Something tells me it's all happening at the zoo...

I do believe it / I do believe it’s true…

Going to the zoo is one of those things that, if you think long enough about, you could easily moralize yourself out of. There are two sides to every coin; in the case of zoos, this means that in order for one to visit the African Savannahs, the argentine pampas, the Gobi desert and the tropical forests of Madagascar all in the span of say…2 hours….all of these animals need be, by definition, confined to a space that one can walk comfortably and leisurely about within this timeframe. This leads one to the apparent—that many of these animals are not in fact well adapted to the dry, mountainous region of the state of Minas Gerais, Brazil. Not to mention that their ranges in their natural habitat probably exceed their zoo enclosures by at least one order of magnitude. And migration is certainly out of the question.

Given this context, perhaps I should be spending my two hours at the zoo carefully scanning animal gazes and animal coats for the sure signs of psychological and physiological damage these animals are suffering. Distant gazes, matted fur, desperate movements. And sending sideways glances at the children who are squawking at the parrots and working to evoke any sort of reaction from the baboons, politely asking them how they would feel if they were caged and had small children screaming at them. Maybe I should even contemplate engaging in PETA-esque manifestations of my greater commitment to animal well-being. “SHIT there’s a LION loose—ruuuuunnnnnn!”

I could ponder whether the daily visitors to a zoo really take away a nuanced understanding of animal habitats, or, even better yet, I could become someone who designs interpretive materials for zoos. This way I could ensure that if we are going to hold this diverse array of rare animals captive in one place, I will at least be trying my damndest in the name of Education.

My confession to you is that my preference is to check my overly analytical, guilty conscience at the gate with my entry fee—to proceed unencumbered. Having cast off pseudoethicist-Maria and pseudobiologist-Maria, I roam free.

Free to lean as far over the fence as I can to get close to the elephants.

Free to warble at the macaws, hoping they will engage me in dialogue.

Free to giggle with nervous excitement at the volume of a lions roar—to exchange glances with children who laugh with me as we both try and talk to the orangutan.

The foundation of this freedom may be off-base, my premises faulty. But sometimes I find that I must leave the learned opposition behind in order to enjoy a Saturday afternoon at the zoo.