Seeing a Rhino

At the time the law was passed by Congress, environmentally conscious young adults held a growing majority in both the House and the Senate. Older generations championing traditions of a different epoch had finally dried up and cracked like paint from the old wood siding of a house. The Biodiversity Encouragement, Appreciation, and Research Act (the BEAR Act) mandated new funding for the study of all threatened species, especially large animals and predators, which science had shown to be particularly sensitive to habitat disruption. The title of the act and its acronym represented a memorial to the polar bear.

A year before the Act passed, the last polar bear was found dead on an island off the coast of Portland, Oregon. James Rankin and a team of scientists had discovered two polar bears living on an island in Alaska two years prior. A female and her male cub had evaded humans for some time, but were spotted eating foam from the cushion of an abandoned snowmobile by an oil pipeline contractor. The discovery sent the scientific community into an uproar, and emergency funds of $20,000 were quickly diverted to James and his team. The bears were sedated and implanted with tracking devices, as well as a cocktail of vaccines and medications to boost their natural immune systems. The following winter, James noticed that the signal of the mother’s device had left the cub, which had been still for nearly twenty-four hours. The cub was discovered frozen in sleep. It had died during hibernation. The pads of his pink paws were still cupped around his muzzle. He would forever rest in that serene winter of his mind.

The mother-bear subsequently embarked on a journey south of over five-hundred miles. Was she running from the memory of her cub? Did she know the burden she was to carry up until her legs finally gave way to exhaustion? James named her Corsair. He remembered the inevitable event with perfect clarity. Corsair swam nearly four miles the previous day, before she finally reached land. The island had no food or shelter, yet she refused to leave. James and his teammates huddled around the neon glow of the GPS screen, urging her on. They watched Corsair’s blip as the collective pulse of a great species. But instead of ceasing, the blip simply fell still. In the room, tears were shed softly into shoulders. Some left and took the day off. James placed a new black journal on the table, his reflection visible in the shining obsidian cover, a gift from his wife and son for his birthday. On the first page, he wrote down the date, the time, and the details of what had occurred using a blue ballpoint pen. At the end, he paused and reflected on the meticulous notes written by the hand of a scientist. He decided they were inadequate. They did not capture the feeling— the emotional value of the moment. He then added a quote from his favorite conservationist Aldo Leopold: “For one species to mourn the death of another is a new thing under the sun.” Though the words were flat on the page, James felt dizzied by the height of the Anthropocene represented in what they described.

James returned home that day right on time— 5:15 p.m. As a former attorney for a large environmental practice group, he knew the value of a balanced life. He lived in a quiet historic neighborhood inside of the city, where antiquated streetlights on every corner were the stars of the Earth. The home was constructed of centuries-old brick, from a time when a metallic king ruled much of the nation. That industry had since corroded, but homes of this era always stood out to James architecturally. His favorite examples of architecture were the two-story gothic revival-style country homes dotting the highway through towns such as Gravenhurst and Innisfil in Ontario, on the way to the wilds of Algonquin Park.

A small shadow darted out from the arch of the doorway. The figure, draped in a brown stitched blanket, lunged at James with ferocity. “I’m a lion and I’m going to eat you!”, it roared.

“Well, for a lion, you know some pretty good English!”, James said, as he wrestled with the beast. He placed the boy on the ground, who rearranged his fur as he ran inside. Max had been growing inches every month, it seemed like to James. He had his mother’s blue-green eyes, which belied his sometimes mercurial, but always passionate temperament. He could tell when Max would be a handful that day by whether his eyes deepened to an unpolished emerald in the morning.

His wife had returned home before him. He removed his vintage Italian overcoat, loosened his necktie, and let the smell of boiling red sauce waft over him from the kitchen. He laughed as he considered how the fragrance relaxed his muscles, but likely not his arteries. He guessed it was a Bolognese. This was her specialty. Long, flat noodles rolled in a boil of lightly salted water in the kitchen. This variety best soaked up the sauce, the two caressing each other like lovers. He would slice the French baguette he picked up on his way home, the crisp outer layer crunching at the bite of the knife, and place a piece in each of their watering mouths. Of the many things James learned from his relationship, cooking and sharing a meal with your partner and your children was as wholesome as the food. Italians thrived for millennia from the art of the feast; the Swedes practiced a similar concept called lagom, where a balanced day and diet is seen as the key to happiness. This was his family’s art and way.

After plates were scraped clean, Max bounced into the kitchen with a paper in his hand. “It’s time, it’s time, it’s time!” his wavy brown hair shimmered by his ears. He had been counting down the days on his calendar with a purple magic marker. The paper was a leaflet advertising a public showing of large species of animals. The BEAR Act, among other things, provided for a certain percent of funding to be used for public education and outreach, through staging events for populations outside of the scientific community. These funds had previously been used to support sporting groups and smear climate change research. Wolves, birds of prey, oxen, lions—all sorts of animals would be in attendance, cared for by appropriate handlers and presented with engaging lectures by renowned scientists. Rumors had been percolating within Max’s kindergarten class about the largest animal. The feature was to be a rhino.

***

Throngs of people flowed through the theater’s doors. Tickets were purchased and colored bands fitted tightly around left wrists. A tug at James’ coat sleeve led to buttered pillows of air and chocolate morsels. Don’t tell mom. Max nodded enthusiastically.

James had managed to squeeze his way forward to be closer to the main stage. The community had turned out for the event, and the rise and fall of excited cries told James that many children had come to watch the spectacle. James was reassured considering this. The loss of Corsair still stung, and would perhaps for the rest of his life. But this was no circus. Each animal was on their way to wildlife preserves, specialized zoos, and other non-profit and governmental facilities. And the youth here to see this event would hopefully understand and preserve the value of biodiversity for the future.

Different animals and presenters entered and exited the stage over the first hour. Max perched on James’ shoulders and called each out by name. Red-tail! Black bear! Caribou! However, after each one, Max asked if the rhino was next. James feared that Max might be disappointed. After all, he had not told Max. He wanted Max to enjoy the show for what it was. There would always be time to explain later.

Around the hour mark, the lights dimmed and voices hushed to a whisper. Sounds of the Sahara swept into the crowd through speakers. A djembe complimented the notes of song-birds with galloping strikes. A handler emerged leading a figure onto the large platform. The animal was a stone-gray behemoth. The beast lumbered clumsily to a stop center-stage. The shine of its aged leather coat rippled under the spotlight. He thought of the shine on his black journal. Its head pointed upward with the kind of arrogance that comes with being the tallest kid on the playground.

At once, it jumped toward the crowd, dragging the handler with it. The animal struggled to turn with grace, however, its back-legs being somewhat out of step with its front. It fell to its knees and peered into the crowd, who let out gasps of excitement. The rhino’s eyes were wild-black coals. Max cried with sheer glee. Its hind-legs regained composure quickly, but the front half of the beast continued to look into the crowd before finally scrambling upright. The animal trod around the stage a few more times before it split itself apart in the middle, the two halves bowing with the handler, and exited behind the curtain.

“It was as big as a horse! I saw a Rhino!” Max yelled as he looked to his father. Max’s smile faded for a second as a tear rolled down James’ cheek. “Dad, aren’t you happy you saw the rhino?”, Max asked.

James patted his son on the head, staring at the stage. “Yes, Max. I am happy.”