DC Reflections

Horrified by Catoctin Wildlife Preserve and Zoo

I have come to see many zoos I've visited as necessary evils. The Catoctin Wildlife Preserve and Zoo in Thurmont, Maryland, however, isn't necessary at all. Federal or state authorities should shut it down. If government can't, the people of Maryland should: Let's boycott the place and enable capitalism to provide the punishment it deserves -- taking some animals out of their misery in the process.

The zoo's marketing is detached from reality. Catoctin claims that it is "one of the finest zoos in Maryland." Brother, if that's true, we need to launch an immediate investigation into not just Catoctin but into every zoo in the state.

Spend a day there, as I did on May 28 with three friends, and you will see a nightmare in broad daylight. We all came away convinced that the Catoctin Wildlife Preserve and Zoo is more of a prison than a preserve. 

We spent our time in the zoo and I focus my comments on it. We did not take the safari ride to see what we hope is a more open preserve side of the establishment because we were too depressed to linger any longer. Endangered Sun Bears from Southeast Asia that are supposed to live in tropical rainforest habitat paced back and forth in a dry, dusty prison cell on dirt. A tiger sat in solitary confinement. A mountain lion limped across its outdoor cell. Deer, llamas and goats all begged for the food visitors brought them. It was amusing at first, pathetic upon further reflection.

"The zoo does not respect the animals here," Tomoko MataHari Miura told me as we toured the place last Saturday. "Many are poorly treated. It's an unhealthy environment for the animals and the space is definitely too small for them."  She knows a little something about wildlife -- serving as a manager for the Japan Bear and Forest Society.   

No part of the zoo wreaked of more desperation than the home for animals labeled as "wolves" -- my favorite animal in all the kingdom and one whose beautiful howl I've heard bellow out across the Alaskan outback. The four wolves sentenced to live out there lives here were skeletons beneath tufts of fur. The pack animals whose destiny is to roam wide open spaces could only race in frantic circles inside their cage. They looked like they were losing their minds.

I don't claim to be an animal whisperer and none of the animals at Catoctin sent me a text message but I know that if I were them, I'd want somebody to take me out of my misery. My own father has long told me if he ends up in that sorry of a state, I have to promise to take him deep sea fishing and come back alone.

Catoctin is managed by the Global Wildlife Trust, a charity that now runs the facility. The trust takes in a little more than $1 million a year on average from ticket sales, memberships and other sources, according its 2009 tax return Form 990. (If the link doesn't work, visit Guidestar, register for a free account, and then put Global Wildlife Trust in the search box.) The husband-and-wife tandem of Richard and Mary Anne Hahn serve as president and secretary/treasurer, respectively, and they certainly don't appear to operate the site to get rich. Their trust paid them less than $60,00 combined. Daughter Laurie Hahn serves on the board of directors but receives no compensation. Neither does board president Carole Brown. 

What then is the motive for operating such a heart-breaking operation?

Catoctin claims the trust's mission "is dedicated to broadening human understanding of the animal world." 

That's typically where I begrudgingly add the word "necessary" before "evil" when I refer to a zoo. My idealism wants to believe that zoos -- especially well-managed facilities -- give children a chance to see animals they could otherwise only experience by computer screen or television. I hope they are infused with wonder and develop a sense of connection to all things wild that leads to forming a conservation ethic -- which in turns propels them to fight for wildlife protection. Great zoos can pull that off while simultaneously providing a respectful, humane habitat for the wildlife they house.

Catoctin Wildlife Preserve pays but lip service to that idea on zoo front, falsely boasting that it achieves its mission through "immersion in naturalistic habitat recreations and educational programs using live animals and instructional tools both on-site ... and through presentations to the greater community."

There is not much natural in this zoo.

I have no reason to doubt the intention of the Hahn family. I've not met them but I can only imagine that they are good, hard-working people who likely should be applauded for their intent -- but not for their execution. I've worked for nonprofits for the past 11 years and know that a kind heart doesn't always equate to professional competence. 

Someone attempting to justify the zoo's operations might point to the zoo's "credentials" page on its Web site. There you'll find a long string of organizations and acronyms that appear at first glance to give Catoctin all the paperwork it needs. The zoo proudly states it's an accredited member of the Zoological Association of America and that it is licensed by a wide variety of governmental authorities including the U.S. Department of Agriculture's Animal and Plant Inspection Services; U.S. Department of Interior's Animal, Fish and Wildlife Division; U.S. Department of Natural Resources of Maryland.

If the Catoctin zoo gets a passing grade from those authorities, this fact should serve as an indictment against the entire zoological industry and the federal agencies responsible for overseeing it. Let's reform this system post haste. 

I have no idea if the preserve side is any better than what I saw and I can't bare another visit to find out. The zoo, though, should be closed immediately. No animal should be forced to suffer like that. No government agency should condone it, no Maryland tourism entity should promote and no citizen should pay to see it.

[Photos courtesy of Won-ok Kim]. 

 

 

 

No chance to say goodbye to D.C.'s baby ducks

I couldn't believe it when I got the news last Monday: He was gone.

I'm not referring to bin Laden. Enough has been said about him already. I'm talking about "Barry". That's the name I gave to the baby mallard who was rapidly outgrowing his baby duck siblings at National Geographic on M Street. I called the giant one Barry because it looked like he had been making like Barry Bonds while his brothers and sisters bulked up the old fashioned way -- pumping worms.

I fell in love with the ducks before they were even born. Momma Duck nested in some flowers just outside my office at The Wilderness Society, cranking out 11 eggs. Everyone at TWS and in our building took care of the pending brood. I checked on Momma Duck several times a day and laughed like a little boy getting my first puppy when I got to fill her water bowl. She was so beautiful ... so precious, as my mom would say. So wild.

I was surprised that she chose downtown Washington D.C. as her sanctuary. I was worried what might happen when the kids were born.

"M Street is no place to raise a family," I told her. "I hope y'all make it out of here."

I nearly paid a visit to the cigar store when I returned to work after a weekend and saw 10 black and yellow baby ducks wobbling around. They somehow made it across the street and took up residence at National Geographic, which promptly tried to hog the credit for their care. A Washington Post story even put words in Momma Duck's beak, suggesting our The Wilderness Society's building wasn't to her liking. Our president William H. Meadows promptly rebuffed that egregious accusation in a letter to the editor.

The ducks became huge news in the District and across the nation. They even got face time on The Today Show on NBC. I dashed across the street every morning, every lunch break and every day after work to make sure they were adjusting well to their new home.

My favorite moment came during lunch when they learned how to leap down into a little pool in front of National Geographic -- a distance several times their body height. Mom sat there waiting for them to jump while all 10 lined up on the edge of the pool. Barry flung himself into the water without hesitation. The rest huddled together and debated the issue before ducks two and three took the plunge.

The rest hesitated, continuing to look from side to side and saying that it was another's time to jump. All but two threw themselves down, the faintest "bloop" resonating with each landing.

Ducks Nine and Ten wanted no part of the exercise. I'm not sure if mallards have knees but their legs were definitely trembling.

"I'm not going, you go!," Nine commanded.

"No!," Ten countered. "If you're so brave, you go -- you big chicken."

Nine took the insult to heart and split in mid-sentence. Bloop!

Ten stood there all by himself, the rest of the family staring up at him. Momma Duck sweetly called on him to join the fun. His siblings teased him.

He remained there for quite some time.

"I can do this," Ten told himself. "I know I can. I know I can. Here I gooooooo!" 

If ducks don't have bellies, Ten had just invented the waterfowl flop.

I was enthralled with every moment I shared with the ducks. I even stood there and watched them in the rain. The water came down and the ducks all raced for a seat underneath mom. She kept them nice and dry.

She could not keep them all safe.

On a morning check-in not long after that, I spotted only Momma Duck, Barry and three siblings. I thought the other six had perhaps gone for a swim somewhere else. I quickly learned from Nat Geo staff that the other six had been eaten. Word was that a combination of raccoons and hawks got them.

My knees buckled. Tears welled up in my eyes.

Intellectually, I understood that there are laws of the jungle but what's the point of living the nation's capitol if you can't help repeal unjust laws? I barely spoke a word to anyone for the next two days. Crazy as it may sound, I was grieving for a half-dozen ducks. The little ones seemed to be in shock, too. 

Trepidation filled my steps every day thereafter. I didn't know if I could handle counting fewer than five.

I did reach the magic number each time, delighting in the joy of those who remained yet still wishing there were more. I wondered how long it would be before they were big enough to fly away or before authorities helped them move into a more suitable neighborhood. I figured it would be a while yet.

Then I returned from work on Monday and saw no paparazzi on the scene. The yellow tape marking safe viewing distance was clumped on the ground. 

"No, this can't be," I thought. "It's not time yet."

I ambled across the street and spotted nary a bird. They were gone.

"I think they left on Sunday or this morning," another Nat Geo staffer told me. "I look for them every morning when I get here, too."

"Did they leave on their own or did -- (I couldn't bring myself to finish the thought)?"

"I heard they flew away," she said. "They left on their own will."

Whew.

I felt sadness wash over me despite the relief that came with knowing they were safe.

Five days have passed and I still look across the street every time I enter and exit the Sumner Square building. There's an illogical part of me that hopes they'll return -- the same part that causes me to keep my old Siberian husky's dog house even though he passed away four years ago.

I imagine I'll strain my eyes every time I'm riding my bike along the Potomac or passing through Rock Creek Park for the next 10 years -- hoping to find that the mallards have taken up residence there and that we'll somehow be able to recognize each other.

I just wish I had been able to say goodbye ... especially to Barry, who I pray will be able to keep his mom and siblings out of harm's way.