“Uncle Bob!”
Ruby races over—galomph, galomph—across the broad field that’s part of the elephant domain. She’s so cute when she runs, like she’s determined not to trip on her trunk.
Ruby adores me. I make her laugh, I read the room, I lighten the mood.
I gotta admit, I am kind of adorable.
When I’m with Ivan, I think: Pal, we’ve been through a lot, you and me. We are survivors.
When I’m with little Ruby, I think: Girl, look at you! Hard-luck past, and here you are, so much happier. So loved.
Ruby, like Ivan, was plucked from Africa as a baby. She ended up in a circus that went bankrupt, then got shipped off to Mack’s mall.
Ruby was taken in by dear old Stella. When Stella passed away, Ivan stepped in to play . . . well, elephant dad, I guess.
I did my part, too. Not ’cause I felt like I had to.
It just made life easier. Elephant toddlers are a handful.
You think humans are bad? Try putting a two-hundred-pound baby elephant in time-out.