Reno the Leopard Dies

We probably can’t use a lot of this, until after Bengali dies, so that the circus doesn’t take him out of spite, but here is the background on Reno, so you know it for his tribute.  Maybe you can find a nicer way to say some of this.

 

I was lying to him and he knew it.  I was saying, “It’s going to be alright, but my voice faltered.”  He couldn’t see me, so his other senses were heightened.  This was going to be a long trip and if he didn’t stop pacing around in circles, he was going to be bruised and bloodied from hitting the sides of the cage.  I asked him to think of a time when he was happiest.

 

He instantly thought back to that day in March of 1995 when all was good in his world.  He was suckling at his mother’s breast; kneading the warm milk from her with his tiny, freckled paws.  His mother lovingly groomed his golden fur and tiny black spots with a big, raspy tongue.  She was assuring him then, as I was telling him now, that we would protect him, but we both failed.  We had both been conned.

 

Within just a few short days of giving birth, his mother had to step outside the den to drink and eat so that she could sustain her little cub.  As soon as she did, the door slammed shut, locking her out and sealing her cub’s fate.  He would be bottle raised, by some well meaning, but ignorant young girl, who would be told that he had to be taken from his mother, because she had abandoned him.  Instead of the leopard milk nature had intended him to thrive upon, he’d be fed goat’s milk, reconstituted from powder, because it’s cheaper, and he’d be deprived, even this poor substitute, so that he could be used as a photo prop.

 

As a growing cub, his ancient instincts were telling him he should bite and use his claws.  He should practice his stalking, pouncing and play killing because very soon he would be relying on those skills.  Instead, he was smacked, kicked and his lips pinched hard against his sharp little milk teeth, to try any break him.  His bottle would be with held until there was a paying customer, and they would use it to keep him quiet long enough to get their photo, and be on their way.  Now they had a trophy to show others what a great bond they have with wildlife.

 

When he outgrew this lucrative stage in his life, where people would pay by the minute to fondle him, he was sold to the circus.  His betrayal meant that for the next 7 years he would perform on command…or else.

 

I met Reno on New Year’s Day in 2002.  The circus trainer who “worked” the leopard was tearfully saying good-bye to him, after Reno had bounded from his barren beast wagon, into the lushly landscaped, lakeside enclosure at our sanctuary.  I was told that Reno had been trained to ride in a chariot, pulled by horses, and that his act had been canceled, so he was no longer needed.  I heard someone say how sad it was that this trainer loved Reno so much, and now had to give him up.  I snorted silently to myself thinking, “Those crocodile tears had nothing to do with love for this leopard.  Those were tears of guilt.”

 

“Guilt for the years of cracking a whip down across Reno’s beautiful face for even thinking about pouncing on those prancing tails of the horses in front of him.  Guilt for keeping this magnificent, intelligent animal in a barred circus wagon for the past 7 years.  Guilt for taking the crowd’s applause and taking pleasure in being thought to be a big cat whisperer, when he knew that the positive reinforcement, that he claimed to be the key to his success, was just the smoke and mirrors used to hide the fact that beatings and deprivation were what really kept Reno under control.  And the worst guilt of all, was in knowing that the cats grow up, and when they do, they won’t tolerate circus life any more, so you have to dump them somewhere and start the abuse all over again on some innocent little cub.”

 

In the year 2000 I’d been working on a contract with the circus for over two years, to try and ge