Zamba Page 8

  Mr. Lloyd had never carried puppies or kittens in the store. “They eat too much,” he said. But one day as I entered the shop, I noticed four kittens in the window.

  “An old friend asked me to sell them for her. I told her I would try if she paid for the food.”

  After about an hour, I started to sneeze violently. Over the course of the afternoon, the sneezing grew progressively worse and was accompanied by a cough.

  Mr. Lloyd sent me home so I wouldn’t infect him or the customers with whatever I was coming down with. (He didn’t hesitate to remind me that he wouldn’t pay me if I wasn’t working.)

  I petted the kittens on the way out, and went into a sneezing spasm so intense I couldn’t breathe at all. Once I was outside, it subsided a little. I leaned against a parked car, bent over double, and tried to catch my breath without throwing up. But by the time I got home, my mystery cold had essentially disappeared.

  I realized that I was allergic to the kittens.

  Unbelievable. Here I was, on my way to being the world’s best animal man, one who could work with any animal, no matter how fierce—lions, tigers, leopards, and all the rest—and I was allergic to kitty cats?! Ridiculous. I just wasn’t going to let something like this stop me from realizing my dream. So the next morning, I went to the library at school and read up on allergies. Most interesting. I read that they were manifestations of the body’s sensitivity to some substance, like wool or milk or any number of things. But then I came upon something that caught my eye, an article on a metaphysical approach to disease and treatment, looking at physical problems as reactions to emotional unease. According to the article, in some cases, people had successfully used their minds to heal their physical problems.

  I wondered. Could my allergies be caused by an emotional problem? Could I heal my body through sheer willpower? At a base level, this made sense to me. If the mind allowed the pain, it could allow the healing. If it caused the illness, it could also cure it. I knew what I was going to do.

  “Mr. Lloyd, may I take the kittens home this weekend?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they’re fun and I think they can help me get over my allergy.”

  “These little farts caused your problem. How are they going to help you get over it?” he barked.

  I didn’t exactly feel like explaining my theory of metaphysical healing to Mr. Lloyd.

  “Ach! Go ahead, take them. But you pay for their food!” he yelled after me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  The sneezing and headaches started the minute I picked them up. By the time I got home I was wheezing so badly I could barely get enough breath to speak. I couldn’t eat my dinner. My mother, thinking I had come down with a cold, put me in bed.

  I slept with the kittens all night. By the following day, I felt much weaker and looked quite pale. The kittens had slept up around my face the whole night, so their fur was all over the pillow. My mom wanted to take me to see the doctor, but I told her it was just a cold. It took hours to convince her I would rest and not go over my limitations. I didn’t tell her about my experiment.

  I don’t remember much about that week, which I spent sweating and shaking in my room alone. I didn’t eat the whole time. But just when I thought I was going to have to abandon my project—and my dreams of lions and tigers—I slowly began to recover. My symptoms gradually abated, and it was a truly great day when I could cuddle the kittens close to my face and not suffer.

  I had beaten the allergies! I had used my mind to control my body. My family even kept one of the kittens—and called him Sneezer. It was a tremendous eye-opener for me, and I was to use metaphysical healing many times again in my life.

  So inviting Zamba into my bed was of major significance, and not only for the obvious reasons. Of course, if Zamba and I were going to be bedmates, we had to agree on a certain etiquette. He always got a complete bath. Of course, I had to feel confident about his litter training. He was also under strict instructions not to deliberately rip the bedsheets with his claws. It wasn’t hard to train him to do these things because we started when he was so small, but I can’t imagine how I would have done it when he was an adult.

  Every night was almost the same. Zamba would patiently wait for me in the living room, curled up by the fire with Shaka. He’d go out to the pepper tree for a last-minute pee, and when he got back, I’d clean his feet with a damp towel and give him a complete inspection to remove any twigs caught in his mane or dirt on his coat from bumping the tree. When he’d passed my inspection, I gave him a signal, and he’d make one big leap onto the bed. Invariably, he’d be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was a sound sleeper, and usually slept the whole night without interruption.

  Zamba had his own pillow, right next to mine. As he grew, his head still remained on the pillow, but his body angled down until finally he filled the bed. It took a special kind of wake-up call to figure out that Zamba had outgrown the bed: the whole thing literally fell apart in the middle of the night.

  We needed a new bed. I asked Jerry, my carpenter friend, to assist me. By the weekend I had bought enough wood to build three normal king-sized beds. I measured Zamba as best I could. He kept flicking his tail, but I felt it didn’t matter whether his tail was on the bed or not. I marked the wood at eight feet long and eight feet wide, then after thinking about it a moment, I went another six inches.

  Jerry wanted to make sure that the bed was strong enough to support Zamba’s weight, so we headed over to the hay barn where a heavy-duty scale hung. It was capable of holding up to one thousand pounds, but it was suspended from a tow chain. Jerry and I took a wooden platform that hay was usually stacked on and rigged it to the chain. Zamba didn’t much care for the swinging but he was on it long enough for us to get a reading of more than five hundred pounds.

  The finished bed would be too big to move in after it was built, so we set up our workshop in the bedroom. A local mattress company offered to make both the box spring and mattress for free in exchange for the publicity. It was okay by me as long as they made it extra firm! The mattress was much stronger than the ordinary kind. It was made of a cushion weave about a foot thick. When the pieces arrived, it took four people to get them into position.

  The sheets and covers were next. I had contacted a linen wholesaler and described my needs, and they were happy to accommodate my unusual request. The sheets were triple the thickness of regular bedsheets, and woven so that they wouldn’t rip. We secured them to each corner with a draw rope. I had two different sets of blankets: a lightweight set for summer, and a heavier one for winter. I should have forgotten about the heavier set. When you sleep with such a big animal, the whole room heats up, and you’re usually quite nice and toasty, even without blankets.

  So, two weeks later, Zamba and I had a new bed. It was huge! It looked like a giant slept there. Everyone at the ranch and everyone who’d participated in its creation gathered around to see Zamba’s reaction. He eyed it uncertainly when he came into the bedroom, but jumped right up onto it when I gave the command. The mattress gave a little bit of a bounce. He circled a few times, sniffing every inch of his new bed, then settled down and immediately went to sleep. He loved it.

  It was a big bed, but if I could do it over, it would have been even bigger. Zamba was an unrepentant bed hog. He always ended up in the middle of the bed, which didn’t leave much room for me, and it was not unusual for me to wake up pinned underneath him when he rolled over in the middle of the night. “Get your butt off me and onto your own side,” I’d say, pulling his hair. That usually worked. Zamba spent his dream life running over the Serengeti or chasing Shaka, and I can tell you that rapidly moving lion’s paws will wake you up quickly.

  Living and sleeping with Zamba from cubhood gave us a truly special rapport, and as he grew, there was real love and understanding between us. Just because he was a born killer and carnivore didn’t mean that he couldn’t be gentle and trusting. Living in such close quarters with
Zamba allowed me into a place few others had been.

  11

  Zamba didn’t sleep with me every night; it was also important for him to have private quarters of his own, in the compound outside. One of the nights he was outside, I awoke to lightning illuminating my room. An electrical storm was raging over Southern California, and the deluge seemed like Noah’s flood. But it wasn’t the thunder that woke me; it was the not-so-distant roar of a lion. Zamba was afraid of lightning, and I knew as I crawled out of bed that I would have to spend the duration of the storm holding his paw.

  Just as an aside, I am awful at obeying my own rules. You shouldn’t ever go into a lion’s den without a backup person, let alone in the middle of the night when you know in advance that the lion is frightened. So, if you ever find yourself in similar circumstances: do as I say, not as I did.

  By the time I had walked the three hundred yards to the animal compound, I was completely drenched. I passed many of the other animals, all bedded down in their warm straw, under the thatched roofs. But not Zamba. When I arrived he was pacing back and forth between the indoor enclosure and the outside compound, growling his displeasure. The torrential rain had soaked his mane so that it hung down in a wet chunk across his face, down his shoulder, and across his back. Not so regal! Another flash of lightning lit the compound for an instant, and Zamba saw me. He roared in welcome and relief. I unlocked the door and went inside, baby-talking the whole time.

  Imagine the biggest, wettest golden retriever in the world welcoming you home. Zamba came barreling through the mud, and I braced myself against the fence so I’d be able to support the weight of his affectionate embrace. He launched himself at me, grabbing my head in his wet paws, and I buried my head in my hat and jacket as Zamba’s huge, rough tongue tried to find my face. After a little while, I was able to calm him down enough to fasten a chain around his soaked neck.

  So there I was, in the middle of the night, with a cowardly African lion, wondering what I should do next. Zamba decided for me. As I opened the door, a flash of lightning sent him bolting down the muddy road, dragging me on my derriere behind him. I saw a huge shape taking form before us and prayed it wasn’t a rock, but it was only the hut where the hay and straw for the livestock was stored. A gust of wind had blown the door open. Next thing I knew, we were inside.

  Puffing hard from his ordeal, Zamba plopped down on a huge bed of straw, and I joined him; we collapsed like two kids who had raced each other until exhausted. The rain had washed most of the mud off us. When Zam realized he was out of harm’s way, and owed me a debt of gratitude, I had to fend off more kisses, and suffered greatly when he settled his massive bulk across me, rendering me completely helpless. This was his way of showing appreciation.

  I wiggled out from underneath him. Catching my breath, I ended up alongside him, with his forepaw dropped across my body. It didn’t take long before his heavy breathing told me he was asleep, and although I struggled to keep awake, the sound of the rain lulled me, and I soon joined him in la-la land.

  I woke a few hours later, with my face buried in his mane. The pungent smell of wet lion surrounded me. I slowly inched my way up until I was level with his huge head, face to face with him, and inches from his nose. His golden mane was definitely much thicker and softer here. His massive paw was entirely wrapped around my waist, and with every breath his dewclaw rubbed lightly against my skin.

  Occasionally he’d hold a breath for what felt like forever, and then, when I was just giving up on hearing another one, he’d release it with a heavy sigh.

  It was morning. A small bright beam of sunlight eased itself into our chamber, gleaming against the back of his ear. I could see all the veins there, a freeway with no traffic, and every time he exhaled, the light would slip off his ear and just graze the tip of one of his fangs, protruding slightly from his lip.

  Unfortunately, as much as I was enjoying this blessed moment of communion, Zamba’s hardcore lion’s breath won out. It was time to get going.

  I took a piece of hay and gently tickled the inside of Zamba’s nose. His eyelids moved. I tickled his huge nostril again. It quivered and trembled, and finally he sneezed. I was hugely amused.

  Lions are lazy, and it was going to take more than a sneeze to wake this one up, so I began tickling his nose again. Intent on my task, I failed to notice that one giant amber eye had blinked open and was fixed on me as I continued to drag the straw just along the outside of his nose. I have no idea how long he was watching me, but I will tell you that making contact with that enormous, staring eyeball gave me the shock of my life! I jumped halfway out of my skin, scaring Zamba, who also jumped.

  Then it was open season—playtime had begun. He lumbered to his feet, out of his warm, comfortable bed, and his breath steamed in the chilly air like that of a fire-breathing dragon. I dived under a huge pile of straw just as he pounced. He ran around in circles, digging and searching for me. If I hadn’t laughed, he wouldn’t have found me. But the next thing I knew, he had me between his immense paws like a mouse, and started to lick my cheek. It takes only a few licks from a lion to draw blood, so I offered the tougher skin of my arm instead while I was wriggling free. I dusted myself off, pulled some straw from his mane, and we went out into the crisp morning air, heading back to the house.

  This was certainly not the first time I had shared a bunk with Zamba, but this particular instance stands out in my mind as one of the happiest mornings of my life. It was a tremendous honor and privilege to know that this great animal, this killer of mammals, had taken me into his world and accepted me as one of his own. To curl up with a sleeping lion, to touch his fangs, to brush his mane, to tickle his nose—it was the realization of a lifelong dream, and it brought me one step closer to the infinite power of nature. I loved every minute of it, and I was always conscious that I had to live up to the awesome privilege I had been granted.

  12

  You don’t see a whole lot of old lions in the wild—they may be the kings of the jungle, but they’re also surprisingly vulnerable. The lucky ones have a life expectancy of about ten years. Of course, at the ranch, even when we could barely afford food for ourselves, we had the finest medical care available for the animals. But sometimes the best that money can buy isn’t enough—it takes love and down-home ingenuity as well.

  About once a month I would give Zamba’s teeth a good scrubbing. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t mind it when you worked on his front teeth, and even his fangs, but to get to the back molars, I had to really get in there and pull his lips apart, and he hated that.

  I was giving him his brushing one morning when he suddenly yanked his head away from me, knocking the toothbrush out of my hand, and sending cleaning solution all over the floor.

  “Zam, what are you doing?” I snapped at him.

  He moaned his apologies, but wouldn’t let me continue. Something was up. I put away all the cleaning supplies, laid his head in my lap, brushed his mane for a bit, then slowly raised his lips and peered inside his mouth to see if I could find the source of the irritation. I saw right away what was causing the problem: his left fang was quite dark around the base, and the gums surrounding the tooth were swollen.

  The next day our vet came out to take a look. I had brought Zamba out on the grass to lie under the shade of a big fig tree. It was cool and comfortable, and the minute he saw me sit down, he flopped down next to me. Doc arrived carrying his black bag, ready to do whatever was necessary.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he asked, stroking Zamba’s mane. Zam knew and accepted Doc as a friend, so he let him probe very carefully around the sore spot. “Is he eating his full meal every day?” he asked.

  “Well, now that you mention it, no. Maybe half. I didn’t think anything of it because sometimes when the weather’s hot he goes off his food for a short time, but he’s usually back on it within a week or so.”

  Zamba allowed Doc to look at the fang for some time. Each time he tapped it with his small metal instr
ument, Zam would jerk back in pain. After a few taps, he actually growled his discomfort. We also noticed an odor coming from his mouth that was different than his normal, terrible lion breath.

  “Well, what do you think?” I asked.

  “It’s impacted. There’s a lot of infection, and we need to get it cleared up right away. Either we have to get into the root cavity and get out all the pulp and treat the infection, or we have to extract the fang.” Doc thought for a minute. “Cleaning all that infection out would at least save the fang. It may turn a darker color, but it should function okay.”

  “So what’s the next step?” I asked.

  Doc sat back, thinking about it. “That’s the hard part. We’ll have to put him under. I don’t like to do that, because with a general anesthetic there’s always a risk, a chance we could lose him. But he’d be in enormous pain without it, and too dangerous to work on.”

  I knew the risk, and I hated the idea of anesthetizing any animal unless it was under the most extreme circumstances. I had seen too many animals die.

  I shook my head, “No. There’s no way we’re going to risk anything like that.”

  “I understand, Ralph, and it’s your decision. But whatever you want to do, we should do it soon.” Doc got up and gathered his paraphernalia. “Call me when you decide.”

  A quick handshake and he was gone, leaving me with one of the toughest decisions I would ever have to make.

  Within a day, Zamba had gone off his food completely. He was grumpy, saliva dripped from his jaw, and I noticed that he never rested his head on the sore side. We couldn’t go on like this. I called Doc back.

  “Doc, can you come out? Bring your stuff. Be prepared for whatever, okay?” We had a complete operating room and facilities, so there would be no need to take Zamba into the hospital.

  Zam and I were again waiting under his favorite tree when Doc arrived.