by Benjamin Mee
Inevitably, after such public exposure, there were people who wanted to sympathize about Katherine. And again, it was usually the men who moved me most. From women, who are usually better at communicating emotions, you expect sympathy and soothing words. But for men it is much harder (I could bore you for pages on why this is so, so write in at your peril). One woman hailed me from a distance to say, “Ben, I know what you’re going through. I lost my husband nine years ago and I still haven’t got over it,” which I thought was a bit insensitive. But one man in particular stands out. He stood out at the time. At least six foot five, built like a rugby player, and with the inevitably crushing handshake, he looked into my eyes, his own filling with tears, and simply said, “Well done.” Enough said, he strode off, message delivered. That’s male communication for you.
Speaking of male communication, my dad was also a man of relatively few words. Not that he was taciturn—he just didn’t believe in filling the air with unnecessary waffle, and he had the gift of précis, even in speech, so that his utterances were precise and measured, and usually laced with a desert-dry wit, which often took a while to sink in. None of this would have been possible without my dad, whose lifetime of diligence, hard work, and devotion to his family happened to give us this remarkable opportunity to save this run-down zoo after his death. Of course, he would never have approved, and would probably be rendered speechless if he could see us now. But the rest of us could afford, thanks to him, to be a bit more reckless. Mum, my sister Melissa, and brothers Duncan and Vincent, all without hesitation put in everything they possibly could to make this harebrained back-of-the-envelope plan work. And it has. Boxing Day was our busiest day on record, and the winter has been nearly as busy as the summer, so that despite missing a third of the season, we have just—just—managed to get through the winter without more support from the bank.
My dad was also called Ben, but just Ben, whereas my family knows me as Benjamin. It irked a bit that the TV series was called Ben’s Zoo, largely because this was in no way the effort of a single person. But in a way it’s apt. It is Ben’s zoo, but a different Ben from the fatuous front man, me. It’s Ben Harry Mee’s (1928–2005) zoo.
To say it’s been life changing is an understatement. But watching the stream of people pouring through every day, leaving energized and enthusiastic, having learned something about the natural world, and being in a position to expand this amazing facility, recruiting animals increasingly from the IUCN Red List to protect for the future, is a rare privilege indeed. It’s been hard work, but it doesn’t feel like work. It feels like a vocation. Thanks, Dad.
