My Time at the Cat House (and I Don't Mean the Brothel)

Although I got little sleep the night before due to some kind of respiratory attack toward some mystery allergen lurking in the cat cabin, I jumped out of bed right at 8am because today was the day I was eagerly anticipating: the day of behind the scenes cat exploration, including feeding time. I'm sure many of you readers are thinking "gross!" or "so what?" or "this girl has some screwy ideas of what constitutes a good time," all of which are fair reactions, but this type of observation is invaluable for helping me get a clearer picture of lion behavior for my novel. And, some of you may know that I grew up in San Diego, home of the world famous San Diego Zoo, and some of you may even know that I'm a bit of a "zoo girl" (or at least that's what my mom always called me). The smell of the zoo (that particular blend of soft serve ice cream and elephant dung) is an olfactory trigger for childhood memories, so you can see, that this kind of thing is right up my alley. And besides, I'm sure you can all agree that getting see these big, monstrous beasties chowing down like they do in their natural habitat (or as close as you can come to natural within the confines of captivity) is a pretty unique, exciting, one of a lifetime kind of experience. Needless to say, I was stoked.


As soon as I heard their trucks, I raced outside, leopard print coffee cup still in hand. They pulled up in a bobcat hooked to an open bed trailer holding hunks meat, some with the calf legs still attached. Even before they arrived, the cats were rapidly pacing back and forth in their enclosures. The Exotic Feline Rescue Center has two fast days for their cats in the summer, and one of them was the day before, so these kitties were hungry. The keepers corralled the cats into a smaller partition (which took some calling and coercing, particularly for Brumby, the somewhat ornery black leopard), and then entered the main enclosure, checking water, cleaning up messes, and depositing carcass meat. When they were let back in to the main cage, the cats immediately set upon the meat, licking it with their big tongues in an almost delicate fashion before picking the hunk of meat up in their mouths and dragging it to a safe, high up spot. Only then did they start chewing on it. 

One note on their "delicate licking": although as an observer it looked rather genteel and reserved, the reality is that the tongues of these big cats are so rough that they can take the flesh off of bone, and can certainly draw blood if licking a living thing. This new bit of trivia is getting filed away, and, for those of you who know my novel so far, is, unfortunately, going to result in some minor revisions to a key scene.


After they were done feeding the furry friends in my neck of the woods (literally) I walked down with Melissa, one of the keepers, to watch as they fed another group of tigers, lions, and leopards. I was then invited to accompany them to the storage facility, where they keep all of the meat, and to the portion of the center that remains unseen by the general public. This part consists of many more animals who aren't seen by the public, either due to limited space or the animal's skittishness around crowds. 


Like the weirdo that I am, I was most eager to see their cold storage. "Can I take pictures?" I asked and Melissa shrugged in acquiescence. Then I slipped between the plastic slats in front of the door and went to town, snapping pictures of the mounds of cow parts, the shelves of whole dead chickens, the blood drain in the floor. "I'm probably one of the few people who want to take pictures in here, huh?" I said to Melissa. "You'd be surprised," she said. "I have pictures myself. I took them, and never look at them." I gleefully snapped away. 

**WARNING**

The next few images are not for the squeamish. Viewer discretion is advised.

I apologize for the shoddy quality. I edited them in iphoto for maximum impact, but for some reason they wouldn't upload once I did.

The Center gets their meat from local farmers for free. The Center provides the service of hauling away dead livestock in exchange for keeping the meat. They do all the processing themselves, raising the body up on a meat hook and butchering it with a saws-all and small butchery knives. The cats eat the meat off the bone ("They're too spoiled to eat the guts," says Melissa). Sometimes they'll eat the livers, but for the most part, all of the offal goes to compost, which the Center makes in piles and gives away to people for gardens. "We can't sell it," says another keeper, Jennifer, "because we can't guarantee the purity of it's content." They burn the bones and scrap to cut down on the maggots before adding them to the compost.


After seeing the cold storage, Jennifer took me out to the rest of the enclosures. Just like Joe, Jennifer has a special relationship with a lot of the cats. Particularly with the tigers, although as she confesses, "Boy tigers tend to prefer women." It doesn't go both ways, apparently, except when the female cats are in estrus (heat). When they are in heat, and being difficult, Jennifer says that they'll sometimes ask one of the male workers around the Center to call to them, "and sure enough they come scampering over right away." Most of the keepers I saw were women: aside from Joe, the only men working the Center appeared to be builders and maintenance workers.

Jennifer leans in for a smooch with one of her favorite tigers

Even with her special talent with the cats, Jennifer says that there are some cats she won't go near. "Some cats just don't like certain people." Also, some of the most dangerous cats are the ones that are the most friendly. When big cats play, they play rough. Another tour guide explained, "Imagine you're inside the cage. A friendly tiger might come over to you to greet you. He'll stand on his hind legs and put his paws on your shoulders. That's 600 lbs. worth of force on you. So naturally, you'll fall down. Then he'll start licking you, to show his affection, (with that flesh-removing tongue of his). He might even bat at you with his paws to try to get you to play. He won't let anyone near you, because he'll be protecting you. Then, as any good parent cat would do, he might try to pick you up by the scruff of your neck to take you to safety. Those teeth can be as long as 9 cm long, going right into your neck, and severing your spinal cord. And then you're paralyzed, injured, bleeding out in a cage where a massive cat won't let anyone get in to help you." Although Jennifer is affectionate and playful with the cats, she is very conscious of their behavior, and which ones are troublemakers. In one enclosure, for example, she demonstrated the tigers' keen ability for stalking. She tried to catch the eye of one of her favorites, who was lounging in his tank. Then she crouched down with her back to the cage. He leapt out the start stalking her, but immediately, another female tiger, who was closer, started to race over to her, and she stood up immediately and moved away from the cage. "You see? The moment my back was turned she tried to get me." This was one of the tigers that she wasn't particularly keen on too. 

He may look like a harmless house cat right now but don't be fooled. Also, white tigers tend to be a bit of a neurotic and unpredictable. Consequence of inbreeding.

Tigers are silent when they're stalking. Jennifer told me that save for a small rustling occasionally, when her back is turned she won't know they're there, "until I feel tiger breath on the back of my neck." Chill inducing! The rest of the time, though, tigers are pretty vocal. Happy, friendly tigers make a "chuffing" sound, kind of a deep, throat, staccato purr. They also make bleating, whining kind of howls, and aggressive hisses, and small roars, but it's the lions that are the real roarers. I was lucky enough to hear these roars: deep thunderous, bowel-shaking roars that made my heart palpitate with the thrill of it.


Interestingly, although lions are the ones touted as the social cats, they're not as affectionate as the tigers. This is not to say that some of them weren't friendly. Jennifer nuzzled with a couple lions along the way. And a couple of the males were quite affectionate with one another, which surprised me until Jennifer set the record straight. Male lions will live in a pride for quite awhile until it is their turn to leave and find their own. Even when they do find their own pride, they continue to cohabitate with other males until those males either challenge them or move on. 

Bro-mance

The Center has a couple of peculiar lion cases that are specific to captive lions. They have two neutered lions (i prior to coming to the Center) whose manes either fell out or never grew in as a result of the castration.

One of the maneless males. You can tell by his broad cheekbones and prominent shoulders.

They also have a couple lionesses who, after going through menopause, started to grow small manes. This latter occurrence is relatively rare. Apparently, it is something that is more likely to happen in captivity. I would guess that this is because lionesses live longer in captivity, and so are more likely to live long enough to experience menopause. After doing some research on my own, I found that Terrell Jacobs, well-known lion tamer, had a lioness who famously "became a lion," growing a mane and supposedly exhibiting male sex organs. Most likely she was just menopausal (can't explain away the sex organs though, apart from ascribing it to good ol' fashioned circus flim-flammery). 

Lionesses dog piling (or  cat piling?). Notice the particularly hairy one in the middle. She's one of those slightly maney menopausal ladies

Jennifer graciously answered all my questions, and really helped flesh out my understanding of cat behavior. If only I could have stayed a bit longer and observed the cats on my own. But of course, for safety reasons, I needed to have a body guard. I'm scheming to find a way to maybe volunteer with them at some point to get more time with big cats. Stay tuned on that front (Amelia's Marvelous Midwestern Romp: the Sequel?). 


After parting ways with Jennifer, I went back to the main entrance and joined in on a regular tour of the facility, where I was called "royalty" by the guide because I had been an overnight guest. This is because the Center gets very little revenue to stay afloat, and the overnight guests constitute quite a bit of their revenue. Which brings me to my second soapbox moment of the trip (bear with me...no pun intended).


In the last few days, I have encountered two struggling enterprises: the circus (represented by the Circus Hall of Fame) and the Exotic Feline Rescue Center. While both are performing similar functions (the EFRC trying to preserve big cats in this country and the Circus Hall of Fame trying to preserve the history of the circus, and, by extension, the history of those who have worked with big cats in this country), they are near mortal enemies. There is an Israeli-Palestinian style conflict between these groups of people. I heard both sides speak ill of one another openly and unflinchingly. However, I feel that if the two could somehow work together, both of their enterprises would thrive, or at least, be more successful and profitable than they are now.

Gratuitous lion pic

This is what I would propose (if they would only listen). The EFRC is concerned about the treatment of animals by the circus. Fine, worthwhile concern. However, being a believer in the inherent good of most people, I believe that the majority of circus people love their animals and do not wish them harm but, because it is expensive to care for an exotic big cat, and they barely have enough money to support themselves, let alone their animals, their animals don't get the optimal treatment. That is, they don't have acres and acres of land to give their cats. The EFRC is in need of more land to expand into. The Hall of Fame seems to have quite a bit of it. What if these two groups got together and helped each other out? What if the EFRC could set up an annex in Peru, where they could put some of the rescue cats? In exchange, the circus folk could train some of the cats to do tricks, and use them in their performances, thus reviving the lustre of the circus. Many of these rescue cats were circus cats before, and I would assume that if they were treated fairly, the EFRC would not, or shouldn't at least, have any qualms about them performing. They aren't wild cats, after all. They were all born in captivity, mostly in the U.S. And then, perhaps they could even work together to figure out a humane way of transporting the cats so that their show could travel, bringing both the circus and awareness of the plight of America's big cats, to the masses.


Sadly, I don't think my brilliant idea would ever work because the antagonism between these groups runs deep. But, a girl can dream, can't she?


After my second tour of the day, it was time for me to say adieu to my cat friends and hit the road for West Baden, Indiana, another former circus winter quarters. This is where my internet access became limited, and thus why I am getting this entry to you late. I apologize, dear readers. Hang tight, another entry is soon to follow.

Another gratuitous lion picture...aka you bracing for the next exciting installment of my blog.

technical difficulties

due to internet issues where i'm staying, i unfortunately will not be able to post news of my newest adventures until tomorrow. thanks to all of you for reading along with me and thanks particularly to those who have sent along words of encouragement. xoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Leaving Peru, Finding (Cat) Sanctuary

I actually managed to wake up early today, so after a luxurious morning of sun room coffee and clawfooted bathtubbing (complete with Cole Porter Spotify homage and sing a longing), I set off for my final day in Peru. I packed up, bid adieu to the Cole Porter Inn, and hit the road.


The road took me to the Circus City Museum. Like everything I have encountered in Peru, the Circus City Museum is quite quirky However, unlike the bucolic splendor and historical weight of the Hall of Fame's location, the Circus City Museum feels more like a bland, nondescript office building. When I say like, I don't mean it in the simile sense. I mean literally I thought I had walked into a travel agent's office by mistake. There were several desks scattered around the uniform grey space and no circus paraphernalia in sight. I even interrupted a woman making copies, who stared at my confusion with a blank, slightly surprised expression on her face. "Umm, is there where the Circus Museum is?" I asked plaintively. Not even the huge sign on the side of the building saying "Circus City Museum" could quite convince me that I was in the right place. To my surprise the woman nodded and pointed to a door at the back. 


As you might expect from the lack of fanfare and spectacle involved in the museum's secret entrance, the museum itself is quite small. It consists of one room. There are no tours. In fact, there were no employees to be found when I wandered back, save for the surprised photocopier. What the museum does have is a pretty impressive photo collection. The room is pretty much plastered floor to ceiling with circus photos. There isn't a lot of explanation for them or an establishment of a historical context for them, but it still was pretty amazing to see the images. Here are some of my favorites:

Nightmare!

                   Mama Thibodeaux?

John Fugate told me tons of stories about the Great Wilno. He was a human cannonball who married a snake charmer with a penchant for dirty jokes.

              

After I left the Circus Museum, I headed back to the Circus Hall of Fame, to squeeze every ounce of information out of that place before my departure. I returned to the office, where I found John Fugate again, and met a new member of the the Hall of Fame Team: Mike Schaub. His exact role in the Hall of Fame workings was never explained to me, but I believe from what I observed is that he either helps out with the books or negotiates performer contracts. The only thing I DO know he does is read palms. He is an 1/8 Roma, a.k.a Romanian gypsy, (just like me!) and has picked up the ability of palm reading, apparently as a celebration of his heritage. He had to leave shortly after my arrival, but before he did, he took hold of my hands and did a quick palm read. This is what he "saw" in them:


1) I have dichotomies in me (who doesn't really?). For example, I like to be noticed but I am pretty shy.
2) I am a solemn person
3) I am a compassionate person
4) I am consistent, "predictable," that is, in his words, "once I know you, I know you." By which I guess he means that I am stable, or true to self?
5) He saw no love in my life right now, in the present (duh), but he saw two: either two in the future, or one in the past and one in the future.


All of this is pretty generic, really, and could apply to just about anyone, but it was a fun exercise and a nice parting gift.


I spent most of the afternoon thumbing through books in the Hall of Fame's collection, drinking coffee, chatting with John and Mike and Dennis, and being confused for an employee by the few visitors that came by. I also met another gentleman affiliated both with the Circus Hall of Fame and the Shrine Circus, but his name escaped me since he was introduced to me in a rather off-hand way, and since he seemed a bit suspicious of me and my motives for writing a book about the circus. I think he thought I was going to Water for Elephants them and make the circus look like a bunch of animal-abusing, shifty-eyed, back-stabbing grifters. Once I explained to him my actual motivations for writing this book, which, along with (hopefully) telling a really compelling story, involve wanting to cast the circus community in a more positive light, he seemed to warm to me a bit. He opened up a little to me, and talked with a stoic but deep sorrow about the "slow demise" of the circus, which, to him and to those men in that little Circus Hall of Fame office, is the center of their lives. I sat in that office and watched those men struggle all day to plan a ten-day circus show that most likely was only going to lose money for the Hall of Fame. And it is tragic. 


So this is the part where I get up on my soapbox for a moment. When I tell people that I am writing a book about the circus, the majority of the time, their eyes light up excitement and curiosity. The circus still seems to hold tight to our imagination, flooding our minds with the same sense of child-like wonder and awe that we exhibit in the face of all marvelous spectacles (fireworks, for example). And yet, circus attendance has died out to a mere trickle, and it is drying and dying out. It is true that animal acts have received a lot of flack in recent decades, some of which might be deserved, some of which might not, but the fact remains, that we as spectators are still captivated by the idea of a circus...so why don't we go to them anymore? Why do we chose movies instead of circuses? I don't have an answer for this, and I'm not necessarily advocating anything, but to see the mournful look in this man's eyes as he talked about the extinction of his way of life was just heartbreaking.


Anyway, the soapbox has been safely stowed again, and instead, let me entice you to support your local circus with some more circus miscellany that I explored on my last day in the Circus Hall of Fame Museum. 

Massive(ly miniature) Hagenbeck-Wallace circus model

Trailer interior

Star performer trailer 

This museum is also pretty tiny, but it has a lot more information and explanation than the Circus City Museum (side note: there seems to be a peculiar and unexplained rivalry/blood feud between the town circus museum and the hall of fame...guess who I seem to have aligned myself with?). 


After my last look around the museum, it was time for me to leave. I gave John a hug goodbye and gave a measly $20 donation to the Hall of Fame (all I could afford), which earned me both a year's membership and an autographed picture of John from his earlier ringmaster days (I think that was a special gift, so don't expect to get one if you sign up for a membership). With that, I waved goodbye to my circus friends, and once again Aretha and I took to the open road, this time in the direction of Center Point, Indiana and the Exotic Feline Rescue Center located there.


Before I get to the cat sanctuary, some more roadside observations about Indiana:


1) Indiana still loves corn.
Yep, no surprise: there's still as much corn as you head down to Southern Indiana as there is up north. It's everywhere. There's no escape. Those little picture-perfect farmhouses are everywhere too. 


2) Indiana's second biggest crop: the Holy Spirit.
The only other thing Indiana seems to grow is churches. You can't drive more than a mile without seeing one. My favorite, and most aptly iconic image I saw from the road was a church with a sign out front advertising the sale of sweet corn inside! No joke (sorry no picture refer back to solo road trip photo-documenting pitfalls disclaimer in previous blog entry). It was the perfect encapsulation of this stretch of Midwest. That and the...


3)Karate, Guns, Tanning: One Stop Shopping
Yes, I did in fact see one sign advertising all three services. Again, no picture, sorry. 


4) Third biggest crop: correctional facilities.
I saw two on my the less than three-hour drive between Peru and Center Point. Corn, Jesus, and Convicts. That's Indiana in a nutshell (as seen exclusively from the freeway). But just like a nut, there's a lot of weird and wacky meat beneath that shell.


One last amusing anecdote before I get to what you've all been waiting for (a.k.a the cat sanctuary): I stopped at Kroger's in Brazil, Indiana before getting to Center Point so that I could have something non-fast foody for dinner, and picked up some beer, which I was able to buy because it wasn't Sunday any more (praise be!). The young guy behind the counter checked my I.D. and when he saw where I was from, he said, "What are you doing in Brazil, Indiana?" He said "Brazil, Indiana" with such disdain that I almost wanted to invite him along on my journey to get him out of the town he obviously abhorred. Instead, I laughed and said, "research." Which seemed to mollify him.


From there, I ended up at (drumroll please) THE EXOTIC FELINE RESCUE CENTER. Before I got there I had been blasting and car dancing to a mix that I made before embarking on the trip. After all that corn and Jesus and pastoral wholesomeness, I needed a little thuggish ruggishness in my life. But, when I pulled up to the entrance and saw this sign,

I turned the music off and proceeded more sedately. Driving down the dirt road, I felt a little bit like I was in Jurassic Park, as if any minute, some wild beasty was going to pop out of the brush, rip open the car, and take a big ol' bite outta me. When I reached the gate, I called Joe, the man who runs the center, so that he could let me in. "Where are you?" He asked. I tried to describe it the best I could, then I peered through the gate and saw a spotted face gazing back at me. "Well, I said, I'm looking at a leopard right now, does that help?" In response, it licked its lips at me. I stayed in my car. Soon enough though, the brave Joe came valiantly to my assistance aboard his trusty Bobcat (the utility vehicle, not the wild cat)...all 5'4" of him. Don't be fooled by his modest proportions and mild demeanor. This guy has these cats wrapped around his little finger. So to speak. More truthfully, he's been doing this since 1991 and he knows every single one of his cats so well that he can actually do this with some of them,

Joe, Big Cat Whisperer

and then others he knows to stay away from. "Watch out, that guy's a sprayer" he said to me, moments before the tiger in question lifted its tail and started to spray an impressively long stream of urine in our direction. Thankfully we both dodged that liquid bullet.


In the dwindling light and miniature flares of the fireflies, Joe took me on a quick tour of some of the enclosures(I'll be getting the full tour plus extras as a special cabin guest tomorrow...including watching the feeding! You might think I'm a weirdo, but watching lions eat carcasses is a big research thrill for me). He introduced me to all of the cats and told me the stories of how they came to the center (confiscated from meth dealers, abusers, black market exotic animal rings...pretty gruesome stuff). 

Peek a boo!

Many of the cats came up to him, and some rubbed up against the bars, while others were more standoffish. For example, in this trio of lions, there is one lion that Joe is wary of. "The others I will go in the cage with, but not him." Almost as if in reply, this lion proceeded to roar and lunge at me as I was taking a picture of his friend. Yowsa!

Terrible picture of the three prowling male lions.

The lion that got me in trouble with the antagonistic lion. 

He led me back to the cabin and introduced me to the cats that would be keeping me company outside my cabin door:

And then I entered the cabin, and found myself in yet another bizarro theme room. 

Yes, that is an animal print bedspread. And a lion and tiger wall decoration. And a painting of a tiger. And photographs of cats. And a lamp with lions and tigers on it. Oh yeah, and don't forget the stuffed animals on the bed. The bathroom is no less cat crazy.

This gives "Cat Sanctuary" a whole new connotation. Anyway, I will leave you all with this...uh...interesting sight, and snuggle up in my peltish bed and hopefully be lulled to sleep by the roars and snarls of the lions and tigers (and leopards, and jaguars, and mountain lions, and servils, and ocelots, and bobcats, and lynxes oh my!). I feel like Jane of the Jungle.

The Circus is in Town!

Or, more accurately, Amelia is in circus town. Today was my first day in Peru, Indiana, a town which served as the winter quarters for many circuses over the years, including the Hagenbeck-Wallace circus, the American Circus Corporation, and even Ringing Brothers Circus. Besides being the birthplace and family home of Cole Porter, Peru's greatest claim to fame is its circus legacy, which is highlighted every July in a big circus festival. Sadly, due to the constraints of my trip, I will not be here for that festival (it happens about a week after I leave the Midwest). However, there is still enough in this fair town to satiate my hunger for everything under the Big Top.


Today, I woke up bright and not so early (this three hour time difference thing is killing me)and set off on my merry way to find morning (ahem, nearly afternoon) sustenance and to make my way to the Circus Hall of Fame, which resides on the former site of the circus winter quarters in Peru. I learned a few important lessons about Peru today, and the first came early on: Peru, Indiana has NO satellite reception, which means it makes smart phones really dumb. The whole damn town must be covered in tin foil or something. Which means, it's a perfect spot for conspiracy freaks and UFO nut jobs, but not so great for directionally-challenged out-of-towners such as myself. I actually had to resort to the quaint and old fashioned tactic of pulling over to a gas station and asking for directions. This made me realize that it has been a very long time since I have had to do such a thing. Also, that I might be part of the last generation that can remember a time when this was the ONLY way of getting directions. Which made me feel a little old. Stay strong, Peru! It may be a pain in the ass, but it's a nice nod to the past.


Anyway, this failure of technology led me to my second realization/life lesson about Peru, Indiana: everything is closed on Sunday (more on this later). Before leaving the Cole Porter Inn, I had googled breakfast and lunch joints in Peru and had settled on a yummy sounding spot, aptly named the Cafe du Cirque. Of course, when I finally found my way there, they were closed. As was everything else, except the fast food joints. Starving by this time, I succumbed to my second moment of fast food desperation on this trip. From what I'm seeing so far of Midwestern cuisine, this will probably not be the last.


Armed with a mediocre and strangely sweet Wendy's salad and my gas station-acquired directions (thanks Gallahan's Irish Mart!), I made my way along the wooded banks of the Wabash River, past (you guessed it) endless fields of corn and picturesque red farmhouses to the Circus Hall of Fame. The Circus Hall of Fame is not the most aptly named establishment. Rather than being a building filled with plaques and pictures and various memorabilia from the circus's past, it actually is more of a stewardship group that maintains the grounds and circus wagons from the old winter quarters in Peru. The place seemed pretty deserted when I arrived, but I soon found a friendly volunteer named Dennis,a retired school teacher, who eagerly showed me around the old barns and Big Top.

This massive tent top managed to withstand a tornado earlier in the week (a tornado that took out several old growth trees and the new Dairy Queen in town). A small crew of tent bosses and local convicts on work duty erected it for the annual circus festival occurring in two weeks.

The barns, which once sheltered the circus animals, now house the Circus Hall of Fame's large collection of originally restored and replicated circus wagons, and the collection of their small museum.

These beautiful wagons are still fully functional, and are used in everything from the annual Peru circus parade to feature films like Tim Burton's "Big Fish." While most of them are replicas, a few are fully restored originals, including an original Hagenbeck-Wallace cat cage from the 1800s.

You can even see the scratches in the wood from the cats. I'm not sure if the scratches are historical artifacts or were freshly made during the annual parades (I like to think it's the former). Either way, they're a potent reminder of the glimmer of danger that undercuts all the glamour and spectacle of the circus.

Danger is right!

Along the way, Dennis and I managed to catch up with an official tour given by Circus Hall of Fame President Jack Rhinaman (I know...suspiciously and too perfectly close to "Rhino Man"). Dennis left me in Jack's capable hands, and, with him as my guide, I managed to have all of my questions answered about circus life and life at the Peru, Indiana winter quarters. Questions like, where would the workers and performers sleep (answer: either in houses in town or off the property, in rented rooms, or in the loft space above the wagon barns),

See the windows up near the ceiling? That's where some of the workers would sleep. I really wanted to go up there, but Jack wouldn't let me :(

and where did they practice new acts (answer: in specially constructed buildings, which have since disappeared, in tents, or in practice rings and cages).

Cat training cage

Equestrian ring

While he deftly maneuvered my barrage of questions, the sky turned ominous. The wind kicked up with a sudden fury and the air grew thick with precipitation. Jack hurriedly excused himself to take down a tent before the weather turned, and I wandered around and investigated the grounds myself with the added thrill of my first Midwestern storm in the air around me.

     


After visiting the wagon graveyard, where rusted, broken down circus wagons await their chance to be restored, I started to feel the first raindrops and figured that was my signal to leave.

The Graveyard: where dead wagons await rebirth

But not quite. On my way to my car I ran into John Fugate, vice president of special events, ringmaster, and incorrigible flirt, who welcomed me back into the Circus Hall of Fame office with the greeting "You must be the writer." Apparently word travels just as fast around the grounds of the Circus Hall of Fame as it is rumored to travel around an actual circus. For the rest of the day, John regaled me with tales of his 30 years in the circus and filled in many of the blanks about what it is to live and work on the Show. He also introduced me to Tino Wallenda, member of the illustrious Great Wallendas aerialist troupe, who had stopped in to pick up his contract for the show. I was honestly too star struck to ask Tino many questions (or any really), having read about his famous family and their long circus pedigree in my research. I learned from John, that Tino is also a deeply religious man, who has conducted sermons while perched atop a chair balancing on a high wire 40 feet above the ground. Seeing such a sight might even make this die hard atheist feel a little glimmer of spirituality.


Luckily the threatening storm split in two and bypassed the circus grounds, enabling all the workers to breathe a sigh of relief (there was much buzz and worry made about the stability of the big top). To celebrate, John took me on a driving tour of the area, showing me Cole Porter's family home and farm and a beautiful park overlooking Lake Mississinewa, and ending in a butter pecan ice cream treat at a local ice cream parlor. All the while, he entertained me with stories of his past lives and past loves. After the ice cream, we parted ways, both rather tuckered out from the day's events, with promises of meeting up again tomorrow. There's a good chance he'll be able to introduce me to a lion tamer. Fingers crossed!


After I left the Circus Hall of Fame and my new beau behind me, I went to Krogers to pick up some provisions for dinner. This is where I learned my third important lesson of the day: you can't buy alcohol on Sundays in Peru, Indiana. When the grocery checker saw my bottle of wine he looked at me and said, "it's Sunday," to which I replied, "uh huh," thinking he was making small talk, to which he responded nervously, "you can't buy liquor on Sundays." So, let that be a lesson to you, booze hounds: if you're going to a small, Midwestern town for the weekend, plan ahead. 


With those words of wisdom, I will sign off for the night. I have a busy day tomorrow and already it is way later than I expected it to be. 


Til tomorrow, my sweet, little humanimals.