondo with the dart gun. The chimps take this very personally, and are masters of dart evasion. Once you've withstood the screaming, lunging, fecal projectiles, and wall-beating long enough to deliver an accurate shot, you have to move quickly in case the chimp decides to throw the dart back at you. I've seen one dramatic female pull her dart out, approach the wire mesh, vocalizing pathetically, sit down, squeeze the tiny hole in her thigh, touch it with her finger, and show the drop of blood to her keeper, drawing coos of sympathy before she fell asleep. I didn't want Hondo to associate me with this indignity, so I stayed out of sight until he was asleep.
    One year, during Hondo's physical exam, I felt a lump. It was a large, very firm area of his liver near his rib cage. I swallowed hard, prepped him for minor surgery, and took a needle biopsy of his liver through the skin. A few days later, with the pathologists' report in hand, I had the dismal job of talking to the keepers about Hondo's diagnosis. It's hard to imagine the level of emotion that develops between keepers and these intelligent, sentient close relatives of ours. My bond with him was special, but I bounced around the zoo every day treating hundreds of different mammals, birds, reptiles, and fish. His keepers spent every daylight hour with the chimp troop, training, feeding, cleaning, and communicating