"No animal in need of care is ever turned away," is the hospital's slogan. An owner who can't afford the regular fees pays what he can. An owner who can afford to pay nothing-pays absolutely nothing. During the Depression, charity cases reached 70 percent. In those days, when the hospital was located on 24th Street, the hospital's clients always included a good handful of urchins and waifs from the neighborhood and it was not always easy to know which needed more care: the puppy or kitten, or its ragged owner. "What this dog should have," a veterinarian told one of the urchins who had carried in his lop-eared, long-legged pet for treatment, "is plenty of fresh meat, milk every day-"
"You're a comedian, Doc," the boy interrupted, "I don't even see that stuff at home." He stopped, and the veterinarian had the impression the boy was mentally riffling through a file of butchers who couldn't run very fast and sleepy milkmen who wouldn't notice a missing quart. "OK," said the boy, with a wink. "If that's what he needs, he'll get it." Today, charity patients make up 40 percent of the hospital's cases, but even for the paying clients, the hospital's attitude of personal concern for its patients-a beagle with a sore paw, or an ailing ocelot-is more than money can buy. This is why the Society likes to call it "the hospital with a heart." Purely as real estate, the hospital is impressive with its treatment rooms, half a dozen examining rooms, its two completely equipped surgical suites, its cheerful corridors, immaculate cages. But, as in all ASPCA operations, there is something more.
At the Daynemouth Ward (given and sustained by one of the Society's best friends), for example, a small box sets into the wall beside the glass door. This is the isolation area for pets suffering from contagious diseases. Inside, ultraviolet lamps, sterilizers, anti-virus and anti-bacteria sprays prevent spreading infection. Only a special staff of white-coated doctors and attendants is authorized to enter. Owners must stay outside. But once a pet is on the mend, an attendant brings it to the glass door. The owner can see his animal. And talk to it. The small box is a two-way radio. "Owners miss their pets as much as pets miss their owners," says Operations Director Amundsen. "With the radio, they can at least get together for a little while." He adds, with a grin, "There's nothing silly about loving an animal." Naturally, the hospital doesn't win them all. Not long ago, a cab pulled up at the Manhattan headquarters and a young boy dashed out. His dog was ready to have puppies, he told an attendant. One of the veterinarians raced to the taxi. But the puppies had already begun to arrive and the taxi was rapidly becoming a four-wheeled maternity ward. At that point, there wasn't too much the animal obstetrician could do. The cab driver was the one who really helped the most. He turned off the meter.
11 - Is This Your First Elephant?
Ryan was passing the new hospital dispensary one day when one of the younger veterinarians called him over. "I have the circus on the phone. Did you ever hear of an elephant with adenoids?" he asked nervously. Ryan shrugged. Elephants, he supposed, could have adenoids just like anybody else. "It's one of the animal handlers," the veterinarian said. "I can't quite make him out. It sure sounds like a case of adenoids to me. But their own vet isn't there and this guy keeps talking about a bull ..."
"Tell him we'll be right over," Ryan said. "And incidentally, when a circus man talks about a bull, he means an elephant. In fact, he means a female elephant. That's the only kind they use."
"But I thought a bull ..." the veterinarian began. "In the circus," Ryan said, "a bull is still a lady." The veterinarian grabbed his instrument case and he and Ryan drove to the circus encampment at the edge of the city. The circus was getting organized to open in Manhattan, and the grounds were littered with canvas, ropes, poles and all the confusion that only circus people understand. But even in a circus on the move it is not easy to overlook an elephant, and Ryan and the veterinarian found the elephant department quickly. At a distance, an elephant is impressive. At close range, it can be stupendous.
Nothing looms quite so large, so gray and cliff like as an elephant, especially if you aren’t expecting to see one that day. "Ryan," the vet whispered desperately, "what have you got us into?"
"This your first elephant, Doc?" Ryan whispered back. "Well, I've seen them before," said the vet. This elephant was relatively small: only about eight feet tall and weighing considerably more than Ryan, the vet and all the handlers put together. One of the handlers formally introduced the vet to his patient. "Something wrong with her trunk," he advised. "What is it?" Ryan asked the handler. "You see anything inside?"
"Mister," said the animal handler, "I feed this elephant every day, I give her water, I tuck her into bed at night. But if you think I'm going to poke around a sore trunk, you got the wrong guy." The handler had a point. Most elephants are good-natured, and even on the shy side; but a tender trunk can make them as irritable as a human with a toothache. An elephant doesn't actually eat or drink through its trunk. To drink, the elephant dips its trunk in water, breathes in and fills it up--- just as a human would fill up two soda-straws without letting the contents pass his lips. Then the elephant curls the trunk into its mouth, blows out and swallows-a refreshing kind of sneeze. To eat, the elephant merely wraps the trunk around what it wants and stows the food carefully in its mouth. It can also use its trunk to spray water or to throw dust over its body, in the manner of a built-in shower-head or sandblaster. Because the elephant's neck is so short and hard to move, the trunk makes up for it, something like a mobile nose and arm combined, plus a tip as sensitive as a finger. A sore trunk represents a lot of important elephant to be uncomfortable.
The veterinarian, meantime, had been walking around the pachyderm, looking at her from every angle; not unlike the man who, seeing an elephant for the first time, didn't believe it. The veterinarian rubbed his chin. "What I think," he said hesitantly, "is that it might be easier if she could sort of lie down."
"OK," Ryan said, "you heard the doctor. Get her to lie down. Where's the bull-master?" One of the men explained that the chief elephant handler had gone into the city. Ryan put his hands on his hips. "We can't wait for him. Come on now, let's move! Get a pair of hobbles out here. Get me a lead-chain!" The circus men jumped into action as if the bull-master himself had unexpectedly returned. While Ryan snapped out orders and directions, the handlers attached the hardware which, on the elephant, suddenly looked fragile. "All right, girl," Ryan soothed, "I don't guarantee you'll like this, but we're trying to help you. Down you go ... come on, down ..." Ryan wielded the elephant hook as expertly as any mahout. Lying down is a large-scale operation with elephants; but a few moments later, Ryan turned to the vet. "Well, Doc, she's all yours." The vet gave Ryan a look of amazement and gratitude. A quick examination with a stethoscope told him what he wanted to know. "It's a growth in her trunk," he said. "Not too big. But I can see how it would bother her."
"What about it, Doc?" asked one of the handlers. "You going to operate?"
"Might as well. She's not getting any better the way she is." Treating an elephant takes team spirit. While Ryan laid out the instruments, the veterinarian anesthetized the trunk.
As if trying to investigate a large and extremely delicate fires hose, the vet inserted a long, thin cutting device. In another second, the growth was out. "I'll have this checked at the lab," the vet said. "I don't think it's malignant, but there's no sense guessing."
"And that's all there is to it?" a handler remarked, with an air of disappointment. "That," said the vet with relief, watching the big animal climb slowly to her feet, "is about enough. Ryan," the vet said as they drove back to the city, "I've seen you handle cats and dogs and horses and jaguars and pandas and lizards. But you were practically running that crew back there. I didn't realize you knew anything about elephants."
"Like they say," Ryan replied, "you never asked me."
If the veterinarian had been surprised to learn that elephants popped up regularly in Ryan's career with the Society, he might have been understandably impressed by another item of information. Ryan is one of the few people-it mig
ht be safe to say the only person-to go elephant hunting in Yonkers. Yonkers is not good elephant country; those animals, for the most part, are rarely seen in the vicinity. But it is likely that one elephant might never have left Yonkers if it hadn't been for Ryan. The Shriners were the ones who really started the affair. The order had scheduled a convention and full-dress parade, with floats, pretty girls, a brass band, mass marching of the chapters in fezzes and regalia. Despite all this, the Shriners decided something was missing: an elephant to provide the final, perfect touch of exoticism. Accordingly, the Shriners arranged to borrow an elephant from the Central Park Zoo. The morning of the parade, Ryan had a call from the zookeeper. The elephant was ready, the Shriners were ready; but the elephant was in Manhattan, the Shriners were in Yonkers and it hadn't occurred to anyone, until the last minute, how to go about getting them together.
The Society obligingly offered one of its horse ambulances, and Ryan drove to Central Park where he found the zookeeper with an elephant hook under his arm and a worried expression on his face. Beside him stood the elephant, toying listlessly with a bale of hay. "I don't know about this," said the zookeeper. "Rosebud's nervous today. Maybe she has stage fright or something. Or maybe she just isn't in the mood for a parade." Ryan agreed when, two hours later, they had still not managed to coax Rosebud into the horse ambulance. Both men were drenched with perspiration; yet there is little anyone can do with an elephant who has decided not to move. The best policy, Ryan judges, is simply to maintain an optimistic attitude. Finally, as if she had grown bored with being cajoled, leaned on, pushed and nudged, Rosebud reluctantly plodded into the horse ambulance. The ASPCA vehicle had been designed to carry some pretty large horses; but at the time of its acquisition, no one had foreseen elephants. Rosebud was only a medium-size elephant-relatively speaking, as someone might talk about a medium-sized giant-but she filled the ambulance to capacity. The keeper also packed in a howdah, a high-sided, boxlike structure about the dimensions of a small rowboat. "What are they going to do with that?" Ryan asked. The keeper shook his head. "Somebody's going to ride in it," he said. "It won't be me."
"Me either," said Ryan. "It probably wouldn't be legal, anyway. I'm not a Shriner." At the Yonkers armory, the parade's starting point, the Shriners had been waiting impatiently. The band was restless, the directors of the parade had grown frazzled trying to keep all the sections in order.
Ryan and the zookeeper had grown frazzled, too. On the way to the parade, Rosebud had tried several times to climb out of the ambulance. It had required all Ryan's powers of persuasion to keep her in. In the course of it, Rosebud had developed affectionate feelings toward the ASPCA agent and for the remainder of the trip had attempted playfully to reach her trunk through the wire mesh and into the driver's seat. "You let that elephant steer this truck," the zookeeper warned, "and I get out. Here and now." Between them, the zookeeper and Ryan attached the howdah. Ryan had to admit that, in all his experience, he had never saddled an elephant. But as far as he could see, it was the same principle as saddling a horse. So, at least, he hoped. Three pretty girls, all in white, gauzy costumes, climbed into the howdah. Laughing excitedly, they peered down over the side like passengers on an ocean liner. One of the girls asked Ryan if elephants bit, but he assured her that was the last thing she would have to worry about. "All right," the bandmaster called, "everybody in place." He positioned Rosebud and her cargo behind the band. Ryan and the zookeeper marched alongside. The floats pulled into line. The Shriners formed their ranks, uniforms glittering, the girls waved happily, a whistle blew and the procession moved out. Up ahead, the bandmaster raised his baton and the musicians swung into the grand march. Looking back on the afternoon, Ryan doesn't believe the bass drum did it. He exonerates the cymbals, too. The real culprit, he thinks, was a trumpet or possibly a trombone. Whichever it was, at the first blaring notes from the brass section, Rosebud raised her trunk and blared right back. Perhaps the trumpeter or trombone player had unintentionally sounded a special elephant call; if so, the message could not have been reassuring.
Rosebud flapped her ears wildly, and dashed through the center of the band. Musicians scattered in every direction. Fezzes flew through the air. The bandmaster tossed away his baton and made for the shelter of a nearby porch. The bass drum, including the drummer, rolled into the curb. The zookeeper, dropping his elephant hook, sat down in the middle of the road, totally defeated. Ryan glimpsed Rosebud's enormous gray stern swing around a corner and out of sight, while the white sashes of her riders fluttered in the breeze. He picked up the elephant hook and hurried down the street which had, until then, enjoyed the reputation of a quiet residential area. At the corner he saw no sign of Rosebud. Ryan settled his cap on his head. Now, in the role of a big game hunter, he strode off in the direction he hoped, logically, an excited elephant might take: straight ahead. As he approached the intersection, Ryan detected an unmistakable spoor, a clear indication that Rosebud had passed that way. His first clue came in the form of an automobile in the middle of a newly seeded lawn. The occupants were shouting and gesticulating. Ryan believed he heard the word 'elephant' mentioned several times. The street curved, but a trail of large footprints across the lawn suggested that Rosebud had not. Ryan continued up a driveway, past the rear of one large suburban house. A picket fence lay flattened on the ground and a home owner was studying it curiously. Ryan hailed him. "I'm looking for an elephant."
"Yes," the man nodded slowly, "I should think you would be." Rosebud had not decided where she was going but seemed to be acting on the policy that a straight line would bring her there most efficiently. The straight line cut through a number of back yards and clotheslines.
Ryan also came upon another automobile. It was empty and undamaged. Only one thing was missing: its garage, a light wooden structure which Ryan noticed lying overturned a short distance away. In the adjoining property, he came upon Rosebud at last. She stood in the middle of a garden, pulling up geraniums. The howdah, now tilted at a jaunty angle, looked empty. Rosebud trumpeted happily at Ryan and waved her trunk. Ryan hurried forward and looked into the howdah. He had been mistaken. The girls were still there, invisible behind the high sides. They had fainted dead away. Shriners have a cheerful and undaunted attitude toward mishaps and they had regrouped by the time Ryan arrived with Rosebud in tow. The band had recovered its instruments and was ready to march again. The directors of the parade, seeing the girls safe once more, appeared jovial even in the face of a whole catalog of possible lawsuits. "But we've been talking things over," said one of the directors. "We're going ahead with the parade. But this time: no elephant." Once more, Rosebud showed no enthusiasm about climbing into the horse ambulance. Ryan and the zookeeper decided to let her have her own way. "She likes to push things," the zookeeper said. "I don't know why. Maybe it makes her feel useful."
"If that's what she wants ..." Ryan said. He hitched Rosebud to the tailgate. "She can push us all the way to New York." The trip back took somewhat longer than the journey to Yonkers, but Rosebud was in no hurry. Approaching Manhattan, a thundershower moved in. Rosebud seemed to enjoy it. She trumpeted and snuffled contentedly. After the storm had passed, she amused herself by stopping every now and again to suck up water from the puddles and spray herself. In the more populous districts, she sprayed a few pedestrians.
Night had fallen by the time Ryan, the zookeeper and Rosebud reached the city. Through the winding lanes of Central Park, the moonlight glanced off the tall shape of the horse ambulance and the shadowed bulk of an elephant. "Well, it could have been worse," Ryan said. The zookeeper looked at him. "Worse? A runaway elephant, three fainting girls and half of Yonkers squashed flat?"
"If an elephant is going to act up," Ryan said, "it's better for it to happen with the Shriners. How would it have looked at a Republican convention?"
12 - Jockeys Don't Have Pockets
Although attracting less attention than elephants, horses have not vanished from New York. The police departme
nt still maintains a mounted unit; riding academies thrive in and around the city; at fancy prices, hansom-cab horses drive sightseers through Central Park. About fifty junk dealers and hucksters have held out against mechanization and continue, with a certain amount of pride, to drive horse-drawn wagons. The ASPCA, with its two special ambulances, always keeps a horse stall ready at the hospital; and the Society's two water trucks function as mobile refreshment bars for thirsty horses during the summer. While the number of horses residing permanently in Manhattan is limited, one activity attracts a good many pampered, fussed-over and expensive transients: racing thoroughbreds. Some people have remarked sourly that owners and racetrack stewards worry more about the horses than about the jockeys. The tracks are safer and better patrolled than most city streets. The minute a race begins, an ambulance driver starts his engine and keeps it turning over until all the entries have come in. During the race, an observer with field glasses studies each animal for signs of injury. The Society checks every track in the area and usually finds conditions excellent. Considering the good reputation of one famous track, Ryan was surprised, early in the racing season, to learn that the Society had been receiving an unexpected quantity of complaints. Racehorses, so it was claimed, were being maltreated, lashed and generally cut to ribbons.