I feel my head with a front paw. A nice bump is forming. “Who’s Pedro?”

“Our keeper.”

“He’ll come,” I promise.

“Are you sure?” the baby asks.

“I’m sure,” I say, but of course, I’m lying.

sounds

The eerie quiet doesn’t last. Before long, the squeals and shrieks and brays and squawks of the animal kingdom crowd the air.

Terror. Confusion. Pain.

From far off comes the wailing of sirens. Car alarms blare from the parking lot. Now and then, people shout.

Cries for help translate into any language, human or animal, fish or fowl.

Never want to hear those again.

Never, ever.

smells

And the smells! Like I said, feelings have a scent.

I figured I’d smelled pretty much everything there was to inhale in this big ol’ world.

But the smell of sheer terror.

Of helplessness.

Of blood.

Of broken bones.

Of torn wings.

Well.

Turns out there are a whole lot of smells I’ve never encountered. Didn’t know how lucky I’ve been.

surveying the damage

I pick my way past the devastation. The tornado has left a random path of misery.

The African Aviary is gone, simply gone.

The Kids’ Farm nearby? Untouched. Although there are some very flustered chickens clucking like all get-out from the safety of their henhouse.

I see few people. Hopefully, a lot of potential visitors were scared off by the threatening weather.

It looks like some of the animals listened to their early warning systems—those little voices inside telling them something bad was coming their way. Quite a few seem to have taken cover before the brunt of the storm.

Wish I’d paid more attention to my own internal weatherman.

I pass the penguin viewing window, the one that allows visitors to watch their graceful swimming. Several penguins are underwater, swooping and swiveling.

“Joe! Jim!” I call, and they both swim over.

“Bert okay?” I ask.

Baby Bert pops his little head out of the water. “Hey, Bob! Did you know we’re having a storm?”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“All good here, Bob,” Joe says. “You?”

“Yep. Took a little flight, though.”

“Daddy,” says Bert, “can I fly?”

“In the air? Nope,” says Joe. “You fly underwater. You’re a penguin.”

“Bob flew. And he’s a dog.”

“Bob is a very special dog,” says Joe, and he gives me a look, a grown-up, just-between-us look, that says, We’re all right, but what about the others?

baby sloth

I say goodbye to the penguins and continue on my way. So much has simply vanished. Walls. Fences. Barriers. Netting.

The orderly world of the park, with its careful lines defining territory, isn’t so defined anymore. Many of the habitats are still entirely intact. But not all.

What will this place be without fences and walls? You didn’t need to watch the nature channel to know that certain animals like to eat certain other animals.