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NINE

ANIMAL ATTACK

Wild animals never kill for sport. Man is the only one to whom the torture and death of his fellow creatures is amusing in itself.

— James A. Froude (1818–1894)

I worry about Tony. He’s a big man and shows absolutely no fear in the presence of large predators, or for that matter, any animal either above him on the food chain, or physically larger than he is. Tony Grant manages the Aspen Valley Wildlife Sanctuary in Muskoka, Ontario, a quarter of a kilometre down the road from where I live. Tony is the only one who works there that can get in the cage with the captive lioness and play with her. Sometimes she lies on top of Tony and won’t let him get up for half an hour. He hand-feeds her raw chicken and she pines when Tony is away. She could kill Tony in a flash of nail and claw anytime she felt like it. I worry about Tony because animal trainers and handlers get killed often enough, eventually, and it’s simply the immutable law of the wild. I look at animal handlers as I do mountain climbers and other extreme adventurers who live on the edge and sometimes push the limits — they invariably forget about those laws. And you only have to lift your guard once. So, I worry about Tony because he’s a good neighbour.

I live in Muskoka, or cottage country, known for its million-dollar summer homes, voguish shops, executive golf courses, and fractional ownership developments. Strangely enough, I’ve seen more wildlife out my back window at home, and had more close-up confrontations with wild animals than in any of my far-flung travels across the Canadian northland. I live on the fringe of settlement; it’s a congenial mix of forested and open land, perfect for coyote, wolf, moose, deer, bear, or any wild species you would normally find ranging around more northerly regions of the province. I can look out my window and watch deer grazing in the field, moose rutting in October, or have black bears ravaging through my compost box in the backyard. Last month two black bears killed all my chickens. I had to dispatch one of the more aggressive male bears because it was unpredictable, testy, and a threat to my children who play in the woods adjacent to the house (and compost box). And I don’t want to get rid of my compost box. My daughter’s lunch bag and schoolwork pack was hauled out of the back of my pickup truck by a bear. And bears are known to drag off rather large items, including dogs, kids, and full garbage containers. The teacher reprimanded my daughter for making up the story and not doing her homework; it wasn’t until we sent a picture of the bear to the school, standing on top of our kitchen stove in the house, that my daughter found any closure in the matter.