Elephant Speak: A Devoted Keeper's Life Among the Herd

Prologue

Thursday, March 20, 1997

The Oregon Zoo began to settle down as the last of the day’s visitors departed. The metal gates were swung closed and locked for the night. Staff completed their duties and prepared to head home. Nocturnal creatures stirred, ready to forage, while those who held to a daylight schedule bedded down and prepared to sleep. Animal keepers, those members of the zoo family most envied by visitors, took a final stroll through exhibits to ensure that each animal was safe and where it was meant to be, every latch secure, every door locked.

Inside the elephant barn, sixty-year-old Roger Henneous walked from room to room, boot soles almost silent against the concrete floor, his close-cut, graying beard and canny eyes shadowed by the water-stained brim of his trademark campaign hat. A veteran employee of nearly thirty years, most of them spent as senior keeper to the elephants, Roger knew every inch of the building, every sound and sigh made by the animals around which he’d built his life. The smell of timothy hay, grain, and the dense, somewhat sweet musk of the elephants washed over him, a mélange of odors so familiar as to go unnoticed. Confident his crew had handled the afternoon chores, he nevertheless made an almost unconscious mental note of each elephant as he strolled past: the bulls Packy, Rama, and Hugo, each in his individual bachelor’s quarters; Pet and Hanako in their little herd; and Sung-Surin with the orphaned Rose-Tu sticking close, the teenage cow providing comfort to the two-and-a-half-year-old calf in the absence of their matriarch, Belle.

By day, the barn’s cavernous space echoed with the hum of immense hydraulic doors opening and closing; the scrape of shovels and rakes clearing away manure, old bedding, and leftover bits of forage made useless with urine; the tumble of grocery produce tipped from containers; the soft thud as hay bales were tossed to waiting elephants; the sound of water spraying from hoses; and beneath it all the voices of the keepers rising and falling by turns as they talked, laughed, griped, and cajoled. And, of course, there were the elephants—squeaking, squealing, rumbling, roaring, chirping, trumpeting, and barking. Even in sleep, they broke the nighttime silence with snores and farts.

Roger stepped into the keeper alley near his office and looked into what was colloquially known as the front room, a rectangular exhibit area with bars along two walls. A temporary barricade of linked chain had been strung across its width, dividing the almost 1,400 square foot space into a smaller convalescent ward for Belle.

She stood facing the back wall, seemingly unaware of his arrival. Her left front foot was wrapped in a thick bandage secured with gray duct tape, evidence of yesterday’s surgery. It was a heartfelt attempt on the part of a gigantic crew of devoted helpers to halt the advance of severe pododermatitis, known in keeper parlance as foot rot.

Social by nature, elephants prefer the company of their own kind. Belle was in isolation to protect her during this crucial recovery period. If one of the more obstreperous cows were to challenge her for the matriarchy, Belle could be severely injured. It had happened before, in 1983—Belle bested the upstart, but the elbow in her right front leg was damaged and she’d never regained full use of the joint.

To see any of his elephants withdrawn and in pain caused Roger distress, but Belle was his personal favorite, his darling. They had a special connection, a bond forged by time and shared experience. So much of a keeper’s relationship with an animal was telepathic; they either clicked or they didn’t. Each of the elephants in his barn had their favorite human, the one they would do anything for. Roger was that keeper for Belle.

Belle gained notoriety in 1962 when she gave birth to Packy, the first elephant born in the Western Hemisphere in forty-four years. Packy’s birth heralded Portland’s ascent to Elephant Capital of the World, but Roger loved Belle for different reasons: her affectionate nature; her talent for managing other elephants; her willingness to work with keepers and veterinarians; and how hard she strove to understand these strange, two-legged creatures into whose care she’d fallen. To see her now, like this, broke his heart.

Removing a small apple from his pants pocket, he angled his slender body between the iron bars and softly spoke her name, his voice rough with smoker’s gravel despite not having a cigarette in years. One ear twitched in his direction and Belle’s trunk lifted, curled in an S shape to scent the air as he approached. Dwarfed by her size, he palmed the fruit into her mouth, talking in a low, soothing tone as she half-heartedly chewed. Pulp and juice dribbled from her lips to spatter the floor.

He reached behind Belle’s ear and gave it a tickle. I’ll be back, darlin’, he said.

In the visitor viewing area outside Belle’s enclosure sat two metal folding chairs to accommodate the keepers, and any volunteers, involved in the round-the-clock watch on their patient. Their duty was to observe Belle for signs of distress, the presence of blood or mucus in her urine or stool, and whether she ate or drank. The volunteers’ intentions were good, but only Roger and his team knew the subtle clues to look for, those things they’d learned over years of working with elephants.

Roger sat in one of the chairs, balanced on the edge of his seat, elbows on knees, gnarled hands clasped. Now and then, he glanced at his wristwatch, noting the passage of time. The ball of his thumb brushed across the scratched surface of the Timex and he thought of Me-Tu—who’d once broken it—and of Rosy, and all the other elephants that had blessed his life. The barn held so many memories. On nights like this, it was easy to feel the presence of old friends, two-legged as well as four.

After an hour of quiet watching, Roger stood and left the room, returning a few minutes later lugging a large plastic garbage can. Bright green fronds of bamboo sprouted from the top. Belle raised her head at his call and slowly shuffled around to meet him. Reaching into the bin, he offered her a carrot, but she displayed no interest. He dropped it and brought up a mixed handful of hay and bamboo. This she accepted, grinding the offering between her immense molars. He dug deeper, searching for something tempting, and found a banana. She took this as well and chewed slowly, peel and all, but refused further handouts. He put the bin away and dragged out a long black hose. Placing the nozzle in Belle’s mouth, he let her drink her fill. Once again, he stroked the back of her ear and promised to return. He was glad she’d eaten, but sensed her compliance had less to do with the state of her appetite than with a general desire to please him.

Roger sighed as he settled back onto his chair in the visitor area. It had been a long road to this night, but he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Chapter One

Before There Were Elephants

1937–1962

Three-year-old Roger Henneous slid his hand into the warm darkness beneath the last hen and drew out an egg. The chicken glared with a beady, unblinking yellow eye and jabbed at him with her beak. Snatching back his hand just in time, he carefully placed the egg in his basket along with the others, then gave the hen a retaliatory shove beneath her tail, sending her to the floor of the coop in a feathery flop. As he reached for the last two eggs, the bird struck again, pecking his legs through the denim of his overalls as she clucked a storm of birdish invective.

Roger kicked at her and swore in return, displaying verbal versatility unexpected in a child his age. He’d learned the words by following his dad around the family farm, but even at three the boy had sense enough to keep his voice low so his mom wouldn’t hear. Backing away from the attack, boots flailing, Roger exited the coop and slammed the door in the chicken's face. Beneath an Iowa sky washed red with the rising sun, he hurried across the farm yard toward the house where his mother waited with a hot iron skillet to begin breakfast.

As children of the Great Depression, Roger and his younger sister Virginia learned early the value of gainful employment and the obligation they owed the family to do their share. Leonard and Myra Henneous were rarely idle and expected the same of their children. Roger’s introduction to chores began with gathering eggs and stacking dried corn cobs for use as fuel in the kitchen stove. By the time he entered first grade, he was in the barn before daylight helping his dad milk cows.

If the little family didn’t exactly thrive, they at least endured, buoyed by the presence of nearby relatives willing to lend a hand or lighten a burden. Leonard had four brothers, two sisters having died in infancy, and Myra was one of twelve children (three of her sisters also died young). The two clans formed a rambunctious conglomerate whose shifting alliances among the women kept tempers at a constant low boil.

Portrait of young Roger Henneous. (Personal photo, 1945)

Small for his age and a tad scrawny, all elbows, knees, and jug-handle ears, Roger was frequently teased by his classmates and often assaulted by bullies. Barely a week went by that he didn’t drag home with a black eye or a split lip, the knees of his pants torn out in the scuffle, which Myra patiently mended by lantern light after dinner. After watching his nephew wind up on the losing end of too many battles, Myra’s brother George decided it was time for Roger to learn the art of self-defense. His method was simple: Figure out who the main bully was, challenge him to a fight, then get in your licks and don’t back down. That way, win or lose, the other kids would know that they might be able to knock Roger down, but he wouldn't stay there for long.

Roger’s true solace lay in roaming the countryside with his dog, Laddie. In the fields and woods around Blencoe, Iowa, they played cowboys and Indians, hunted for squirrels, and fished the waters of the Missouri River. On hot days, they’d pilfer a watermelon from a neighbor’s field, carry the armload of dense fruit to a hideaway, and gorge on the sweet, succulent, sun-warmed red flesh. Afterward, a leisurely swim washed off any evidence.

When the United States entered World War II, every man in town beat a hasty path to the recruitment office. As head of household, Leonard was offered a military exemption, but he declined, feeling that it was cowardly to accept an easy out when so many of the men he knew would soon be risking their lives. Roger’s mother never entirely forgave this altruism, but Leonard preferred to live with her displeasure than deny his duty. Before leaving home, he made seven-year-old Roger man of the house and told him to take care of Myra and Virginia.

Roger possessed a child’s rudimentary idea of war, his knowledge based mostly on snippets of overheard adult conversations and radio broadcasts. His daydreams were full of images of his father heroically leaping out of trenches and charging into battle, or rolling through a city in a tank, or patrolling the sky as a fighter pilot. It never occurred to him that Leonard could be wounded or killed. Roger’s father was his hero. As such, he was indestructible.

Despite the long odds, every man in Roger’s family that enlisted came home, but they returned forever changed by the horror of the battlefield. Funny and affectionate Uncle George suffered from night terrors and took to hiding in a closet whenever an electrical storm swept through. Leonard’s usual quiet reserve developed into a deep internal silence, a well of dark depression from which unexpected fits of withering criticism or uncontrolled anger flashed at the least provocation.

What was then called combat stress reaction, battle fatigue, or shell shock is now better known as post-traumatic stress disorder. In those days, the condition carried a mark of shame, as if those who suffered from it were weak, cowardly, and lacked moral fiber. No treatment existed other than for those affected and their families to live with it as best they could.

Roger didn’t understand why his dad changed, but he quickly learned to deflect the brunt of Leonard’s outbursts from Myra and Virginia onto his own narrow shoulders, and it wasn’t long before the ridicule and rage undermined his confidence and self-esteem. Difficulties in school only made things worse. Never a strong reader, he floundered and to his shame was held back to repeat a grade. If not for the intervention of his mother’s sister Dorothy, he might have eventually dropped out of school. Sensing that her nephew would enjoy something more exciting than a textbook, she gave him a copy of Dave Dawson at Dunkirk by R. Sidney Bowen. Roger struggled through it page by laborious page, lips moving silently as he sounded out each word. In the end, he enjoyed the book so much, Dorothy gave him another, not bothering to reveal there were fifteen titles in the series. By the time he'd reached the end, reading was his favorite pastime.

Young Roger with his favorite playmate, Laddie. (Personal photo, 1947)

With Leonard home, the family turned to sharecropping and raising animals for their meat, eggs, and milk. In winter, when the fields lay fallow, Leonard supplemented their income by laboring in the fetid meat-packing plants of Sioux City. Before and after school, Roger helped his father work the farm and care for the livestock, while Virginia assisted their mother with household tasks.

In 1947, Myra bore a son, Donald Henneous, who quickly became ten-year-old Roger’s biggest fan. As soon as he could toddle, Donald followed his big brother everywhere, keeping up an endless barrage of commentary and questions that amused and annoyed Roger by turns.

In February 1950, the leather plunger on the farm’s well pump cracked. The house and barn had no indoor plumbing, so water was drawn one heavy bucketful at a time from a manual pump attached to a well pipe located in a five-foot-deep by four-foot-square pit packed with straw to keep the works from freezing. Until the pump was repaired, everyone on the farm, including the animals, would go thirsty.

Leonard and thirteen-year-old Roger suited up in layers of wool and flannel and headed outdoors, determined to have the work done before nightfall. They successfully separated the pump from the well coupling and installed the new plunger, but when they tried to screw the pump’s four-foot pipe back onto the coupling, it cross-threaded every time.

The temperature hovered in the single digits. Frigid air turned their breath to steam and gnawed the naked skin around their eyes, exposed above the scarf line. Down in the pit, Roger could barely feel his hands and feet. Leonard was equally miserable standing on the rim to guide the pump from above, but there was no going indoors until the job was finished, and evening chores were waiting.

Tired and frustrated, Roger flexed his stiff fingers inside their gloves and lined up the two pieces of metal for the umpteenth time. Once again, the threads skewed. Leonard’s foggy profanity sliced the air. What the hell was wrong with Roger that he couldn’t make the simple connection? Why didn’t he pay attention and do it right? He was too slow, too weak, too this, too that.

Roger threw down his tools and clambered up out of the hole, squaring off against his dad for the first time in his life. You’re so goddamn smart! Why don’t you go down there and let me guide it instead? Maybe then we’ll do better.

Outraged, Leonard grabbed him by the coat and hurled him into the pit. The upright well pipe whistled past Roger’s face as he fell. He landed hard, breathing heavily, stunned less by the fall and Leonard’s rage than by how close he’d come to being impaled. After a moment, he looked up at the silent figure of his dad standing above, silhouetted against a sunset sky.

Let’s try it again, he said, and climbed to his feet.

At last they succeeded and closed up the well. Roger put away his tools and immediately walked to the barn to commence milking. Seated on a stool with his bare hands full of warm teat and his forehead pressed against a bovine-scented flank, he briefly directed a stream of fresh creamy milk into a barn cat’s waiting mouth.

From somewhere nearby, Leonard cleared his throat. I’m sorry, he said. Jesus Christ, I could have killed you. I swear to God I’ll never do anything like that again.

Roger’s hands paused a fraction, then resumed their work. Glancing beneath the cow’s belly, he spied his dad's work boots where Leonard sat milking at the next stanchion. You didn't mean it. I know that.

Your mother won’t see it that way.

Does Mom have to know?

Roger’s willingness to forgive the incident and not divulge it to Myra made a deep impression on Leonard. Things between them eased somewhat after that, but Leonard’s uncontrollable episodes continued to exact an emotional toll on the family. Roger grew adept at keeping his feelings submerged, but grieved for the one thing he wanted most and could never seem to achieve: his father’s pride.

That spring, Roger fell for a new girl in town, a two-year-old bay mare of mixed ancestry named Lady. The young neighbor who’d received the green-broke, headstrong horse as a gift had no interest in riding and was perfectly happy to sell her for twelve dollars. A huge fan of the Old West, Roger rode Lady everywhere and soon had her trained to herd cattle.

During a particularly dry summer, the family owned more cattle than they had pasture, so Roger put them out to graze beside a roadside ditch while he watched from horseback. Along the fence line, there was an area of washed-out ground where he could ride Lady beneath the bottom wire if he bent low against her neck. One day, as they passed through and she lunged up the opposite slope, the saddle horn caught beneath his sternum and instantly dislocated six ribs.

The pain was indescribable, white-hot and sharp. Each step Lady took felt like knives driven into his chest. Unable to ride and barely able to breathe, Roger dismounted. He tied his wrists together with the reins and looped them over the saddle horn, which lifted his ribcage and eased the agony somewhat. Slowly, he began to walk. Lady matched his steps and never faltered, spooked, or stopped to graze. They reached home and Myra came running. Roger refused to go see the doctor until the mare was settled in her stall. It was weeks before he could ride again, but he never missed a day visiting Lady to thank her for helping him.

His affinity for animals didn't go unnoticed in the family and there was much speculation about whether he would attend veterinary school. Roger yearned to go, but a lack of confidence kept him from pursuing college at all. Roger always assumed he would make farming his life, but after almost two decades of watching his parents struggle against the vagaries of weather and market rate, he preferred something with fewer gambles that would guarantee a living wage.

Leonard and Myra had reached the same conclusion. In June 1956, they announced plans to relocate to Portland, Oregon, following a trail toward greener pastures laid down by Aunt Dorothy and her family. Ten-year-old Donald would go with them, but Virginia planned to remain behind, living with friends until she graduated high school the following year.

With his family about to be scattered, it took no arm-twisting to convince Roger to accompany high school buddy Bernie Carroll on a trip to California to seek their fame and fortune. In January 1957, carrying two suitcases and their entire life savings—about $400 apiece, nearly $3,600 by today’s standards—they set out in Roger’s Chevy Coupe, thrilled at the romance of the open road and the adventure ahead.

Expenses were small. Gasoline cost just twenty-three cents a gallon, and thirty-seven cents purchased a loaf of bread and a jar of grape jelly. When Roger and Bernie wanted to splurge, three dollars bought two chicken dinners and a six-pack of beer. They washed in gas station restrooms, slept parked by the side of the road, and opted for a motel room only when the need for a shower or a real mattress became desperate.

In Arizona, a sign advertising the North Rim of the Grand Canyon drew them off the highway on a long detour. They arrived to find the canyon fogged in, the magnificent view obliterated by a swirling wall of white mist. Deeply disappointed, the two friends solemnly performed a commemorative urination into the abyss and continued on their way.

California was kind to Bernie, who had family living there, but proved to be no golden land for Roger. After two unsuccessful weeks of searching for work, he decided to head for Portland, hopeful the city would be as good to him as it had been to his family. Each morning, he left his parents’ home and trod the streets in shoes damp from the day before. Every evening, he returned with nothing to show for his efforts. He was giving serious consideration to farming again, no matter how dismal the pay, when his cousin Ralph called from Iowa. He was in the same predicament as Roger, eager to work but unable to find employment, and had just discovered the Coast Guard offered training, adventure, and best of all, a paycheck. Within the week, the cousins were reunited and had taken their oath of enlistment. A few days later, they arrived at boot camp in Cape May, New Jersey, the farthest east either of them had ever traveled.

The first night in barracks proved to be a mind-altering experience for the rustic, somewhat dewy-eyed pair. Crammed together with street-wise, smart-mouthed, half-grown boys from metropolitan areas like New York City, Boston, and Philadelphia (some of whom accepted enlistment over incarceration), they listened in wide-eyed wonder to