“Tigre?” The parents, far more excited than the child drooling over their arms repeated my selections. The father looked surprised that I knew French. I replied, in French, that I only knew a little. Even more excited was a group of onlookers standing to my left, hanging over the boardwalk railing and looking straight down. It was six feet to the ground. The height of the boardwalk was apparently to add to the viewing pleasure of the public. In my experience it was a convenient excuse for countless toddlers to lose their ill-fitting shoes to the grass below. I naturally assumed that was again the case. To my disappointment this was not so. I distinctly spied the tips of two little horns traveling the length of the boardwalk at random zoo-goers feet. Forgetting the dauphin and singe in the tub of ice I half hung over the railing myself to get a clear picture of the happenings. The baby bongo was loose. Technically. She was no longer in her proper place of residence. A series of gates made it impossible for her to go farther then she already had. But that still didn’t resolve the fact that she was misplaced. It was the most exciting thing to happen at my post since a white-tail buck got into the giraffe pen last summer. I snatched up my radio, making change with one hand as the purple monkey was whisked away. “Savanna to the front office.” I radioed over. “Mara the Bongo just flew the coup. I need some zoo keepers out here to put her back.” The excitement had drawn an impressive crowd. Larger then I normally drew myself when I whistled for the giraffes to come up for a close up. A particular favorite among patrons who enjoyed tipping a poor minimum wage drink attendant. “Well, put her back.” I starred incredulously at the radio. Occasionally the signals crossed and I ended up with the tail end conversation of some zoo Keeper. But that sounded oddly like my boss.
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