The Danish Zoo that’s welcoming your unwanted pets into its circle of life | Amanda Blair
Every parent-turned-reluctant guinea pig owner knows the pain. This forward-thinking zoo has found a way to end it, writes Amanda Blair.
When a Zoo in Denmark put a call out for donations for their predator residents (wildcats, lions, tigers you know, big things that could rip your limbs off) my ears pricked up.
In order to ensure natural behaviour patterns, nutrition and wellbeing, the zoo wanted to get their claws on some fresh meat.
Their Facebook post read: “If you have a healthy animal that needs to be given away for various reasons, feel free to donate it to us”.
What?
No questions asked, just hand over your animal who will be “gently euthanised” (i.e. given high grade pharmaceuticals that make everything feel excellent) by a very tall, possibly very good looking Danish veterinarian then swallowed by Simba? Sign me up.
It’s the perfect end for that chicken in your life that doesn’t lay, the rabbit that breeds like … well a rabbit, and the duck you wish would duck off because it’s a stupid pet that gives nothing back.
No more guilt trip and expensive vet bills for the green dream/cremation/memory candle package when you’ve reached the end of your tether.
No more final resting place grave in the back yard and worry the pet dog will dig up the carcass leaving it on the WELCOME mat leaving behind years of trauma for the family. These big cats eat everything – they don’t spit out the bones, there will be no trace, it’s the perfect end for every body.
Most importantly, no more lying to the kids that Flopsy the fluffy bunny went for “a holiday” or “hopped off to a better place to be with their cousins on a farm and that’s why they don’t live here anymore”.
Nay, you tell the truth. Flopsy went to the zoo. Flopsy had a higher purpose, Flopsy died in order to feed others. Praise be to Flopsy.
Oh come on, stop your tut-tutting and searching for the RSPCA report line number. I love animals, I really do, just not all animals.
Truth be known, you don’t either.
Parents all suffer through the “I really, really want a Guinea Pig, Muuuum, pleeeeeeeassse” stage.
It starts with good intentions, you think it might be nice for the kids to care for something, learn to be responsible, so spend large getting the three level fun palace hutch with ramps, pipe tunnel and faux lawn.
We got straw and compostable bedding and two water drippy things too.
Our Guinea was ginger in colour and named after our fave ginger coloured footy player — Jack Riewoldt.
The children loved him, fed him and played with him for oh, about a week and a half. Then he became my pet, my responsibility, my chore.
I was the loser who was out on freezing cold mornings shovelling thousands of tiny poo pellets into the compost. I was the one giving him shade, sustenance and stimulation, moving his pipe regularly to prevent boredom.
I made sure he had vitamin C so he didn’t get scurvy (ah ha me hearties) and once I had to manually dis-impact him after a nasty bout of Cavy constipation which was a new low.
I was spending more time doing animal husbandry than I was spending doing my husband. Had somebody given me the option to bounce that bloodnut to Copenhagen I would have done it in a heartbeat.
Monarto Zoo, if you’re listening perhaps you might like to consider?
It would be great for the self-esteem and general wellbeing of your carnivores if they thought they were in the wilds of Africa eating live prey (well “gently euthanised” prey) rather than the reality, in a paddock off a freeway just out of Murray Bridge.
I’ve got a few possums on my roof who’d love to join a program like this and I’m sure the neighbour’s yappy dog is destined for greater things.
After all, it’s the circle of life …
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