The Extinction Club

by Jeffrey Moore

  I continued along the path, and sometimes off the path whenever I saw a beer can or a strip of cloth tied to a tree, which are both used as bait pile markers. I found a Vienna sausage tin, an orange Cheezie bag & two rotting wedges of pizza, all-dressed. Plus scat, which was human, a huge pile flagged by a banner of toilet paper. Treats for the forest creatures.

  It was near dusk when I passed the old drive-in, where you can still see some of the posts where the speakers used to be, and the old bowling alley, which has been closed for years too. I was surprised to see a light coming from inside. Along with smoke or vapour coming from a vent. I was going to keep walking, but since I’m a total snoop I walked over to see if I could see anything through the back door window. All the other windows were boarded up, except a high one near the roof where the light was coming from.

  I couldn’t see anything but I could hear things. And what I heard was these sort of high popping sounds, hard to describe really, and then two or three loud screeches. They were not the kind of sounds made by humans.

  I was about to bang on the door but changed my mind at the last second. I walked around to the side of the building & looked up, at the high window. If I could somehow get up on the roof, which was flat, I might be able to lie on my stomach, swing my head over & look through the top of the window. But I’d need a long ladder to get up on the roof & there weren’t any ladders around. (And if I had one, I wouldn’t need to get to the roof, just to the window!) I didn’t like the idea of going all the way home & back for a ladder, especially since it would be dark by then, so I tried to think of something else.

  I walked around to the front entrance. On the crumbling parking lot overgrown with weeds was a black SUV with dark-tinted windows. And next to the SUV was a red maple, which stretched above the roof. Young maples are not the best climbing trees, and even if I managed to climb it, there was a big gap between the roof & the nearest branch — one strong enough to hold me without snapping in two. Assuming I could climb the tree, I would have at least a two-metre jump. And then how would I get down?

  I climbed the tree. I won’t describe the perils of the climb, or how agile I was despite being overweight or how I walked right to the end of the branch like a chimpanzee, risking life & limb. Because that would be bragging. There was something about those sounds coming from inside that got my adrenalin going, that pushed me on.

  Upside down with my binoculars, a camera dangling from my neck, feeling blood rushing to my head & mountain sickness, I leaned over the edge of the building & peeked through the window.

  Here’s what I saw: small metal cages, about twenty of them, on two of the old wooden bowling lanes. There was shadowy movement in some of them, but from my angle I couldn’t tell what kind of animals were inside. And if I leaned out any farther, I’d fall right off the roof!

  So I made my way back to the maple. I didn’t like the look of the jump, so I tried to find another solution. There was a small mound of earth not far from the tree, by the north side of the building, covered with couch grass & laurel shrubs. If I hung from the roof by my fingertips & let myself drop, I might land safely.

  It was a surprisingly soft landing. I survived it with only a few scratches on both arms & both legs. I knew I shouldn’t have worn shorts! Now, I thought, I would go around & bang on that door.

  But I didn’t have to. Before I got there I heard the creaking sound of the door being opened. When I reached the corner I peeked out & saw a man bend over & stick a piece of wood in the door frame. As a door jamb. Then he lit a cigarette, cupping his hands around it the way gangsters do in old movies. He was short with greased black hair. An Oriental man.

  I picked up a rock, stood back from the side of the building & threw it up toward the roof with all my strength. I could hear it bounce off the roof & land in the bushes on the other side.

  I went back & snuck another quick look from behind the wall. The man was still standing there, smoking. Was he deaf? I thought of going around to the other side, to the bushes, and shouting out something. But what would that do? I couldn’t think of anything else, so I did the same thing — picked up another rock, a bigger one, and heaved it toward the roof.

  This time I heard him shout out something. I watched him walk toward the sound, toward the bushes, his back to me. I tiptoed over to the door, removed the door jamb & closed the door. With me on the other side of it.

  What have I done now? I asked myself as my eyes adjusted to the light. “Hello?” I said softly, my voice cracking. “Hello?” I shouted. No answer.

  I walked down a small flight of stairs to another door, which I thought would be locked. I pulled on it hard with both hands & it scraped open like it was on a chalkboard. What a smell!! A gross mix of things. So powerful I nearly gagged.

  I sidled along a rough concrete wall till I reached what used to be the side lane of the bowling alley. Directly in front of me is where the automatic pinsetter would have been. But now there was just a hole. “Hello?” I called again.

  Along two of the middle bowling lanes, which used to be wood but were now mostly cement, I could now see the dim outlines of cages. There were bare light bulbs here & there dangling from the ceiling, but they didn’t give much light. As I walked to the cage nearest to me, after stumbling in one of the gutters, I heard some pounding on the back door.

  At first I didn’t understand what I was seeing inside the cage & then it made me sick to my stomach. A bear, a large Black Bear, was trapped inside a cage so small he couldn’t move. There were metal bars all around it & the floor was made of bars too — he had nothing solid to stand or sit on. He moaned & reached a paw out of his cage. I grabbed the paw & held it, which was not the smartest thing to do. It was then that I saw a metal tube sticking out of a hole in its belly.

  There were over a dozen cages, set up over a metal trough that water flowed through into a drain. It smelled awful. There was also a strange contraption that looked like a shower stall with strips of dangling plastic for a curtain. On the floor beside it was a huge silver boom box.

  I moved on, quickly. In one of the cages were two cubs, who were making that popping & screeching sound I heard earlier. From the other cages, I began to hear low, deep growls.

  I closed my eyes & took a long breath. Then grabbed my camera. I snapped away blindly, at the cages, inside the cages, at the stall, anywhere & everywhere until I heard sounds coming from the front of the building. A door slamming, then footsteps on cement.

  I ran toward the back door, along the wall & up the steps. At the door, I paused, afraid there was someone waiting for me on the other side. Should I ditch my camera?

  As I was looking around for a place to hide it, I heard clicking noises, like someone was running down one of the bowling lanes with baseball spikes or golf shoes. And then some shouted words that I didn’t understand, neither French nor English. I pushed the door open.

  Nobody waiting, no ambush. I sprinted toward the path, the dangerous path that my grandmother said never to take, which I could now barely see in the half-light. I ran & tripped & got up & ran some more, sobbing for breath, on & on, pushing through the trees. Every time a bird chirped or branch snapped I thought it was some bad guy come to tackle me. I ran with a painful “stitch” in my side, until my lungs nearly exploded, until I thought I was going to die. After a while I could barely make out the path & began to run into branches & bushes & briars. But when I saw a steeple through the branches I knew I was almost there, back home, back with Grand-maman. With a story that was too awful to believe, that I barely had the breath to tell.

  Bears are classified into 8 species. The largest is the Brown Bear (Grizzly & Siberian), followed by the Polar Bear, American Black Bear, Asiatic Black Bear, Sloth Bear, Panda, Spectacled Bear, Sun Bear. The Koala is the smallest of all, but it’s not really a bear. All of these species are endangered.

  They are hunted for many reasons: trophy hunting (especially North America, Europe), pest control & nuisance bears (Japan, USA),
food & body fat (Canada, Turkey), and medicinal purposes (worldwide). Wild bears caught as cubs are also used for entertainment purposes, either as dancing bears (India, Pakistan, Bulgaria & formerly Greece & Turkey) or in bear-baiting (Pakistan & formerly throughout Europe), where dogs attack a bear chained to a stake.

  For obvious reasons, I would like to talk about the medicinal reasons for capturing or killing bears. China was the first country to use bear bile & gallbladder in traditional medicine, over 5 centuries ago. It’s now used for just about everything: burns, inflammations, sprains, fractures, haemorrhoids, hepatitis, jaundice, convulsions, diarrhoea, and so on. It’s put in wines, tea, eye drops, suppositories & shampoos.

  It was the Chinese Crude Drugs Company that came up with the idea of “bear farming,” of extracting bile from bears raised in captivity. Which they called “milking.” Hundreds of small farms were set up where individuals or families could keep bears in cages in their houses. “Superfarms” came next, which today hold thousands of bears.

  Bears (most often Black Bears) are caught in the wild or born on the farm & through a surgical procedure have a metal or rubber catheter inserted into their bile duct or gallbladder. The bear’s bile fluids are then “tapped” from a tube coming out of its belly. In some cases, the bile leaks into a plastic sack continuously. In other cases, the tube is opened & drained out up to four times a day. To prevent the bears from scratching at the bile sack or catheter, they are often fitted with a metal jacket or “corset.” Or their necks are snared with wire.

  To make milking easier, the bears are sometimes declawed & their teeth cut out or filed back. Many of the farm workers who collect bile wear crash helmets. Why? Because during milking bears may gnash their teeth, kick, bite, or hit their heads against the bars. After it’s over, the bears are more peaceful — they curl up in their cages, trembling, holding their paws to their stomach.

  The animals are lured into these “milking cages” or “squeeze cages” or “coffin cages” with water containing sugar or honey. The bears have no free access to water at other times, so they will be very eager to drink. For the pleasure they pay a high price.

  To restrict their movement, the cages are small, measuring around 1 metre by 1 metre by 2 metres. Pressure bars hold the bears down. The animals, which can weigh up to 260 pounds, can barely sit up or turn around. The bars pressing against their bodies leave scars, some over a metre long. Because the cage floors are made of widely spaced metal bars, the bears can never rest their feet on flat ground. So they end up with bleeding lesions.

  Most bears have broken & worn teeth from biting the bars — if their teeth haven’t been pulled out beforehand. They also have injuries to their heads, paws & backs from repeated rubbing & banging against the cage bars.

  At some farms, where cage bars are more closely spaced, bears are forced to lie in their own feces, which may be several centimetres deep. In these cases, the animals try to create latrines in their small spaces.

  In the winter the bears are not allowed to hibernate, despite temperatures that can drop to minus 30. It should be remembered that these are naturally solitary animals. They are wild animals with wild instincts. They are inquisitive & range over a large territory. The claustrophobia they must feel — it’s beyond imagining.

  The mortality rates are high, with 60-80% of bears dying during or shortly after their bile operation. The average life span of bears with catheters is under 10 years. The life span of Black Bears in the wild is 25 to 30 years.

  The captive bears live their lives in permanent pain. This is the only case I’ve heard of where an animal wants to die, mutilates itself & tries to commit suicide.

  The cubs that are born on farms are taken away from their mother when they are 2 to 3 months old, whereas in the wild the cubs would stay with their mothers for 2 to 3 years. They are taught circus tricks — standing on their hind legs, handstands, carrying chairs, walking a tightrope, throwing a ball, riding a bicycle, boxing & so on — to attract visitors to the farms, to help market the bile products. Being photographed with the cubs is part of the fun.

  The performing life of a bear is short — it may last only for a year or two. Once a bear reaches two and a half, they will be put in the cages & milked. When they stop producing bile, they are no longer fed. They are either left to die or killed for their paws & gallbladder. In most bear farms, the bears’ paws can be cut off if a customer requests it. Fresh bear paw costs around $250 & in 4-star hotels a bear paw dish sells for around $500.

  When bear populations in Asia began to drop because of overhunting, wildlife traders looked for bear gallbladders in other countries. North American Black Bears, Grizzlies, Polar Bears & even South American Spectacled Bears have been found slaughtered in the wild with just the gallbladder removed. Smugglers have been caught with whole gallbladders dipped in chocolate, trying to pass them off as chocolate figs, or packed in coffee to hide the smell. The growing trade is driving some species, such as the Sun Bear, toward extinction. In Canada alone, the illegal trade in bear parts is estimated to be worth $100 million a year.

  In the 1950s Japanese scientists chemically synthesized UDCA, the active ingredient in bear bile. It’s widely available & cheap. There are also over 50 herbal alternatives to bear bile, including Chinese ivy stem, Madagascar periwinkle, dandelion, Japanese thistle & chrysanthemum. Still, people want the “real thing.” As my grandmother used to say, old myths & magic potions, like religions, die hard.

  To be continued …

  XI

  Céleste was telling me all about “bear farming,” things that boggle the mind, chill the spine, when she suddenly stopped and said, “To be continued.” She then closed her eyes, curled up next to a purring Moon, and fell instantly asleep.

  “I have to leave you alone again,” I explained to her sleeping body and again in a note, “but this will be the last time.” I took my customary precautions, placing her weapons and two-way within easy reach, bolting the windows, closing the curtains. You couldn’t trust a teenager these days to look after a hamster, but I trusted Céleste to look after the shack, don’t ask me why.

  As I opened the door I got a surprise, not from outside from inside. Moon leapt off the bed and shot through my legs, out onto the snow. She waited for me by the van, calmly biting ice from her claws.

  The real estate agent was not in his office and the bank manager was on holidays, but there was a padded envelope of documents waiting for me at the bank’s reception desk. Along with a small, gift-wrapped box with a green Post-it on top. Normally, I would’ve ripped them open on the spot, but my mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t get those bears out of my head. I sat down on a chair in the lobby and stared gloomily at the burnt-orange carpet. What was the end of the story? What happened to them?

  I eventually rose from the chair and stood in line to pay off a sheaf of overdue oil, electricity and phone bills from the rectory. When that was done, I sat back down and listlessly opened the envelope.

  The sale had been approved, the manager wrote in his impeccable French in one letter and the agent in his peccable French in another, although there remained certain formalities to go through with a notary in Ste-Madeleine in January. Nevertheless, I could move into the rectory for Christmas, on or after the 22nd, if I wished, and enter it for inspections or repairs anytime before then. I looked at my watch: it was the 19th. I was dumbstruck, expecting thickets of red tape and a mountain of back taxes or fines to settle. Or an outright rejection. I ripped open the gift box and pulled out a brown-and-green leather key wallet. Inside it were six brass keys and a silver crucifix. Joyeux Noël! was written on the Post-it, in two different handwritings. Bless them.

  Except now I was having second thoughts—third and fourth and upward—about the move. Was this the right place for Céleste? How harrowing, re-horrifying, would that be? Not only was she dumped in church mud, but her grandmother was boxed in it. And she’d be a prisoner there—she’d never be able to step outside. I should f
ind another hideout, where no one knows her. In Alaska, say, or New Jersey …

  On my way out I passed the two Native vendors, who were setting up shop. The man was clearing away snow with a wooden board, preparing his bed of cardboard, while the other was unfurling a blanket with the coloured pattern of a jaguar, in whose coat the Mayas saw a map of the starry heaven. A placard lying on the ground said DEMOCRACY WILL NEVER WORK. THERE AREN’T ENOUGH SMART PEOPLE TO ELECT SMART PEOPLE. As an American, I felt she had put her finger on something. I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. I continued on.

  “Want a swan?” she asked in English.

  I stopped, thinking I’d misheard. “A what?”

  From a cloth bag with a drawstring, she pulled out a pearlescent figurine and handed it to me. It wasn’t a swan, it was two swans, with their bills and breast feathers conjoined. A fine piece. Nicely proportioned, intricate detail. Although I know nothing of these things.

  “How much?” I said, reaching a hand into my pocket. The bird was a favourite of Céleste’s. No other waterfowl, she said, was as fast in the water or air.

  “A gift,” she said.

  I pulled out a thick slab of twenties, hesitated, then put it back. “It’s a beautiful piece,” I said. “Did you make it?”

  She pointed toward her friend. “He’s the artist. I’m the anarchist.”

  I looked over at the artist. “Thank you,” I said, but he didn’t look up from whatever it was he was doing. “That’s very kind of you … both.” I’m a fool for things like this, these unexpected acts of kindness, so I got out of there fast, before I started bawling or something.