Critter Tales: Stories of a Wildlife Educator

Simon -- The Iguana Who Started it All

 As a professional biologist, I knew better. But, I am also a mother; which means that I too sometimes abandon all sense and logic to appease the pleadings of one of my adorable, and always convincing, children. Meet Simon, the iguana who started it all.

There was Simon, perched lopsided on that branch in that crummy pet store. He was maybe 6 inches long and bright green. His twisted and broken back leg lay at an odd angle and his rounded puffy thighs didn't match his emaciated tail and torso, a telltale sign of MBD (metabolic bone disease). He was one sick, green iguana hatchling. These guys are farmed in Mexico, Central and South America, over-packed in tight boxes, and shipped by the thousands to pet stores. Once on display, eager children convince their parents to buy them one as a "cool"  pet -- "It's like having my own dinosaur, Mommy!" Most hatchlings will never survive a month, let alone a year. Without the proper lighting, heat, humidity, food, and supplements, they almost always die young.

There was my son, six years old, with his blond head turned to the side, staring at the pitiful, little green lizard. He didn't beg for a pet. No, that would have been too easy for me to turn down. "Save him, Mommy. He's too skinny and he looks so sad. Can't we take him home and save him? We can't let him stay here to die!" Now, I was in trouble. He aimed for the heart, bulls-eye! How could his Mommy not rescue this pitiful baby lizard? I knew better...I really knew better.

We named him Simon, after a Saturday Night Live Mike Myer's character that my son liked. "He won't eat his iguana salad, Mom." Nope, wouldn't touch a bite -- lizard anorexia, too. Great. Weeks of vegetable baby food, hand-fed through a syringe, drop-by-drop..and calcium supplements...and heat lights...and sunshine. I knew better. Simon would live. Simon would live a long, long, time.

Fast forward 15 years. My 6-year old boy is now 21-years old. He's away at college studying to be a wildlife biologist (surprise). And, I am here, still taking care of Simon.

As you can see, Simon is now one BIG lizard, about 4-foot long. He is a favorite stage star for Zooniversity's educational shows. You might recognize him. His image is part of our company logo. There he is, draped across the top of our company name, looking very green and very regal. But, don't take that as an endorsement for owning an iguana as a pet. Far from it! Iguanas are the #1 most abandoned pet in the exotic pet industry, and for good reason.

If you do your research, and invest a ton of money into proper caging, lighting and heating, you too can raise an iguana to adulthood. But, we do not recommend you try this at home. You see, adult iguanas do NOT make good pets. They are naturally territorial and they will defend their branch or tree with a quick scratch or tail whip. If they get a bit too amorous with their human, they can bite (part of natural mating behavior), and they do NOT let go. Their strong, muscular legs and razor sharp claws can climb trees, or your body, in an instant, leaving a trail of damage behind. And, of course, if you are silly enough to let them crawl and climb across your human furnishings, they can leave an invisible trail of salmonella for your family to enjoy. These are NOT good pets.

Simon was our first exotic rescue. More rescues seemed to find us, LOTS more. All those mouths to feed and all those vet expenses to pay, generated the idea of a wildlife education service --and Zooniversity was born. Today we are caring for more than 50 species of rescued exotic animals at Zooniversity, most of whom are unwanted or abandoned, former pets. We think it's only fitting that Simon be our mascot and part of our logo. After all, he is the iguana who started it all.

Problem Party People

Zooniversity teaches about 600 wildlife shows each year and a big hunk of them are at children's birthday parties. Ninety-nine percent of the party parents and guests are wonderful people. They follow our safety rules, they respect our expertise as wildlife professionals, they are polite and interested audience members. But, there is that remaining one percent that we in the business label as "problem party people." They are all the same, they just have different names.

PROBLEM ADULTS

"The Animal-Hugger" -The grown-up that ooohs and aaaahs at every animal and incessantly begs to hold it. Once you concede, they snuggle it so tightly, you're sure the animal can't breath. One significantly inebriated adult birthday girl had to have 3 friends insist she release our fennec fox from her loving, Margarita-inspired, death grip, before she turned the animal loose.

"The Know-It-All" - These folks like to interject, at evenly spaced intervals in your program, lengthy comments (cleverly disguised as questions) for the sole purpose of impressing the other adults in the room with their knowledge of the animal kingdom. "Isn't it true that the tarantula's exoskeleton is soft and delicate immediately after a shed?" Uh, yep.

"The Socialite"- The adults, usually women, who treat the party performer as if we were invisible. They never look at the lowly hired help, but ooze hugs and air kisses for the other well-coiffed guests. The Socialites tend to lose track of their children at the party, never hear our clearly announced safety rules, and their cell phones usually ring in the middle of the program -- which they answer in a loud voice, since they can't hear the caller over the trivial wildlife program that's going on.

"The Heckler" - Usually a man. He likes to whip-out a clever quip whenever we ask the children an animal question. "Look at this snake's back, do you see the tree trunk pattern?" "Looks like a pair of boots to me!" he'll chortle, looking to the other parents for some laughs and back slaps. Gee, that's original.

"The Chatterers" - Can be clusters of men or women, but they tend to huddle in the kitchen or in the immediate perimeter of the kid's party circle where the show is going on. They chatter, non-stop, never quietly, forcing the wildlife educator to speak louder and louder. It becomes a battle of volume to see who can top the other.

PROBLEM KIDS

"The Questioner" - When you only have 30 or 45-minutes to complete an entire wildlife program and still stay on schedule, there's only time for a few poignant audience questions. Yet, there's always the one child who asks incessant questions about the animals  -- of course, the answers were already presented in the show, had they been listening.

"The Squeezer" - We have a "one finger touch" rule, to avoid undo stress (and potential injury) to the program animal. But, there's always the one child who just can't resist. They raise the one-finger up to touch with the greatest self-restraint, and as the animal approaches for a gentle touch, they just can't control the urge one more second, and reach out and squeeze the animal with their whole hand. Good wildlife educators must know the phrase "one finger" in at least three languages, and repeat it again, and again, and again.

"The Fidget" - Poor child just can't stay seated or quiet no matter how many times they are reminded. And, their parent (usually "The Socialite" or "The Chatterer") is too busy to notice their struggle or to come to their aid.

"The Sneaky Kid" - You can see their little wheels turning..."she's not looking, now's my chance, I'll just sneak a quick peek at what's in that cage, she'll never know, here I go...dang!" Nabbed again.

Summer Out of the City: The Pines of East Texas

One of the joys of being a wildlife educator is the travel. Yes, you do spend most of the year in the city, where large school districts and elite private schools can easily fund the money to routinely schedule your programs. But, the real adventure is in the travel to small, out-of-the-way towns. Small churches and rural libraries spend the entire year hosting cake sales and car washes to raise the funds to have us visit their community once each summer.

As you drive due east from the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, the landscape rapidly changes from concrete and suburbs to tall, towering East Texas pines. The air becomes laden with humidity and smells of freshly mown grass and dry pine needles. Glimpses of swampy, bayou lakes, laced with cyprus knees, peek out between stands of heavy trees. Oil pumps, some rythmically moving up and down like egrets, others frozen in time, are sprinkled along the roadways, remnants of a fading era.

Between the long stretches of green are dots of small towns with names like Big Sandy, Uncertain, and Mount Pleasant. Each town has its own unique appeal, but almost always you'll find the town square and historic courthouse, flower pot-decorated antique shops, peaceful white chapels, the local feed store, the old town graveyard, and historic houses ranging from cajun cottages to Victorian gingerbread. As in all of Texas, each town has a central railroad station, which is what allowed the town to prosper in the first place. Most are now defunct and abandoned, others still serve to transport freight and you can still hear the whistles on a set schedule.

Food is important in East Texas and each town has a favorite local cafe featuring the cobbler of the day. And, if you're lucky, you'll find a roadside stand selling local peaches, corn, and homegrown East Texas tomatoes. My favorite? The roadside crawfish and shrimp stands that you'll find close to the Louisiana border. And, of course, there's East Texas hot links, a special recipe sausage only found here and served with a fiery, hot sauce (of course).

I never feel more welcome than in East Texas. The small towns are filled with warm, welcoming folk, each yeilding the distinctively lilting East Texas accent, mixed with a hint of Louisiana low-country drawl. "Where y'all from?" is always the curious first question, usually followed by the offer of a sweet tea or a Dr. Pepper. The audiences, both children and adults, are delightfully curious and awestuck by something as simple as a hedgehog. And, politeness abounds. You'll hear "yes, Ma'am" dozens of times each visit and you never have to hold your own door. Who needs summer in the city when you've got East Texas?

A Zooniversity Shopping List

Think you spend a lot of time and money shopping for your family, your school or your library? We bet you don't have these items on your shopping list or in your budget. Here's a small sampling of what's on Zooniversity's monthly shopping list -- a list only a wildlife educator could appreciate:

• 40 lbs. fresh Spring Mix (that expensive salad and herb stuff served at elegant eateries --only the best for our animals)
• 60 lbs. fresh seasonal vegetables
• 40 lbs. sweet potatoes
• 24 lbs. bananas
• 30 lbs. fresh seasonal fruit (especially mangoes, papayas and seasonal berries -- these guys eat better than we do)
• 25 lbs. parrot pellets
• 4,000 live crickets
• 500 live wax worms
• 500 live superworms
• 4 jumbo rats, 8 medium rats, 32 adult mice, 32 pinkie rats and 40 pinkie mice (no, not alive -- pre-killed, frozen and delivered by the FedEx man -- bet he doesn't know what's in the box)
• 50 lbs. of timothy hay (shipped from Missouri, where it's the freshest and tastiest)
• 60 gallons dechlorinated/filtered/ozonated water
• 32 rolls paper towels
• 150 lbs. wood shavings
• detergent and bleach for 30 large loads of laundry
• 2 liters hand sanitizer
• 60 45-gallon plastic yard bags

And, this doesn't include any of the specialty zoological dry and canned diets that are custom ordered and shipped for each of our special animal ambassadors -- each one has their own labeled and sealed feed bin. What, kangaroo formula and prairie dog pellets aren't on your current shopping list? Not a problem, they're standing items on ours.

"Sydney," Journey of a Joey Wallaby, Part 2

I'd like to be a joey wallaby. I'd spend long hours sleeping peacefully in a fuzzy pouch, stretch my oh-so-big feet upon waking, guzzle milk when I was thirsty, delicately nibble on hay and grass when hungry, hop-hop- hop faster-faster-faster at play time, and "huff" for my humans to give me some always needed attention and cheek rubs.

Such is the life of our little joey wallaby, "Sydney," who came to Zooniversity last Fall for foster care. Her first month was a challenge, tough on her and tough on us, but she soon taught us how to care for her needs. At 9-months old, she has reached all the important joey milestones: how to leap in (and out) of a man-made pouch, how to hop at full speed without hitting walls, how to mess-up a play pen in less than an hour (stinky...whew), and how to intimidate the zookeeper's terrier by hopping full-speed straight at him.

Sydney has also stolen many hearts. She attends almost all of our school and birthday programs and is now a seasoned traveler. She's learned to pop her head up out of her pouch on cue to meet our audiences. She basks in the oohs-and-aahs and relishes all the head and belly rubs she gets from admirers of all ages.

She is a star, and she knows it. But stardom is short-lived. She is getting bigger. She is drinker fewer bottles and needing fewer cuddles. She is needing more space to hop and more time in the sun. She is growing up and, regardless of my protests, she will be a "big girl" soon and will be ready to be returned to her mob. That will be a new world, a new set of challenges, a new series of milestones. And, like any mother, I can only hope I've prepared her well for life in the big world.

Zooniversity's "Top 10" Ridiculous Requests

When you deal with the general public (and mothers planning birthday parties), you just never know what you'll hear when you answer the phone. Some of the requests have been so ridiculous, that I started writing them down a few years ago. For your enjoyment, and to borrow from David Letterman, here is Zooniversity's "Top 10" all time favorite, ridiculous requests:

#10 -  "Do you have any storks? I thought it'd be cool to have one walking around my baby shower."

#9 - "Hello. I'd like to rent an elephant for a wedding."

#8 - "I'm having a party for 3-year olds at a facility that won't let you bring your animals onto their property, so could you do a show without animals?"

#7 -  "I need a cheetah for a movie opening so people can pet it."

#6 -"I'm doing a Curious George party for my 3-year old. Do you have some kind of small monkey, like a chimpanzee?"

#5 - "I've read all your safety rules on your website, but I'm calling to see how many of them are negotiable."

#4 - "I'm looking for a vulture, an owl and a dragon for a Harry Potter party. And, can you dress-up like Hagrid?"

#3 - "I want a special party picture of each guest with a snake wrapped around their neck."

#2 - "But, my 2-year old REALLY wants a lion at her party."

And, drum roll please...the #1 most ridiculous request:

#1 - "I don't want a whole party, just 20 minutes or so...and maybe 10 minutes or so when everybody gets to hold the animals...oh, it's at a play gym, some kids can play if they don't want to listen to you...I've rented a cotton candy machine too...all the kids are 2-3 years old...I've only invited 30 of her friends...on a Sunday night..oh, and I want to pay half price because it's a shorter party on a Sunday night...what do you mean you don't want to do the party...what else have you got to do?"

A Chameleon's Eulogy

Sometimes you find an animal that acts unlike any other of its species, that defies all published descriptions of typical behavior, that beats the survival odds, and that far outlives its maximum lifespan. It's rare, but it can happen, and these rare finds make the finest of animal ambassadors. The stories that come with these special creatures teach lessons that are more far-reaching than just the facts -- their stories teach empathy, and respect for living things, and they illustrate the delicate balance between man and nature that only we can control or change. "Camo," a very unusual male veiled chameleon, was such an ambassador.

Camo was given to Zooniversity back in 2002 by a pet store clerk. That pet store is luckily now out of business -- luckily, because it was infamous for its poor husbandry and often ill wild-caught live inventory. We don't know Camo's history before he came to us, but he arrived in very bad condition. Whomever had last set-up his cage, had placed his heat light in a way that allowed Camo to get too close to it. He had badly burned all the tissue off of his back knee and the raw bone and joint was fully exposed. It was infected. He was in obvious pain and had no appetite. He would not last long in this condition.

Our reptile vet felt that a veiled chameleon's delicate system would never survive antibiotics and the only thing we could do to save him was to administer hydrotherapy twice a day. Now, this might sound high-tech, but what this really meant was that we were to force his open wounded knee under a running faucet of warm water and hold him there for 15 minutes, twice a day. This was not a happy chameleon. Male veiled chameleons are notoriously aggressive, territorial, and difficult to handle. And, this lizard was in pain -- so he was rightfully down-right mean. He would hiss and bite at anything that came into lunge range, including fingers. Even the thought of administering this treatment made me shutter.

That's when I learned just how unusual, how un-chameleon-like, this lizard really was. After a few false starts, I drummed up enough bravado to reach out and pick-up this hissing, biting, pinching, writhing, green creature and held his open, infected knee under the heavy stream of warm tap water. Camo froze and those pivoting eyes searched in all directions and then locked on me. Then, he relaxed. He laid calmly in my hands for those 15 minutes, twice a day -- first for weeks, then for months. Gradually, granulation tissue began to form and the open wound filled in with healthy, new pink skin. It was three months before the knee was fully closed and the infection gone.

Camo and I built a strange relationship in those months. He defied all written description of a male veiled chameleon. This species is famous for guarding their turf and for being easily stressed by humans, noises, or changes in environment. Experts said they should never be handled, the stress can kill them. Yet, this odd creature would climb towards me when I entered the room. He would open his mouth wide to have worms or crickets popped in or a stream of water dribbled in as he greedily swallowed. He would endure travel carriers and long car trips with no signs of stress and would allow us to display him at wildlife shows to thousands of children and adults. He would let us hang him upside down, curl his tail around branches, and as a grand finale he would flick-out his long tongue to grab a worm. Even applause didn't seem to stress him. He was a Zooniversity favorite, requested by clients and loved by audiences for 6 long years. Mind you, this animal is only supposed to live 3-5 years and he was already an adult when he came to us. This was no ordinary chameleon.

Last year, Camo developed an odd little lump near his eye. The veterinarian removed it. Then one appeared on his snout. It was removed, too. Then another appeared, and another. Biopsies showed it was not cancer, but it was not normal and nothing seemed to stop the progression of lesions. Camo lost his ability to see his food, he lost his appetite and he started to lose his balance. It was time to let our dear chameleon go. Thank you, Camo, for teaching us all that there's more to learn about chameleons, and all of nature, than what's in books.

"Sydney," Journey of a Joey Wallaby, Part 1

Life is tough when you're this little. Life is even tougher outside the security of Mommy's pouch. Life is really tough when formula replaces Mommy's milk and you're surrounded by tall, strange-looking animals without fur or tails or pouches. Meet baby "Sydney," an orphaned Bennett's wallaby joey, who came to Zooniversity for foster care. This is Part 1 of her story.

Sydney was born about 7 months ago. Like all wallaby newborns, she was born the size of a jelly bean. She was born fur-less and pink. She was born blind and deaf. She spent the entire first day of life here on Earth climbing, hand over hand, up the fur on Mommy's belly, looking for the opening to her pouch. She was lucky. She found it and climbed inside and found a warm place to hide and milk to drink and got an occasional bath from a furry, loving nose.

Then, at 6 months old, she found herself out of the security of her warm, safe pouch. The wallaby breeder kept her warm and snug until she met her new foster Mommy: me. Yes, I am now the foster mother to this tiny, sweet creature who depends on me for sustenance, warmth, protection and the learning of life's lessons. Those are big wallaby shoes to fill.

She was so tiny. Her fur was brand new. She could not yet hop or maintain her body temperature. She was kept warm and cozy around the clock in a fleece-lined, man-made pouch with microwave-warmed heating discs. She was bottled with kangaroo/wallaby formula every  4 hours, all day and all night long. Learning to drink from a bottle was not easy and she struggled to figure it out. I struggled to keep her hydrated and nourished and alive. I also struggled to function (and to present wildlife shows) on very little sleep.

This first month with Sydney has not been easy. Sydney's tiny body has had a very hard time adjusting from Mama's milk to man-made formula. Our first four weeks together have included four trips to the veterinarian, three fecal tests, one bacterial culture, and countless supplements of probiotics, acidophillus, digestive enzymes and Kaopectate. The diagnosis? She is perfectly healthy, but her young digestive track still struggles to properly process the manufactured formula. Time will tell if her body will be able to figure it out.

Tummy troubles aside, she has learned to hop...and hop...and hop. And she's learned that if the world is too scary, the safety of her pouch is just one somersault away. She's learned to hold her own bottle and to guzzle it down with gusto. She has gained weight and a fuzzy new fur coat. She has tried to put a few pieces of hay and grass in her mouth, but figuring out how to chew them still eludes her. Life is indeed tough when you're this little.

There are still many wallaby milestones for Sydney to reach and many new life lessons for her to learn before she can be returned to her pasture and lie in the sun with the rest of her mob. Until then,we will try to guide her through each new challenge and will chronicle her leaps-and-bounds for you in future blog entries. --Allison

THAT Kid from the Country Club

When you are a wildlife educator, you can do hundreds of shows each year. You can meet thousands of adults and ten-of-thousands of children each year. Year, after year, after year. The numbers can be staggering. But, there is always one show, one kid, that you vividly remember...and not for good reasons. My nightmare: THAT show at the Country Club and THAT kid.

Now, I do wildlife shows in Dallas-Fort Worth and we have dozens of country clubs and I've taught at almost all of them. And, mostly, they have respectful audiences, appreciative parents and well-behaved children. Except for one country club. It shall remain nameless for fear of never being hired by any of their members again. I am certain, that I will never accept a reservation to speak there again.

Imagine this scenario. An empty ballroom, classically decorated, with a staging area. Nice. Peacefully and quietly you set-up for a show, safely tucking animal carriers in a row under a table, hiding them them with a decorative, protective drape. You set the microphone and do a sound check. Perfect. You take a deep breath and tell the hostess that you are ready when they are and instruct her to have their members enter quietly and sit on the floor. You wait for the expectant country club guests to politely fill the room.

Nightmare begins. Doors fly open and crash against the walls. Children in wet bathing suits flood the room. They'll stop at the edge of the stage, right? Wrong. Thrashing, shoving children leap onto the stage platform. Aghast, you try to corral them back off the stage. A scream. You twist around to see a dozen kids flipping over the table drape and pulling out carriers. A wildlife educator's worst nightmare comes to life. You rush to the animals' aid and verbally discipline the out-of-control chlorine-dripping herd of wild beasts and push them (maybe not so gently) off of the stage. You scan the room, not one adult anywhere in sight. Loudspeaker, quick! Give stern instructions. Request quiet. Have them "catch bubbles" in their mouths (an elementary school teacher trick). Little, by little, you regain decorum. You regain audience control. Almost.

One young boy, maybe 7 years old grins at you from the front row center. It's not a sweet grin, it's a devilish smirk. Hmmm, what next. He reaches forward with a hand and out shoots a stream of bright red liquid...ketchup. That kid, that devil's-spawn, has ketchup packets in both hands and squeezes them until they squirt their contents across the front of the stage and down your pant leg. Squeals of joy. Deafening, shrill, pre-adolescent, peels of ear-piercing laughter. THAT show at the county club. THAT kid.

It's been years now, maybe two or three, since that scene. The image was neatly filed away in memory, nearly forgotten...until this week. Another birthday party, another beautiful home, another group of curious party guests, another beaming birthday boy. The program begins and all is well with the world. Until the patio door flies open. In bursts a ruddy-faced, tousle-haired boy who interrupts by blurting out, "Hey, I know you. I saw you at the ______ Country Club!" The moment of recognition. THAT show at the Country Club. THAT kid.   

Blind "Faith," the Fennec Fox

No, this is not a chihuahua. Meet "Faith," named for the phrase "blind faith." Yes, she's blind. Faith is a fennec fox, usually found in the Sahara desert of North Africa and up into the Middle Eastern deserts of Saudi Arabia. Faith used to be one of Zooniversity's most traveled and popular educational animals. She starred in thousands of stage programs, met hundreds-of-thousands of children and adults, had her picture in the papers, and became a local animal celebrity. Her traveling days are now over. She is retired at 10 years old -- and has become a very pampered senior citizen who spends her days sleeping in a hammock, basking in the sunshine, and listening to Dr. Phil on the television.

Long before her life in the spotlight, Faith was born into the exotic pet industry. Her parents were intentionally mated by a very reputable exotic animal breeder solely for the purpose of selling the litter of "kits" (what baby foxes are called) to private owners who wanted to own an exotic animal as a house pet. Now, don't read into this that I am against exotic pet ownership. I am not. I am against exotic pet ownership by people who don't know what they're doing! The fennec fox is a wild species, not a domesticated one, and so little is still known about their proper captive care and husbandry needs.

Faith was given to Zooniversity when she was 3 years old by a private owner who could no longer afford her veterinary bills. No one is quite sure of who or what caused her to lose her eyesight. The buyer (a wanna-be breeder who purchased the 6-week old kit) accused the breeder of feeding her the wrong baby formula. The breeder accused the buyer of feeding her the wrong first solid foods. Regardless, irreparable damage was done and she lost her eyesight at just 4 months of age.

Upon arrive, our veterinary ophthalmologist (yes, an eye doctor for animals) diagnosed her with severe glaucoma and advanced juvenile cataracts. The best guess is that something in her diet lacked an amino acid, called taurine, which foxes need to develop their keen fox eyesight. Of course, no one intentionally damaged her vision. This just illustrates how little we still know about the nutritional needs of this 3-pound wild creature. 

Is Faith incapacitated by her blindness? Heck, no. This spirited desert darling runs at full speed, never  hits a wall, recognizes her keepers with fennec squeals of delight (a shrill trademark of a fennec), and loves her belly rubs. Is she in pain? She doesn't seem to be. She's been given glaucoma eye-drops twice daily for her 7 years with us, and no, it hasn't been easy. The interocular pressure in one of her eyes sky-rocketed to uncontrollable levels last year, so it was necessary to have the eye removed and replaced with a prosthetic eye. You read that correctly, a prosthetic eye.

The fennec fox seems to be gaining popularity among dreamy-eyed exotic animal buyers. It is cute...too cute. And, that's the problem. Impulse purchasers who don't do their research will pay anywhere from $1.200 to $2,000 to have one of these dainty darling's shipped to them with visions of strolling the sidewalks with a fennec face peering from their shoulder pet carrier. Not a chance. The fennec is a stunningly adorable animal, but they are not chihuahuas. They sleep all day (nocturnal desert creature), they run 20 mph and faster all night long, they dig 14 ft. holes as the sun rises every morning (in your carpet, if that's all there is), and...they mark their territory (no further explanation should be needed). Does this sound like a house pet?

The fennec fox is not a designer accessory. It is a wild animal. It is genetically programmed to act like a wild animal. In captive care, it is dependent on our expertise and knowledge to keep it healthy. It is dependent on researchers and scientists to formulate diets and supplements that work with their wild systems. Unfortunately, any newfound knowledge is too late to help Faith. But it could benefit her new roommate, "Tasha." She was given to us at 3 months old, when she was more than her new owner could handle.

So you want to be a Wildlife Educator? The Good, the Bad, the Ugly...and the Miraculous

I hear it almost everyday, "You have the most fun job ever. I'd love to do what you do!" Most folks think that being a wildlife educator is living the life of Jack Hanna: fame, your picture in the newspaper, spending days romping and playing with nature's most exotic species. Sometimes, it is. Most of the time, it isn't.

Standing in front of hundreds of people, holding a rare animal, explaining their place in the ecosystem and all the challenges that face the species, definitely can be an adrenaline rush and a moment of ego-boosting joy. So is that moment when a debilitated, improperly cared for, former pet, turns the corner towards health after weeks and months of dedicated, tender care. So is that fleeting instant when a baby animal, abandoned by its mother, clings to you for support and maternal love. Sheer bliss. But these "good" moments are few in the overall life of being a wildlife educator.

No one tells the young and hopeful educator "wanna-be" about real day-to-day life, the "bad" and the "ugly." There are endless daily cycles of cage cleaning and animal feeding; never-ending phone calls from well-intentioned, but misguided, mothers who want a monkey at their 3-year old's birthday party; daily struggles with audiences who are less than well-mannered and parents who aren't even embarrassed about it; the constant fear that an animal will be startled in public and, heaven forbid, get hurt or hurt someone else; traveling hours in 100+ degree heat to a small town auditorium just to find there's no air conditioning; staying up all night at an emergency veterinary clinic when an animal falls ill. Sound glamorous? Hardly.

A successful wildlife educator must be an expert zoologist, an experienced veterinary technician, an engrossing and spirited public speaker, a customer care advocate, a crowd control specialist, a shrewd marketing and public relations guru, a creative website designer, a meticulous accountant, and a regulatory and legal expert. It is not easy. Expect lots of work and 16 hour days (make that 24-hour days if an animal is young or ill). Expect no days off. Vacations are a thing of the past. Expect lots of expenses and very little profit, if any. Expect to weep when you're brought an animal in crisis and to weep even harder when one passes away. It is not the life most people think we lead when they see us beaming at the microphone.

So, why would anyone chose to be a wildlife educator? We live for those fleeting "miraculous" moments. We are driven by that instant when you feel the audience has connected with you and you just know you made a difference in their understanding; when you see that glimmer in a child's eye and you know you've touched their heart; when a formerly shy education animal unexpectedly demands an audience's attention and actually basks in their applause; when you receive letters of gratitude from people who tell you what endearing memories you've created for them and what a difference you've made. These miraculous moments are what we live and work for, and they make all the bad and ugly moments fade in comparison.

Allison Blankenship is owner of Zooniversity LLC, a Dallas-based wildlife education services company.