Creature Comforter
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At 8 a.m. Sanchez calls rounds, and Murray joins the zoo’s department
heads for the daily overview of animals requiring medical attention. On the
wall behind Sanchez is a blackboard outlining a rough schedule for the week. “Monday,
bongo. Thursday, cheetah? Friday, giraffe.” Although “people doctors” specialize
in a certain field, “zoo medicine is a specialty in diversity,” Murray
says. “You need to be able to treat elephants, snakes, apes, turtles,
everything.” Today’s rundown is typical. Sanchez outlines the pending
cases: A tortoise with a liver problem, a
Komodo dragon with lesions on its face and mouth. A 19-year-old gibbon experiencing
weight loss and diarrhea is proving particularly difficult to diagnose.
 And, of course, there’s the cheetah. The animal has a history of lethargy
and anorexia, and over the weekend he began exhibiting signs of kidney trouble.
Murray and Sanchez were called in to the zoo, where they sedated the cheetah
and ran a series of tests. Everything pointed to some sort of kidney problem, “but
we don’t know precisely what,” Murray says, so the vets took a
tissue biopsy “to get a better sense of what was happening and whether
it was curable.” The vets strongly suspect renal failure (it’s
common in that species, affecting roughly 80 percent
of all cheetahs that survive to adulthood in the wild), but “since cheetahs
are so valuable, you want to be sure.”
The biopsy results will be available later today. In the meantime, zoo staff
continue to assess the cheetah’s health while keeping him as comfortable
as possible. “Depending on the biopsy results, we may need to start thinking
about euthanization next week, or maybe even later this week,” Murray
reports at rounds. She’s been in touch with the repro team—breeding
specialists who will collect the cheetah’s sperm so that it can be frozen
and used after the animal’s death. “They’re ready to come
in at any time,” she says. At the moment, the cheetah is fairly comfortable,
and daily receives subcutaneous fluids that rehydrate the animal while flushing
out his kidneys.
That’s where Murray and Sanchez head after rounds. Their ride is a blue
van adapted for veterinary use; all but the driver’s and front passenger’s
seats have been removed so the van can be used to transport animals from their
regular quarters to the hospital.
The Cheetah Conservation Station just to the left of the zoo’s main entrance
allows visitors to see cheetahs and zebras engaged in natural behavior in a
setting similar to their natural savanna habitat. Most zoo visitors see a large,
open run with a slight rise at the back. Behind this, unseen by zoo guests,
is the private cheetah space (which a wary photographer quickly dubs “the
cheetah pit”). Murray and Sanchez loop through the zoo roads, then park
on a private street behind the exhibit. “Walk to the left,” Murray
instructs, as she enters an open complex of large cages. “They’re
caged, but sometimes they lunge.”
 Several adult cheetahs prowl through the cages, constantly on the move. Another
cheetah restlessly walks on the rise at the rear of the public exhibition area,
which puts him about eight feet above the cheetah pit. A cheetah-chest-high
strand of twisted barbed wire separates him from the caged cheetah run—and
from the people in it. The animals’ coats are beautiful—a furophile’s
dream—but even more noticeable is the cheetahs’ sleek athleticism.
The coat begs for petting, but the raw, muscular power is a very visible warning
that these animals, while enclosed, aren’t just oversized tabbies.
Murray and Sanchez radioed the cheetah keepers before leaving the hospital,
and the keepers are waiting as the vets arrive, ready to contain the ill cheetah
so that he can receive his fluids. If the vets are specialists on all things
medical, the keepers are expert on the specifics of the animals they care for.
Each keeper is responsible for a varying number of animals, depending on type
and size. (The cheetah keepers, for example, also care for zebras, cranes and
gazelles, which are also in the African Savanna section of the zoo.) The keepers
know their individual animals like many people know their pets, and this knowledge
often provides key information that helps the vets with their diagnoses. “He
licked the ground as soon as he came out of his cage again this morning,” one
of the keepers tells Murray, “just like he did yesterday.” Murray
lights up like a detective who’s uncovered a clue in a perplexing case. “That’s
interesting!” she says. “That’s called pica. They do that
in the wild when they’re trying to get more iron in their diet. Of course,
the fluids we’ve been giving him
have iron in them. But since we’re giving them subcutaneously instead
of intravenously,” she says, thinking out loud, “it’s taking
longer for his body to absorb them, and so he’s probably still feeling
like he needs more.”
It’s bitterly cold, so the vets tuck the six bags of fluid under their
coats, against their skin. “He’ll be upset enough because we have
to give him fluid,” Murray says. “It’ll really upset him
if that fluid is cold.” The cheetah keepers hit the back of the cheetah’s
cage with a stick. The cheetah is lively (“That’s a good sign!” one
of the keepers exclaims), and he runs quickly away from the noise into a long
run that leads into a smaller squeeze cage at one end of the pit. He’s
wary, though, and it takes 15 minutes for the keepers to move him to the cage
at the end of the run. The cheetah snarls and growls (another sign of health),
and the other cheetahs in the pit watch warily, their ears pricked up. The
cheetah on the rise at the back of the exhibit paces agitatedly, occasionally
vocalizing in
response to the ill cheetah’s cries.
Continued >>
Photos: Frank Ward
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