Petunia-tu’s left front foot. She had a fondness for watermelon, so Susan had had one cut into bite-sized—for an elephant—chunks in a wicker basket. She approached Petunia-tu slowly, always watching her eyes, reading her body language. Susan felt she could always spot anger in an elephant’s eyes, and the animal’s movements spoke volumes to those who could read them. Petunia-tu was radiating calm. She might even have been enjoying her return to the road. It was sure a more interesting life than the game park.
Susan held out a chunk of melon and Petunia-tu took it and eagerly jammed it up into her massive jaws, which began their unique grinding motion. She didn’t spit out the seeds. She didn’t even spit out the rind.
When the watermelon was half gone Susan opened the gate that separated the carrier into two halves. She took the end of the rope looped around Petunia-tu’s neck and tugged her gently, and the living gray mountain lumbered forward, her trunk probing into the wicker basket.
Outside, the keeper had lowered the heavy ramp in front, put there so the cargo didn’t have to back up, which was always chancy with a beast weighing ten thousand pounds and lacking a rearview mirror.
Petunia-tu balked at the top of the ramp, not wanting to put her weight on her weak foot to come down the ramp. The keeper—Susan thought his name was Barry—stepped forward and, sure enough, there was an elephant hook in his hand. Susan scowled at him and waved him away, and coaxed Petunia-tu carefully to the ground. After that it was a piece of cake to lead her into her stall in the cool interior of the big warehouse. She perked up a little and raised her trunk as soon as she smelled the other inmates, and immediately went to the fence of steel girders that separated her quarters from Queenie’s on her left. The cows sniffed each other for a while, and neitherseemed upset. Susan was sure Petunia-tu was instantly aware that Queenie was pregnant, though it would be many more months before she showed.
She stayed a while to be sure no conflicts would erupt. Elephants were social animals and could be temperamental about dominance, which they worked out as nicely as the U.S. Senate, but it was mostly the males who were trouble. Females tended to establish the pecking order peacefully. She expected Petunia-tu to fit into her growing herd easily enough.
Outside, as she was closing the door to the warehouse, the truck was pulling away. As it left it revealed the other, more mysterious half of Howard Christian’s mammoth obsession, that Matthew Wright fellow she hadn’t spoken to more than half a dozen times since his first day at the project when she had given him the short course in artificial insemination. He was sitting at a wrought-iron table Christian had had installed in the parking lot behind the warehouse, next to the ten-foot security fence that hid the whole installation from prying eyes. He was under a big canvas umbrella that seemed a good idea with his pale complexion; the merciless summer sun would no doubt broil him like a lobster in about five minutes. He had spread the wrapper of a huge Subway sandwich on the table and was watching her as he ate it. He gestured toward the closed door with the hand holding the sandwich.
“More godless, cruel, antinature experimentation, I presume,” he said. He gestured to the two enormously determined men who had taken it upon themselves to mount an eternal vigil at the driveway leading to the warehouse—if “eternal” could be taken to mean nine to five, Monday through Friday. Susan didn’t know their names or who they were affiliated with. She called the tall one with the day’s growth of beard and the look of perpetual angelic bliss on his face the Martyr. He stood all day, muttering something over and over which Susan thought might be the Rosary. She had never seen him move, but somehow he migrated during the day within a thirty-yard range on either side of the gate
Susan held out a chunk of melon and Petunia-tu took it and eagerly jammed it up into her massive jaws, which began their unique grinding motion. She didn’t spit out the seeds. She didn’t even spit out the rind.
When the watermelon was half gone Susan opened the gate that separated the carrier into two halves. She took the end of the rope looped around Petunia-tu’s neck and tugged her gently, and the living gray mountain lumbered forward, her trunk probing into the wicker basket.
Outside, the keeper had lowered the heavy ramp in front, put there so the cargo didn’t have to back up, which was always chancy with a beast weighing ten thousand pounds and lacking a rearview mirror.
Petunia-tu balked at the top of the ramp, not wanting to put her weight on her weak foot to come down the ramp. The keeper—Susan thought his name was Barry—stepped forward and, sure enough, there was an elephant hook in his hand. Susan scowled at him and waved him away, and coaxed Petunia-tu carefully to the ground. After that it was a piece of cake to lead her into her stall in the cool interior of the big warehouse. She perked up a little and raised her trunk as soon as she smelled the other inmates, and immediately went to the fence of steel girders that separated her quarters from Queenie’s on her left. The cows sniffed each other for a while, and neitherseemed upset. Susan was sure Petunia-tu was instantly aware that Queenie was pregnant, though it would be many more months before she showed.
She stayed a while to be sure no conflicts would erupt. Elephants were social animals and could be temperamental about dominance, which they worked out as nicely as the U.S. Senate, but it was mostly the males who were trouble. Females tended to establish the pecking order peacefully. She expected Petunia-tu to fit into her growing herd easily enough.
Outside, as she was closing the door to the warehouse, the truck was pulling away. As it left it revealed the other, more mysterious half of Howard Christian’s mammoth obsession, that Matthew Wright fellow she hadn’t spoken to more than half a dozen times since his first day at the project when she had given him the short course in artificial insemination. He was sitting at a wrought-iron table Christian had had installed in the parking lot behind the warehouse, next to the ten-foot security fence that hid the whole installation from prying eyes. He was under a big canvas umbrella that seemed a good idea with his pale complexion; the merciless summer sun would no doubt broil him like a lobster in about five minutes. He had spread the wrapper of a huge Subway sandwich on the table and was watching her as he ate it. He gestured toward the closed door with the hand holding the sandwich.
“More godless, cruel, antinature experimentation, I presume,” he said. He gestured to the two enormously determined men who had taken it upon themselves to mount an eternal vigil at the driveway leading to the warehouse—if “eternal” could be taken to mean nine to five, Monday through Friday. Susan didn’t know their names or who they were affiliated with. She called the tall one with the day’s growth of beard and the look of perpetual angelic bliss on his face the Martyr. He stood all day, muttering something over and over which Susan thought might be the Rosary. She had never seen him move, but somehow he migrated during the day within a thirty-yard range on either side of the gate
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