The stink of decayed, boiled flesh greeted my nose. The lion skull rumbled in the
massive pot on the zoo’s facility stove. After taking in the unusual scene, I continued
with my Saturday morning tasks. I’d ask questions later.

I washed the raw horse meat blood off my hands. The small animal diets were
prepared and ready for dispersal. It was early. The zoo wasn’t open yet. I jingled my keys
and Mr. Badger popped out of one of his burrows. I almost expected him to greet me
with intelligible speech but this wasn’t quite the Narnia setting. He stretched his dagger-
clawed paws up the side of the cement wall and scratched repeated like a beggar banging
a tin cup. Leaning over the cement wall, I dropped the meat into his eager jaws. His brow
furrowed so deeply with each chomp that the beady eyes all but disappeared.

In the small barn several other creatures waited for their pieces of Mr. Ed. Jaw meat was plopped into the snapping turtle’s tub of murky water. The shell didn’t move. It rarely moved with humans around. He preferred to feast in private. The ferrets were much friendlier. They scurried up to their cage door and ate from my palm.

I wandered back to the skull. The task was explained and I didn’t hesitate to join. This was a once in a lifetime experience. We spread a sheet of plastic on the ground outside. The spring sun hinted at the high school summer that was just around the corner. One of the zookeepers used large pinchers to pull what used to be Leo’s head out of the pot. He died the week before of old age. For years the king of the jungle viewed Boise citizens from behind an all-encompassing chain-link cage. He used to yawn and occasionally roared with irritation at the pesky, taunting kids.

My tweezers peeled the flesh off the bone. It was kind of like cleaning off the Thanksgiving turkey without the temptation to prepare a leftover sandwich. Picking in the eye sockets, the flesh was still tough. The scalding water missed a few muscles, tendons and cartilage. My latex gloves absorbed the stench. I was second guessing my desire to become a wildlife biologist. But I marveled at the massive structure that used to be covered with life – life that caused the human heart to shiver in fear and wonder. The majesty of the lion remained in his core frame. His skull would be dried, treated and preserved. The education center would now be his home. Children would now touch Leo with their bare hands, unafraid.

★                    ★                    ★

His hands picked through the reeking trash that overflowed the small plastic bins. Ungloved fingers sorted through potato peelings and poopy diapers to find the few plastic recyclables that might be buried underneath. He added another water bottle to his large, tattered rice bag. This is how he spent his days in an effort to make a few Thai baht to eat a meal. Some boys on the Thai-Burma border had parents who send them to one of the migrant schools. Some had sponsors from overseas to pay their fees. The street was his high school classroom. Why? He is a Kalah from Burma. His dark-skinned, Muslim professing parents needed him to earn his own keep.

The contents of his bag clinked with a dull thud as he slung it over his shoulder. Bare feet padded down the broken asphalt to the next trash-laden corner. By three o’clock the bag is almost full. School uniforms pour out of the classroom doors and stream down neighborhood streets towards home. He understands enough Thai to take their degrading jabs into his heart. If he’s lucky, he’ll keep evading the police and the cage. Tourists can view the cage next to the police station and across the street from the Green Guest House. Maybe that’s why it’s one of the cheapest lodgings in town. Illegal migrants that are caught are thrown in there like stray dogs. Shaking heads glance their way and pity their pathetic circumstances.

Some days he is brave to sift through the trash bins outside the guest house. He smiles at the familiar NGO workers who are there to collect a few visiting volunteers. He knows these Westerners drink bottled beverages like they’re on a liquid diet. The bins are sure to overflow with their plastic refuse. But the risk is great as the uniformed police stand guard near the cage eying him as their next catch.

He knows what happens in that cage – beatings, lack of food & sanitation facilities, bribes demanded for, sexual abuse and the cold cement to call your bed until your case is resolved. And what is the usual resolution? Deportation.

The guards move the prisoners and shove them cattle-style into a caged lorry. This ride is standing room only but it’s a short 3 kilometers to the Myawaddy border crossing. Weekly the trucks rumble by with their load to deposit them at the Friendship Bridge. This is a strange, sick way to treat your friends.

His eyes pull away from the truck and drop down to his task. He’s hungry and can’t think about stupid plastic bottles anymore. The students are long gone with their book bags. His own bag is heavy with shame. He trudges on and dreams of better days, days where loving hands are not afraid to touch him and teach him. If he could, he would pick a better future. And he dreams on an empty stomach.