The week before the San Diego conference—the one Kai’s also attending to promote On the Wild Side—I’m doing afternoon rounds on the colobus monkeys and Ozzie’s troop when I notice Zuri’s acting differently. And not in a Lucy-acting-differently-because-she’s-getting-railed-by-the-world’s-favorite-wildlife-host kind of different. Bad different. Worryingly different.
My first clue something’s up is that when I round the corner to the indoor exhibit with a trayful of individualized protein drinks, Zuri doesn’t scamper toward me like usual. Instead, Inkesha and Tria beat her to the mesh, and I glance around to find Zuri curled up in some hay while Keeva sits on her arm, tossing lettuce into the air. It’s not a major red flag, because gorillas get belly aches just like humans, but it’s enough to give me pause. And five minutes later, when I watch her facial muscles strain like she’s in pain while she tries to do her business, I whip out my walkie-talkie and page the veterinary team.
“What’s wrong?” Kai asks when he returns from a lunch break, seeing the panic on my face, but I can’t stop to talk. I yell for Jack and Lottie, and they help separate the rest of the troop from Zuri and Keeva by luring them into the neighboring exhibit with the protein drinks. If what’s causing Zuri to grimace in pain and lose her appetite is what I think it is—an intestinal blockage, just like the one she had two years ago—we’re running on borrowed time. Blockages can result in bowel tearing, infection, and even death, and just like in humans, some are medical emergencies. Of course, she could also just be constipated, but this is Zuri we’re talking about, and I’m not taking any chances.
Within minutes, Nick, a second vet, and a couple of techs arrive on the scene, and my pulse races as I explain Zuri’s strange behavior. I call her to the mesh so Nick can listen to her heart and lungs with a stethoscope while a tech wheels in an ultrasound machine, and little Keeva lets out a frightened cry.
“Zuri, touch,” I say, pressing my fist to the mesh. “Stomach, touch.”
She knows what I’m asking thanks to her daily training, and she leans her abdomen into the mesh.
“Good girl,” I tell her, forcing myself not to cry. “That’s my smart girl.”
Nick bites his lip as he presses the probe to her stomach, and I offer a silent prayer that we don’t find anything—that she’s just constipated, and I’m paranoid for no reason. But as Nick lowers the probe, I see it at the same time he does: a fuzzy gray bull’s-eye-like cluster of matter where it shouldn’t be.
“What is it?” I ask, trying to stay calm.
He moves the probe even lower, his eyes darting across the screen. “It’s her bowel. One section of her intestine is sliding into another. Intussusception.”
My heart drops into my stomach, and I want to panic, but there’s no time for that. There’s only time for action.
“She needs surgery,” Nick announces. “Now. Let’s go, guys. Get her out.”
His fellow vet approaches the mesh, holding a syringe full of anesthetic that will knock Zuri unconscious, and my voice cracks as I instruct her to lift her arm toward the mesh.
“Zuri, arm,” I tell her, swallowing down my tears, and like the amazing gorilla she is, she presses her arm to the mesh so the vet can inject the anesthetic.
It only takes her a few minutes to grow drowsy and pass out into the hay, and a terrified Keeva lets out an alarmed cry and smacks her surrogate mother’s leg.
“You go with Zuri,” Jack says, scrambling to open the gate so we can load her onto a stretcher and into the van that will transport her to the Animal Health Center. “Lottie and I will stay with Keeva.”
I nod at him, grateful, and then step back as Phil, Kai, and a couple of guys from the vet team work to load Zuri onto a gurney. Norm backs the van right up to the Ape House entrance, and within two minutes, Zuri, Phil, the two vets, and I, plus Kai with his camera, scramble into the back. Putting a gorilla under anesthesia—and keeping her there—is no small task, and Nick monitors her vitals during the five-minute ride to the health center on the far side of the zoo.
“Heart rate’s climbing,” he warns. “We need to move fast.”
The last thing anyone wants is a pained, pissed-off Zuri waking up in the back of a cargo van, and Norm steps on the gas. By the time we reach the health center, a team waits outside to usher Zuri to the surgical suite, and I hop out of the van and reach out to touch her arm as the medical staff rushes toward her.
“I love you,” I whisper, willing her to make it. “You’re my strong, smart girl, and I love you.”
“Lucy,” Kai calls after me as I turn to follow my favorite gorilla into surgery. He reaches for my hand, but I pull away before anyone sees. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “I’ll be okay once Zuri is.”
And then I jog after the gurney, my heart pounding out of my chest.
Two hours later, I emerge from the OR with trembling hands. Usually only Phil and the senior keepers attend surgeries, especially emergency ones, but perhaps knowing the depth of my dedication to Zuri, my boss let me stay. Kai, who stood at the edge of the room with Skippy and their cameras, spent the whole procedure glancing between me and the hands of the surgeon working diligently to fix the obstruction in the gorilla’s abdomen. Dr. Trotter was able to repair the obstruction before it perforated, but as she explains to Phil and me in a debriefing afterward, it’s no guarantee that we’ll have the same luck next time.
“Just like some people are prone to seizures or cardiac incidents, some are prone to these kinds of blockages,” she tells me, looping a stethoscope around her neck. “Same goes for gorillas. And sometimes it’s caused by a tumor or a polyp that we can remove, but that’s not the case for Zuri.”
“So it’s basically just bad luck?” I ask. “Is there anything we can do to prevent it?”
The gray-haired surgeon shakes her head. “I’d recommend regular abdominal scans to check for any developing masses, but just like in humans, we’re not always sure why intussusception happens. Your best bet is to keep a close eye on her moving forward and hope it was just a fluke.”
I roll my eyes when the vet walks away. I appreciate her life-saving surgery skills, but hope is not the foolproof solution I want.
“I’ll look in the international database to find other zoos who’ve dealt with recurrent intussusception in their gorillas,” Phil says, rubbing his eyes. “Maybe they know more than we do. And when you go to San Diego, talk to other primate keepers. They’re a wealth of information.”
My jaw drops. “You still want me to go to the conference? But it’s six days away, and I can’t leave Zuri.” I motion toward the surgical suite, where Zuri will receive fluids and monitoring overnight before Dr. Trotter clears her to return to the troop.
“She’ll be in good hands,” Phil assures me. “I know it’s hard to concentrate on anything else when one of our animals is sick, but it’s essential to the job. You can do it, Lucy. I know you can.”
He pulls out his walkie-talkie radio to update the team at Ape House, and I manage to keep the WTF off my face until I’ve rounded the corner to an empty hallway of the health center. I know Phil’s trying to shape me into the best keeper I can be, but Zuri’s not just one of our animals. She’s the reason I started smiling again all those years ago. She’s the reason I fell in love with gorillas and dedicated my life to working with them. She’s Zuri, my smart, strong girl, and she could have died.
She could have died.
Before I know it, the tears fall fast and furious, and I’m grateful that no one’s here to see me fall apart. But within seconds, footsteps round the corner, and I glance up from where I’m wiping away snot with my shirt sleeve to see Kai striding toward me, his brow furrowed in concern.
“Luce,” he says, crossing the distance between us, but I shake my head as he approaches.
“I can’t deal with the cameras right now,” I tell him, my voice choked. “I just can’t.” During Zuri’s ordeal, I’d forgotten about the cameras for the first time all summer, but I can’t fathom the thought of staring into one right now.
“No cameras,” Kai promises, wrapping his arms around me. “Just me, okay? Just me.”
He rubs my back and strokes my hair, pulling my face into his chest, and suddenly I’m glad I’m not alone anymore. I’m glad he’s here with me.
Even though when he lowers his face to press his lips against my forehead, it feels anything but casual.