Dr. Eleanor
Shields was a piece of work. She had
become a vascular surgeon in the days when medical schools only admitted a
couple of women a year. After med school
she had served in the military and then settled in Las Vegas after her
retirement. She enjoyed telling us about
the Las Vegas celebrities she had become chummy with, but why she was on the
teaching faculty was beyond my comprehension.
In six weeks I had never learned a thing from her.
Dr.
Shields was a short, grey haired opinionated woman, with the abrasive
personality of a drill sergeant. She
threw me out of an operation one day because I couldn’t name all the branches
of the carotid artery; not that I wasn’t relieved to have been dismissed. Another
day at the VA she told me to write up a history and physical, but to use
another student’s notes because the other student’s were better than mine. I felt like a pound of chopped liver, cut and
wrapped.
One day
after vascular clinic, I was surprised when Dr. Shields called us all
together. “I want to take you all on a
field trip tomorrow night, if you are free.
Meet me at the Las Vegas Zoo at six.”
She winked at us, “I know someone and we are getting in for free.”
The
following evening, I drove my little Suzuki Swift along US 95 headed northwest
out of the city. I hadn’t ever ventured
into North Las Vegas, so I was feeling nervous about getting lost. The road was lined with cheap hotels and
deserted looking auto body places. Dead
looking Joshua trees and creosote bushes made up the rest of the landscape. Finally I spotted the sign and pulled off into
the open space which served as a parking lot.
The zoo
was surrounded by a rusty red brick fence which someone had designed in a
mission style. The walls were the exact same
color as the hard pack grainy soil they sat upon. Dr. Shields was already there with several of
my classmates.
When we
entered the gate, the first thing which struck me was the smell. The aroma of animal waste in the 115 degree
heat was overpowering. I was
disgusted. This place was little more
than a roadside animal attraction.
The
paths we walked on were the same hard packed red earth of the parking lot. Hot, bored animals lay about in traditional
barred cages. Even the ring-tailed lemurs
were still in the late afternoon heat.
Chickens and peafowl scratched in the dirt and the ever present whine of
cicadas filled the air.
As we
walked, Dr. Shields prattled on leading us to the far left corner of the
enclosure. I couldn’t see why she was
leading us to this smelly dusty edge of the zoo until I saw him move. With fur which blended into the tawny dust of
his enclosure was a lion. He was
old. I could tell because he acted as
washed out as the color of his mane. He
lifted his head and yawned displaying broken yellowed fangs. His pink tongue popped out and he licked the
end of his dry, cracked nose. Then his
head sank back to his crossed paws.
Dr.
Shields sat down on the bench next to the enclosure. “His name Charlie and he is my patient,” she
said. “I was at a party at Wayne
Newton’s one night and someone told me Charlie was sick. No one seemed to know what was wrong with
him. So I came out and watched him for a
while. We got some blood tests and I
figured out he had Cushing’s disease. We
got him on medications and now, he is so much better,” she said proudly.
I stared
at the ancient lion wondering how she could think he was better. He hadn’t moved a muscle. His fur was dry and dusty. I wondered how much longer he had to live. And even more I wondered why his owners didn’t get a proper veterinarian for him.
I turned
to try to remove myself from the stench and the heat. The sun was beginning to set behind the Spring
Mountains. The sky was taking on the
purple, orange and mahogany bands of evening in Las Vegas. The hills were bare of vegetation so I could
see their sharp edges backlit with the golden setting sun. And then I heard it.
Somewhere
in the distance, I heard the roar of a lion.
Behind me I heard Charlie start to huff.
I heard the far away lion again and then with a deafening roar, Charlie
answered. I turned and he was standing
up, facing the setting sun, intent and listening. His yellow eyes reflected the sun’s dying
rays. Then he opened his mouth and roared again.
I heard
Dr. Shield’s say, “Those are Siegfried and Roy’s lions. These guys do this every night.”
Far away
the rich, performing lions answered. I
was suddenly in the middle of the Serengeti.
The temperature dropped a few degrees as the violet hills merged with
the plum-colored twilight. The buzz of
the cicadas ceased and nothing was left but the roaring across the valley.
They
were still at it as we started to leave.
I stood by my car mesmerized. I listened
and watched the gloaming until it was nearly dark and the roaring had ceased.
On the
drive back to my apartment, I thought about Dr. Shields. Perhaps she had a grain of humanity in
her. Maybe she was a healer trying to
help in the only way her life toughened exterior would allow. Perhaps she too had stood listening to the call
of lions in the desert and been moved by their calls in the twilight. But I knew better than to ask her.
