out big time. “Call the vet!” I said.
“No, the university arranged to have a medical doctor for him,” said Dad, hopping out of bed. “I’ve got the number …”
He went to his study, and I heard him talking on the phone.
Mom and I got dressed. We tried to give Zan a bottle but he seemed too dopey to take much of it.
It seemed forever before the doctor arrived, but when I looked at the clock I saw it was only forty-five minutes. He examined Zan in the living room.
“Pneumonia,” he said. “He’ll need antibiotics.”
It seemed strange that he could have pneumonia in the summertime.
“I can give a liquid form,” said Dr. Jakes. “Is he taking his bottle?”
Mom shook her head. “Not properly.”
“We’ll need to set him up with an IV, then. It’s in my car.”
“Is it serious?” I asked him, my voice shaking.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “but he’ll be okay.”
He had a hard time getting a needle into Zan’s thick skin;I winced every time I saw the tip jabbing him. Zan was too sick to do more than whimper. Finally the doctor managed to get the needle into the vein, and he set up the IV stand. Soon a plastic bag of antibiotics was dripping into Zan.
“I’ll come back at the end of the afternoon,” said Dr. Jakes. “Call me if there’s any big change, though.”
I couldn’t eat my breakfast. I felt guilty. Maybe we should’ve been dressing Zan more warmly when we took him outside into the backyard. His body was made for the tropics, not for Victoria, even though it was a nice warm summer.
Dad stayed home all that day, and seemed just as concerned as Mom and me. Zan kept sleeping, which Mom said was good, because he wouldn’t be ripping out the IV, and the drugs could do their work making him better.
Mom held him on the sofa and I held him too. His little body was hot and limp. I was worried he’d die. He seemed so helpless. He didn’t have a real mother or father any more, or brothers or sisters. He really needed us. I looked at him and I didn’t think:
Chimp.
I just thought:
Zan.
The next morning, Zan was more alert when he woke up. By noon he’d ripped out his IV. I got really worried then, because how was he going to get his medicine—every drop counted. But when the doctor came by an hour later, he was delighted, and said Zan was obviously on the mend. He left us with some liquid antibiotics to put in his milk.
Mom went into the kitchen right away to fix him a bottle and a dose. When she came back to the sofa to feed him, Zan took the bottle eagerly in his feet, sucked for a minute, and then reached out for me with his arms.
Mom smiled. “I think he wants you to feed him.” “Really?” I said, smiling.
She passed him into my lap, where he sat, happily sucking away.
And then I did something I’d never done before: I kissed him on the head.
S IX
S CHOOL B EGINS
I n the last week of August, Dad and Mom started interviewing students to work with Zan. The idea was that Zan would have someone with him from eight in the morning till six in the evening, taking care of him and playing with him, but all the while teaching him sign language.
Even though it was Dad’s project, he wasn’t going to be spending much time with Zan. He’d be at the university, teaching courses, and going through the data everyone collected. Day by day it was Mom who’d be running the show, doing a five-hour shift, training and overseeing the students, and working on her doctoral thesis. Mom and Dad figured they’d need at least ten research students.
Mom wanted the interviews to be at our house, so the applicants could meet Zan. And Zan was picky. There were lots of people he didn’t like, especially guys. He wouldn’t come close to them, or he’d be aggressive and pull at them and shriek. A couple, he tried to bite. Maybe he saw them all as trespassers.Chimps were very territorial, and Zan seemed to think the house was his to rule. He didn’t want any more males in it.
And Dad was
“No, the university arranged to have a medical doctor for him,” said Dad, hopping out of bed. “I’ve got the number …”
He went to his study, and I heard him talking on the phone.
Mom and I got dressed. We tried to give Zan a bottle but he seemed too dopey to take much of it.
It seemed forever before the doctor arrived, but when I looked at the clock I saw it was only forty-five minutes. He examined Zan in the living room.
“Pneumonia,” he said. “He’ll need antibiotics.”
It seemed strange that he could have pneumonia in the summertime.
“I can give a liquid form,” said Dr. Jakes. “Is he taking his bottle?”
Mom shook her head. “Not properly.”
“We’ll need to set him up with an IV, then. It’s in my car.”
“Is it serious?” I asked him, my voice shaking.
“Yes,” said the doctor, “but he’ll be okay.”
He had a hard time getting a needle into Zan’s thick skin;I winced every time I saw the tip jabbing him. Zan was too sick to do more than whimper. Finally the doctor managed to get the needle into the vein, and he set up the IV stand. Soon a plastic bag of antibiotics was dripping into Zan.
“I’ll come back at the end of the afternoon,” said Dr. Jakes. “Call me if there’s any big change, though.”
I couldn’t eat my breakfast. I felt guilty. Maybe we should’ve been dressing Zan more warmly when we took him outside into the backyard. His body was made for the tropics, not for Victoria, even though it was a nice warm summer.
Dad stayed home all that day, and seemed just as concerned as Mom and me. Zan kept sleeping, which Mom said was good, because he wouldn’t be ripping out the IV, and the drugs could do their work making him better.
Mom held him on the sofa and I held him too. His little body was hot and limp. I was worried he’d die. He seemed so helpless. He didn’t have a real mother or father any more, or brothers or sisters. He really needed us. I looked at him and I didn’t think:
Chimp.
I just thought:
Zan.
The next morning, Zan was more alert when he woke up. By noon he’d ripped out his IV. I got really worried then, because how was he going to get his medicine—every drop counted. But when the doctor came by an hour later, he was delighted, and said Zan was obviously on the mend. He left us with some liquid antibiotics to put in his milk.
Mom went into the kitchen right away to fix him a bottle and a dose. When she came back to the sofa to feed him, Zan took the bottle eagerly in his feet, sucked for a minute, and then reached out for me with his arms.
Mom smiled. “I think he wants you to feed him.” “Really?” I said, smiling.
She passed him into my lap, where he sat, happily sucking away.
And then I did something I’d never done before: I kissed him on the head.
S IX
S CHOOL B EGINS
I n the last week of August, Dad and Mom started interviewing students to work with Zan. The idea was that Zan would have someone with him from eight in the morning till six in the evening, taking care of him and playing with him, but all the while teaching him sign language.
Even though it was Dad’s project, he wasn’t going to be spending much time with Zan. He’d be at the university, teaching courses, and going through the data everyone collected. Day by day it was Mom who’d be running the show, doing a five-hour shift, training and overseeing the students, and working on her doctoral thesis. Mom and Dad figured they’d need at least ten research students.
Mom wanted the interviews to be at our house, so the applicants could meet Zan. And Zan was picky. There were lots of people he didn’t like, especially guys. He wouldn’t come close to them, or he’d be aggressive and pull at them and shriek. A couple, he tried to bite. Maybe he saw them all as trespassers.Chimps were very territorial, and Zan seemed to think the house was his to rule. He didn’t want any more males in it.
And Dad was
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